BREAKFAST AT THE OPERA

In late October, I heard one of the greatest rock classics for the first time. This moment came when I was getting myself some Corn Flakes for breakfast in our kitchen and this extraordinary new piece of music filtered through the transistor radio. It began gently and I immediately recognised Queen’s style, although this seemed to be on a different level for them. The passion in Freddie Mercury’s voice urged me to move closer to the radio. The song got better… and better... and then... what the hell was this? Galileo? Scaramouche? Rock opera in its most literal sense, I was glued to the tiny speaker right up until Roger Taylor’s gong faded. 

A revelation in so many ways, ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and its genre-defining promotional video were to become unavoidable for the rest of the year and well into the following January. The day that the single came out is indelibly printed on my brain: Friday 31st October, 1975. Why? Because buying that record might have saved me from getting my head kicked in.

After Noel Edmonds introduced me to ‘Bo Rhap’ on his Radio One show, I championed its greatness to anyone who would listen. My schoolmate Paul Ward was the first victim of my brand-new obsession. He did a lot of nodding as I described the arrangement of the song, pulling a confused look when I mentioned the operatic section but, overall, he seemed genuinely engaged. He experienced the song for himself that lunchtime when it came on the radio as we were munching sarnies at his flat. “Oh wow!” exclaimed Paul, as Brian May launched into his post-Beelzebub solo. “That’s bloody incredible!” I just sat there grinning. I told Paul that I was 100% committed to buying the single on the way home from school that coming Friday. I just had to have it.

By now, it had become quite normal after school for me to drop in at the Melody Man record shop, near The Abbey Arms, for a browse. When Paul and I attended Trinity School in Canning Town, I bought most of my records there as it was so convenient during term, and I would then catch the No. 58 bus home from the opposite stop. On this day, I proudly walked into the shop and asked for not only this new Queen single but also the magnificent ‘Love is the Drug’ by Roxy Music, which had been out for a few weeks and become an enticing ‘earworm’. 

Climbing the steps to the top deck of the bus, I found a seat a few rows in front of a loud rabble of older Trinity boys but minded my own business until one of them spotted the record shop bag. “Wha’choo got there?” he asked, as he moved to the seat across the aisle to me. “Just a couple of records that I just bought,” I warily replied. “Probably a load of Bay City Rollers shit!” he shouted to his friends who were now moving closer and beginning to look as if they might take out some adolescent frustration out on me. “No, not me, not at all,” I insisted, suddenly pondering on what might have happened had they been fellow passengers on a spring day that year when, on a similar trip, I spent 45p on ‘Bye Bye Baby’. 

“Giss it ’ere…” The wannabe thug made a grab for my bag and, peering inside, smiled at his mates. “Well, lookie here,” he said, holding up my two new singles. “Now that’s cool, mate.” I began to relax a little but wondered what might be coming next. “If it’d been them tartan c**ts, I’d have given you a right kickin’, but you’re alright, ain’t ya,” he said, patting my shoulder. 

This was, indeed, the real life.

Mark Cunningham

(Adapted from the author’s book ‘Old School: Growing Up in the Sixties and Seventies’)