Nothing Really Matters… Except This Song

In 1975, Queen dropped Bohemian Rhapsody—a six-minute rock-opera fever dream that broke every rule of music. Record labels hated it, but thanks to some strategic rule-breaking (and a rogue DJ), it became a global phenomenon. Fast forward decades: Wayne’s World revives it, others discover it on the internet, and my kid hears it for the first time—immediately asking, “What does this even mean?”

Honestly? No one knows. And that’s the point. It’s weird, theatrical, messy, and unapologetically itself—just like Freddie. Just like the best music. Just like all of us.

Welcome to Bygone Echoes, a history podcast. I’m your host, Courtney, and I’m so glad you’re here.

History isn’t just about the past; it’s about understanding how we got to now and where we might be heading next. And sometimes? History isn’t found in textbooks—it’s in the music that shapes us, the songs that refuse to fade, the ones that somehow still hit decades later.

Which brings me to today’s episode.

So, picture this. It’s a regular weekday morning, I’m driving my elementary-aged kiddo to school, and as usual, we’ve got music playing. It’s a thing we do—some days it’s pop, some days it’s rap, some days it’s classical because I’m trying to cultivate taste—but this week? This week, I’m in a Queen phase.

I’m not paying attention to the kiddo in the backseat, just vibing, drumming on the steering wheel, absolutely butchering Freddie Mercury’s high notes (and I mean butchering—look, I love to sing, but I am not a singer). Then, I catch a glimpse of their face in the rearview mirror.

And it’s scrunched up. Like, deep-in-thought, existential-crisis-level scrunched up.

Then, totally serious, totally perplexed, like they’re stuck on a math problem, they hit me with:

“What is this song even about?”

And that stopped me for a second. Because… fam, that’s a perfectly legit question.

What IS this song about?

Like, I know the words—or at least my version of the words. I can air guitar the solo. I can feel it in my bones. I can headbang at the appropriate time like Wayne’s World raised me. I can also think about Freddie Mercury, the world he lived in, and the things he had to overcome by choosing to be himself.

But really, what’s the answer to that question? Is it about regret? Guilt? Fate? Is it nonsense? And why does it still hit so hard no matter how many times I’ve heard it? Every time it plays, I feel something, even if I can’t articulate what that something is.

That moment stuck with me. Because music? It’s one of those things that travels through time. It lands differently depending on who you are, how old you are, and when you hear it. It’s an experience.

Also, let’s be real—the last few episodes have been heavy as hell, and it’d be nice to do something lighter for once. Moderation in life is key, right? And, side note, the kiddo does not listen to this podcast, but this seems like the perfect place to dig into this.

Because Bohemian Rhapsody? It’s legendary.

It’s one of those rare songs that keeps pulling people in, no matter the decade. So today, we’re not just talking about Queen. We’re talking about why this six-minute rock opera still has people—generations later—asking, “What does this even mean?”

I’m geeked. Are you? Let’s go!

Alright, let’s set the stage. It’s 1975. Queen is about to drop a six-minute-long rock opera that the record labels absolutely, positively did NOT want. You heard me. Did. Not. Want. They thought it was too weird, too long, too much. But the world? Oh, the world was ready for something big.

So, first off? The human world was a hot mess leading up to this.

The economy was a dumpster fire. A whole dumpster inferno, if you will. Smelly. Burnie. A sad, crusty shell of what once was. Gas prices were disrespectful, inflation was gross, and in Britain, where the band Queen was based, things were so bad that the government literally cut the workweek down to three days to save electricity. Did you know that was a thing? Because I didn’t. But apparently, when you mix essential workers striking + a global oil crisis due to Arab countries embargoing oil supplies to countries supporting Israel in the Yom Kippur War, you yield => not enough fuel to generate enough electricity to maintain business as usual. Wild.

Meanwhile, across the pond, after two decades of fighting, millions of lives lost, anti-war protests shaking the country, and a draft that forced 2.2 million young men (mostly poor, working-class, and Black) into combat, the U.S. finally said, “Yeah, we’re done.” to the Vietnam War. But their pullout game? Weak. Af. Because the war didn’t just ‘stop,’ friends. No, no. It kept going. For years. And by April ‘75? Saigon fell.

