We Will Rock You was the massive musical flop that never was. When it opened in 2002, theatre critics gave it a grievous bodily kicking. Ben Elton, who wrote the musical’s script – deemed utter twaddle – got the brunt of the duffing. ‘Only hard-core fans can save this show from an early bath,’ I wrote at the time.
Well, the vast army of Queen fans decided to make up their own minds – and they loved it. The show ran for 12 years – the longest run in the Dominion Theatre’s 91-year history. Ben Elton must have bought his own bank by now.
The look that wardrobe mistress Naomi conceived for me was vaguely that of Nikki Sixx (bassist of the thrash metal band Mötley Crüe), a walking Eighties rock cliché addicted to heroin, Ferraris and rock chicks
As an olive branch, the We Will Rock You team invited my still-egg-splattered face to appear in the production for one night, as the show set out on a ten-month tour. I appeared at the Theatre Royal in Plymouth – my closest encounter with Queen since seeing them live at the Gaumont, Southampton, in the Seventies.
My part was as a Bohemian – one of the troupe of underground rebels in an Orwellian future where rock ’n’ roll is banned, along with all musical instruments. It is we Bohemians who keep alive the sacred flame of rock. It may have been just a ‘walk-on part’ but I have never had so much adrenaline in my system, or such an attack of nerves.
I was chaperoned by the avuncular company manager, Jay. He deals with every imaginable cast problem and has a stock of household drugs, Imodium being the most requested. ‘Touring is a life of kebabs,’ he chuckles.
The look that wardrobe mistress Naomi conceived for me was vaguely that of Nikki Sixx (bassist of the thrash metal band Mötley Crüe), a walking Eighties rock cliché addicted to heroin, Ferraris and rock chicks.
My costume was leather trousers, a singlet, leather arm plate, leopard-skin boots (size 12 from Primark), a stick-on tattoo for my left bicep, sundry goth ornaments and a shaggy grey wig.
Curtain-up was hours away, but as I squeezed into my trews I thought I might fake a serious injury – anything to get me out of going on stage. An earthquake would have been welcome.
Seeing that I needed reassurance, Jay explained the procedure. ‘There’s nothing to it. We’ll do a company rehearsal, and you’re going to be great!’
Next: make-up. I was daubed with foundation and something on a stick for my eyebrows. My pale, worried gob was turned into something you could see from the cheap seats.
Despite the fact I was an idiot at loose and clearly causing the company extra work, there was no shortage of courtesy in our rehearsal. The actor who had to fend me off when I tried to beat up the male lead, Galileo, asked me: ‘Robert, would it be all right if I physically touch you at this point?’ How very civilised!
As a legion of Plymothians made their way to their seats, little did they know there was one element – me – with potential to do to the show what Göring’s Luftwaffe did to their city.
Backstage before curtain up was all leg stretches, sound checks and professional tension. The show started and began to cook during Radio Ga Ga. Under Pressure sounded terrific too.
The costume changes are done out of trundle wardrobes and are frenetic. There are 23 voices in the show. The ensemble does seven changes, often while singing backstage too.
If the show must go on, so must the critic. Standing in the wings, I wished I had taken some of that Imodium. I felt a good-luck slap on the back. Five minutes later, I sauntered into the blinding light, looking like a fossil from the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap.
The show’s charming dance captain, Jacob, kept me close by, as promised. As Bohemians we shouted out our names. Jacob was Mick Jagger. I air-punched and announced myself as being from Event magazine, which we had agreed could have been a band name from Queen’s era.
Much as I liked this friendly company, showbiz will have to survive without me. I belong in the stalls
I performed my ‘fight’, high-fived most of the cast, and generally performed with what I thought was roguish menace. I enjoyed it, but it was my cossie that got me through. After ten minutes I was whisked off.
I sloped up to the wardrobe room to pull down my chafing leather trousers. The relief! My wife texted to say she didn’t recognise me on stage and was I really in this show? I bumped into David Michael Johnson, who plays Brit. A veteran of the German WWRY production and a fluent German speaker, he saw my stagestruck look and said something about me having ‘Blut geschluckt’ (drunk blood). He meant I had the look of someone who has slurped from the living vein of showbiz.
All I had left to do was take a curtain call. Even that proved tricky, as it involved walking backwards and clapping in time to We Will Rock You, the number that invariably gets the house stomping, the encore being (obviously) Bohemian Rhapsody.
Much as I liked this friendly company, showbiz will have to survive without me. I belong in the stalls. I have a new respect for this amazingly enduring musical. I may have been, like the soles of my boots, a bit crepe, but at least I can say I have rocked it.
Queen and Ben Elton’s ‘We Will Rock You’ is touring the UK until July 18, wewillrockyou.com