Reading too much into the lyrics: Sparing him his life for his monstrosity

I am not an overtly religious person, mostly because the Prince of Hell, Beelzebub, allegedly had a devil put aside for Freddie Mercury. That alone causes me to question the whole enterprise. Add to that the fact that there are hundreds of religions, each with its own male bureaucrat-in-chief disciplining the masses in wildly unusual ways, and I simply cannot commit.

One afternoon, I was walking with a friend to kill time while waiting for our ship to come in. He asked if I practiced religion.

“I do not. But I was raised Protestant,” I said. “Plus, I don’t like what happened to Freddie Mercury.”

“What happened to Freddie Mercury?”

“He died of AIDS. And he was sure Beelzebub had a devil put aside for him.”

“I mean, what does that even mean?”

“You’re reading too much into the lyrics,” he said. “It was probably a metaphor. At that time, people thought AIDS came from being promiscuous.”

“Before he sang about Beelzebub, he sang ‘easy come, easy go.’ He was a man about town.”

I replied, “It almost sounds like you are victim‑blaming.”

“He is not a victim.”

I pressed on. “Do you think Freddie believed he was a product of his mother? Like she influenced him so much that when he killed a man, she metaphorically pulled the trigger? Therefore, SHE killed a man?”

“I think you are reading too much into the lyrics. Freddie was rogue anyway. Successful, despite the superficial music industry.”

“The song supersedes the singer,” I said.

I asked, “Do you think ‘shivers down my spine’ was just to magnify the melody?”

“Yes. And the drop into ‘Goodbye everybody’ is dramatic. The listener wonders, ‘Where is he taking me now?’”

“I guess with being cryptic, we never know what he meant by ‘Mama, oooh.’ Maybe he was emotionally dependent.”

“Don’t all young men yearn for leaving?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“But he predicted his demise: ‘I don’t wanna die.’”

“Maybe. But you are the one who said he was singing in the third person.”

Later, I asked, “Do you think ‘a little silhouetto of a man’ suggests emotional insecurity?”

“No.”

“Short stature?”

“No.”

“Poor self‑esteem?”

“No.”

“A difficult relationship with his mother?”

“Possibly.”

“Then why is he little?”

“Perspective.”

“Perspective?”

“He’s in the distance.”

“But he’s frightened.”

“Thunderbolt and lightning will do that.”

“I think you are reading too much into the lyrics. He’s just a poor boy from a poor family.”

“Yes, but because he was poor, he had few means and became a scaramouche to compensate.”

“Is that the way you hear it?”

“Well, ‘Spare him his life from this monstrosity’ sounds like someone begging for his life.”

“Or a court finding him guilty.”

I asked, “So the devil made him do it?”

“Better the devil than owning up to it.”

“So, Beelzebub DID have a devil put aside for him?”

“I don’t know,” he answered solemnly.

“You’re a Christian.”

“Yes.”

“Surely you’ve communed with Beelzebub.”

“No.”

“Not even professionally?”

“No.”

So, I assumed it wasn’t a court of law but a deity who found him guilty. Guilty of some sort of sin.

By this time, our ship that we had been waiting for had come in, and we no longer needed to walk around wasting time.

Later, while driving, I asked, “Are you religious?”

“Yes.”

“Which religion?”

“Christianity, we already discussed this.”

We drove in silence for several kilometres.

“If I ever become religious,” I said, “I’d probably choose Buddhism.”

“Why?”

“Existential affirmation.”

There was a momentary silence between us, like fresh sea air.

He broke the silence with, “That conversation felt like Socratic interrogation disguised as banter.”

I blurted, “The afterlife appears to have fewer administrative requirements.”

“I don’t think that’s one of the selling points.”

“Okay, how about no eternal Beelzebub administration either.”

“You’re still reading too much into the lyrics.”

The drive was, as always, pastoral. Western Red Cedars, Arbutus and Douglas-firs dotted the landscape. A blue heron, as a taradactyl, gracefully crossed our path. Cows lounged like lazy rock stars, and glimpses of the ocean appeared now and then. The fresh air always welcomed one’s return.

Rocky Raccoon came on the radio. We let the lyrics wash over us, neither willing to interpret a single line.