South Vietnam? It didn’t just ‘lose the war.’ After the North took over, the new government launched a massive crackdown—mass executions, brutal re-education camps, forced labor, and a refugee crisis that had people literally risking their lives on rafts just to escape. It was a purge, a political cleansing. Brutal, horrific, but not quite genocide. But right next door? The Khmer Rouge in Cambodia? That was genocide—one of the deadliest in history. Nearly 2 million people wiped out because their own government saw them as a threat. Different situations, but both left scars that never fully healed.

I read a lot about genocides, because I wonder how things can come to that—time and time again, and what we can do to prevent it. The Khmer Rouge, what happened in Cambodia, that one always hits me different. All genocides are evil, I hate to think in absolutes but genocide will always be evil to me. But something about that particular one—how fast it happened, how brutal, how people were slaughtered for being ‘educated’—that one just sits in my soul in such a painful, painful way…

Anyway, let me stop existentially spiraling and shift gears back to lighter history. Because, uh… we got real dark there for a minute.

Back in the U.S.? People were exhausted. The war had ripped the country apart—politically, socially, and economically. The draft was gone, but the damage was done. Trust in the government was at an all-time low. Veterans were coming home to a country that wanted to forget them. And in the middle of all that, the US, the world even, needed a distraction.

Enter: music.

The hippie era? Dead. The whole peace, love, and let’s-hold-hands-and-save-the-world thing? Yeah, people were over it. By 1975, the world felt heavy. The war aftermath of everything left everyone so damn tired. But music? Music kept moving. Still evolving. Still shaping culture. And honestly? It was doing the most and I’m here for it.

Black music was thriving. Funk was everywhere—Earth, Wind & Fire, Parliament-Funkadelic, The Isley Brothers, James Brown. If you weren’t grooving, you were lying. But funk wasn’t just about getting down on the dance floor. It was loud. It was proud. It had a message. Black joy, Black survival, Black rebellion. It was saying: we’re still here, we’re still thriving, and we will be heard.

And then, there was disco. And before y’all come at me about Saturday Night Fever, let’s be real—disco was Black and queer before it ever got mainstreamed. It started in underground clubs where Black, Latinx, and LGBTQ+ folks were like, “Oh, we don’t belong in your world? Cool. We’ll build our own.” And that world? Had bangers. Donna Summer. The Trammps. Chic. This wasn’t just music—it was liberation with a beat drop. If funk was power, disco was freedom.

And then, of course, there was the gritty, political side of music. The war might have ended, but musicians were, rightfully so, still pissed about it. Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Creedence Clearwater Revival—they were all out here asking hard questions like What’s Going On? (shoutout to Marvin Gaye, who had already set the tone for the entire decade). People were writing songs about disillusionment, the working class, and a country that didn’t feel like home anymore. Basically, America was having an identity crisis, and the radio was the group therapy session.

But on the opposite end of the spectrum? You had bands going bigger, louder, weirder. Rock was getting huge—Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, David Bowie. It was all about the spectacle. If people weren’t looking for deep political commentary, they were looking for escape. Theatrics. Something bigger than real life. And Queen? Queen was about to take that to another level.

The world was restless. Tired. Ready for something bold, something that didn’t follow the rules.

And Queen? Queen didn’t just break the rules. They set them on fire and walked away.

Alright, now that we’ve set the stage, let’s talk about the people who made it happen. Because Queen didn’t just appear out of thin air, fully formed like some kind of rock-and-roll Athena. They built themselves into a band capable of pulling off something as wildly ambitious as Bohemian Rhapsody. And at the heart of it all? Freddie Mercury.

Technically, Queen started before Freddie even got involved. Back in the late ‘60s, Brian May and Roger Taylor were in a band called Smile. And when I say these guys were smart, I mean Brian May was literally studying astrophysics at Imperial College London. The man could have been unraveling the secrets of the universe, but instead, he chose rock music. Respect. (Side note: I, too, once dreamed of studying astrophysics, but math and science were like, “No, babe, absolutely not.”)

Anyway, Smile was good, but they weren’t exactly setting the world on fire. They played student gigs around London, but something wasn’t clicking. Then their lead singer quit, and that’s when someone who had been watching them for a while—someone with big ideas—stepped in. Enter: Freddie Mercury.

