For the love of a legend

Right in the middle

It was the rarest of rare occurrence. Like a blue moon, a total eclipse and the Halley’s Comet manifesting in unison. My mom and I, who are as different as apples and oranges, fell in love with the same man.

I discovered Freddie Mercury through Rami Malek starrer Bohemian Rhapsody. I subsequently googled Freddie and devoured every little information I could find on him. Freddie glided through the tapestries of musical genres, effortlessly composing ballads, operas and hard rock. His sweeping four-octave range blew me away, as did his bewitching showmanship.

I found Freddie’s sense of style unrivaled. He painted his nails with black varnish and artistically made up his eyes way before Billie Joe Armstrong and Lauri Ylonen did. Look-wise, he sometimes was a king, sometimes the jester and once, a repressed housewife (I Want to Break Free). Freddie never shied away from wearing leotards, sequined catsuits, latex trousers, ties, suspenders, and even jewelry on stage. Such was the sleek grace and elegance of this glorious being that I was sure that women would be rendered redundant if more men were made in the same mould as Freddie. Many times when Freddie performed, I felt as if I wasn’t watching just a showman, but was witnessing a scintillating stream of consciousness in motion.

When the frequency of my mom’s savouring Queen’s performances increased, I grew suspicious. My antennae shot up when mom admired Freddie’s look in every video. I was momentarily pacified when mom assured me that the target of her affections wasn’t Freddie but Roger Taylor, the blonde drummer of the band. But I knew mom had pulled wool over my eyes when I caught her in a private moment – shedding tears to Freddie’s Loverboy.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Shards of jealousy stabbed my core. Also, I felt that while Loverboy undoubtedly was a charming song, it was hardly fodder for tears! The sole right to make anyone cry, in my opinion, belonged to Save Me – a haunting break-up song that Freddie had poured his soul into. I pointed this out to mom; the prospect of an argument was doused when mom admitted that both the songs were beautiful. I wasn’t at peace. I had lost an opportunity to outdo my mom in emotional intensity. In a bid to prove her “wrong”, I demanded to know which other Queen fan was moved to tears by Loverboy? My mom claimed there were plenty on Youtube. I soon gave up – sifting through Youtube comments in order to discredit my mom’s claim was an arduous task.

My mom went on to further admire Loverboy by comparing each of its lines to the jingle of little bells. I felt differently – to me, each line was like an individual flower of the gorgeous Jungle Wood plant. Since I think I have hegemony in the household over Freddie Mercury and his songs, I argued that a visual equivalent to an auditory piece of art is much more apt than another auditory parallel! Convinced that I had lost my mind totally, my mom dropped the topic. In my heart, I had won. I had beaten mom in “creative ingenuity” if not emotional hegemony.