Freddie was born Farrokh Bulsara in 1946 in Zanzibar (modern-day Tanzania). His family was Parsi Indian, and they moved to England when he was a teenager, escaping political upheaval. From an early age, Freddie was different. He was a dreamer, a performer, a kid who saw the world as something bigger than what it was.

He studied art and design and was obsessed with music, fashion, and theatrics—he wasn’t just thinking about how a song sounded, he was thinking about how it looked, how it felt, how it would live in people’s minds. He loved glam rock, opera, theatrical performances—things that felt larger than life. So when he joined Brian May and Roger Taylor, he pushed them in a whole new direction.

Around this same time, Freddie met Mary Austin, a quiet, thoughtful woman who worked at a fashion boutique. They clicked instantly. She became his girlfriend, his rock, and—though their romantic relationship wouldn’t last—his lifelong confidante.

Freddie once called her the “love of his life,” and their bond ran deep. But as Queen’s star began to rise, so did a tension Freddie couldn’t ignore. His attraction to men was something he kept private, and in an era where being openly gay could destroy a career, he was trapped between who he was and who the world expected him to be.

Still, if there was one constant in his life, it was Mary. They weren’t partners in the traditional sense, but they were family. Love doesn’t always fit neatly into a category—sometimes it’s romantic, sometimes it’s platonic, sometimes it’s something in between. But that doesn’t make it any less real.

And yet, love—no matter how deep—doesn’t erase struggle. Freddie lived in the in-between, balancing public adoration with private doubt, spectacle with secrecy. That tension—between personal freedom and public image, between self-expression and self-preservation—was something that seeped into everything he did.

Freddie chose Queen—and yeah, it raised some eyebrows. Even I remember hearing the name the first time and thinking, “Wait, what?” Not going to lie, I thought it had something to do with the Queen of England, like her personal band or something? Ah, to be young….

But Freddie loved the name. He thought it was regal, dramatic, and, let’s be honest, had a little wink of queer energy. If you think about it, Queen wasn’t just making music—they were making a space for people who felt a little too much for the mainstream. Too theatrical. Too emotional. Too flamboyant. Sound familiar?

But first, they had to prove themselves.

With the addition of John Deacon on bass, Queen was officially a band. A broke band, but a band.

They played tiny clubs, student gigs—anywhere that would have them. And at first? People did not get what they were doing. They were too theatrical for hard rock, too heavy for pop, too weird for mainstream radio. They didn’t fit neatly into a box, and that confused people.

But Freddie? He refused to blend in. He knew they weren’t just another rock band. They were Queen. And if the world didn’t see it yet? Say less. It would.

By 1973, they landed a record deal. Their debut album, Queen, did okay—not a breakout hit, but enough to keep them moving. Then came Queen II in 1974, which gave us March of the Black Queen, a song that honestly sounds like an early blueprint for Bohemian Rhapsody. But it wasn’t until Sheer Heart Attack later that year that they had their first real hit—Killer Queen.

With Killer Queen, people finally started paying attention. Queen was on the rise.

But Freddie? He was already thinking bigger.

By 1975, the band had momentum, but they still needed that one song—something massive that would change everything. And Freddie had just the thing.

He had been working on pieces of a song for years. Like, since the 1960s. Back then, he called it The Cowboy Song because of the line “Mama, just killed a man,” which, yeah, does sound like the opening of a spaghetti Western.

For years, he had scattered lyrics and melodies but no full song—just a vision of something that wasn’t just music but a whole experience. The problem? The music industry at the time was not in the mood for experiences, that sounded risky as heck. A six-minute song with opera sections, no chorus, and no traditional structure? Radio stations weren’t going to touch it.

So Freddie waited. He kept it in his back pocket, slowly piecing it together. And by 1974, Queen had enough success—and enough creative control—to go big.

Recording Bohemian Rhapsody was an exercise in absolute madness. This wasn’t just a song; this was a production. A rock-opera Frankenstein’s monster that required layers upon layers of sound.

They spent three weeks just recording the vocal harmonies. Three weeks. Just on the opera section. And this was the 1970s—no fancy digital tools, no easy layering. Everything had to be done by hand.

So what did they do? They sang the same parts over and over, layering them until it sounded like a full choir. At one point, they had 180 vocal overdubs stacked on top of each other. They ran the tapes through the recording machines so many times that the reels literally started wearing out. The producers held them up to the light, and they were nearly transparent. That’s how much they had recorded. The studio techs thought they were insane.

And then came Brian May’s guitar solo.

Freddie had actually left a blank space in the song, trusting Brian to come up with something legendary. And he did. He didn’t go for speed or flash—he went for melody. Something that sang. It became one of the most recognizable solos in history.

But even after all of that—the weeks of layering vocals, the insane instrumental arrangements—Queen still had one final battle ahead of them.

When Queen turned in Bohemian Rhapsody, the record executives took one listen and said, “Absolutely not.”

It was too long. Too weird. Too complicated. Radio wouldn’t play it.

Freddie refused to cut it down.

So, since the label wasn’t going to push the song, Queen took matters into their own hands.

Freddie handed a copy to his friend, DJ Kenny Everett, and told him, Now listen, you absolutely must not play this on air. (Wink. Wink.)

Naturally, Kenny played it. Fourteen times in one weekend.

Listeners lost their minds. They started calling radio stations, demanding the song. The hype was so massive that the label had no choice but to release it.

And the moment it hit the airwaves? It exploded.

Nine weeks at number one. A global phenomenon. One of the most unexpected hits of all time.

And from there? Queen took over the world. They kept pushing boundaries, releasing hit after hit—Somebody to Love, We Will Rock You, We Are the Champions, Another One Bites the Dust. Their concerts became legendary, with Freddie commanding stadiums like a rock-and-roll deity.

And then, in 1985, they delivered what’s still considered one of the greatest live performances ever at Live Aid.  

Freddie lived his truth—bold, theatrical, and completely unapologetic. In a rock world built on hyper-masculine, straight-guy energy, he proved you could be soft and powerful, queer and untouchable. And even now, decades later, he dares you to do the same—to be yourself, challenge what’s ‘acceptable,’ and live your life as loudly and unapologetically as you want.

And while Freddie himself was gone too soon, his music? His impact? Now that was immortal.

Because nearly twenty years later, Bohemian Rhapsody hit the charts again—this time, thanks to Wayne’s World.

For my young folks out there, Wayne’s World was an early ‘90s comedy about two rock-loving, basement-dwelling best friends who hosted a low-budget TV show. In one of the movie’s most iconic scenes, they pile into a car, crank up Bohemian Rhapsody, and headbang their way through the song like it’s a sacred ritual. The scene became legendary—so much so that an entire new generation fell in love with the song, sending it right back up the charts.

Except not for me. My discovery of it wouldn’t come until a quindecade later.

So, music is a huge part of my life. Always has been. My first email address as as child, circa 1998, was ilovemusic—with about 400 numbers behind it, because obviously, I wasn’t the only one.

But I didn’t grow up with Bohemian Rhapsody. Or Queen. Or anything that remotely sounded like them. That was for “other” people. It was the ‘90s; it was a different time.

My house was strictly R&B, rap, gospel, and funk. Good bit of funk, actually. I grew up on TLC, Jodeci, Tupac, Bone Thugs-N-Harmony, Mary J. Blige, etc. That was my world. That music was home. Listening to anything else would seriously get you made fun of in the worst ways, and I already had enough trouble fitting in.

And looking back? Some of the music I was allowed to listen to? Questionable. My mom had me belting out ‘90s R&B songs about relationships and heartbreak, but I wasn’t allowed to say cuss words. Like, ma’am? I was seven. What business did I have singing about “bumpin’ and grindin’” while also getting scolded for saying “hell”?

Anyway, I didn’t actually hear Bohemian Rhapsody until I was in college. And even then? I had no clue what I was listening to.

I had heard of Queen before college, when I was a kid. A band of what appeared to be all men named Queen? Yeah, that sticks with you when you’re looking at society through the lens of gender expectations. And the name itself made me think of the British monarchy—like, was this the Queen of England’s personal band? Weird flex, but who was I to judge?

Then I saw pictures of them and thought, Wait… it’s really all dudes?

For some reason, I think part of me assumed at least one of them was a woman, and that was the Queen. Nope. Just four guys, dressed dramatically, looking unlike anything I was used to. But it wasn’t my culture, so again—who was I to judge? And I will say, it was fascinating to see people not conforming to expectations, like an: Oh, I have a choice? Sort of moment for little-kid-me.

So, back to college. One night, I was playing a video game—on a private server, because I was that kind of nerd. And the people running the server had Bohemian Rhapsody as the background music.

At first? I was just confused. It sounded like three different songs smashed together. There was this soft ballad part, then suddenly, opera?! I’d only heard opera as a joke on cartoons. And then, out of nowhere—headbanging rock.

It was so different from anything I had ever heard before.

And yet… something about it stuck with me.

I found myself choosing that specific game server just so I could hear it again. I didn’t even care about playing anymore. And eventually, I was frantically typing lyrics into Google, trying to figure out what the hell this chaotic masterpiece was.

And that’s when I really found Queen.

But even then, I wasn’t instantly obsessed. I wasn’t one of those people who immediately fell in love with the song. It was more like: That’s really cool… I should hear that again. And I love things that don’t totally make sense, so my brain kept circling back: What does this even mean?

It wasn’t until my late 20s that I really got into Queen and therefore Bohemian Rhapsody again. And looking back, I think it’s because my musical exposure had always been so tied to the culture I grew up in. It took time for me to feel safe enough to really step outside of that and explore something completely different.

Now, I can say I have so much more exposure to different music, and it’s so satisfying—especially when I connect with what I like to call rebel music.

Whether it’s punk, rock, or trap rap, or even aggressively cute K-Pop, there’s something about music that pushes against the status quo that just bolsters me. It makes me want to challenge things, to question, to see the world differently.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the best music doesn’t just entertain—it cracks something open in you. It gives you power. Girl power? Maybe. Rebel power? Definitely.

And when it comes to Bohemian Rhapsody?

It’s more than just a song to me. I don’t know how to explain it exactly, but it sees me. It was probably the first time I experienced that. It settles something in my soul, like it’s giving me permission to exist exactly as I am. Like I belong.

And now, years later, here I am in the car with my kid, playing the same song that once had me deep in thought.

And they’re asking the same question I had when I first heard it:

“What does this even mean?”

And the truth is? Maybe Bohemian Rhapsody isn’t supposed to have just one meaning.

Freddie Mercury said it himself.

And that’s the beauty of it. It’s the kind of song that grows with you. The first time you hear it, it might just sound weird. The next time? It’s exciting. A few years later? It’s legendary.

And for my kid? Maybe this is just the beginning. The beginning of them seeing music as an experience, as a way to see the world differently, to challenge the status quo.

Although, keeping it 100, I am confident that when I share my findings with them, they will not be pleased—because they wanted a concrete, actual answer like an a + b = c.  

But that’s the magic of it, isn’t it?

Sometimes, the best songs don’t give you the answer.

They make you ask the question.

So, what is it about Bohemian Rhapsody?

Why does a song with no clear meaning, no traditional structure, and the audacity to throw opera into a rock song still hit like a freight train?

Maybe it’s because Bohemian Rhapsody doesn’t demand to be understood—it asks to be felt.

It’s weird. It’s theatrical. It’s messy. It doesn’t fit neatly into any box. And honestly? That’s what makes it magic.

Because for every generation that discovers it, the reaction is the same: What is this?!

And then?

I need to hear it again.

So next time you hear it—whether you’re in a car, at a concert, or just vibing alone—know that you’re not just listening to a song. You’re taking part in something bigger. A cultural echo. A shared human experience.

And maybe, just maybe…

You’re having your own existential crisis in the backseat, just like my kid.

Thanks for hanging out with me today. If you enjoyed this episode, please like-share-subscribe and leave a review! Your support helps us keep the podcast going, and lets more people find us.

Next time, we’re shifting gears from rock operas to real-life disaster movies—because we’re talking about the Johnstown Flood of 1889. A catastrophe, a failure of the elite, and—spoiler—it was absolutely preventable.

Until then?

Be kind, be curious, and be ready to make history.

Interested in learning more? We recommend:

• “Bohemian Rhapsody: The Definitive Biography of Freddie Mercury” by Lesley-Ann Jones
• “Queen: Days of Our Lives” a 2011 BBC Documentary
• You can also watch “Queen Live at Live Aid (1985)” on Youtube.