Jeff Apter - Playing to Win: The Definitive Biography of John Farnham

Published by Nero,

an imprint of Schwartz Publishing Pty Ltd

Level 1, 221 Drummond Street

Carlton VIC 3053, Australia

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Copyright Jeff Apter 2016

Jeff Apter asserts his right to be known as the author of this work.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior consent of the publishers.

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry:

Apter, Jeff, author.

Playing to win: the definitive biography of John Farnham / Jeff Apter.

9781760640019 (paperback)

9781863958806 (hardback)

9781925435269 (ebook)

Farnham, John, 1949

Rock musiciansAustraliaBiography.

SingersAustraliaBiography.

781.66092

Jacket design by Peter Long

Text design and typesetting by Tristan Main

Cover photograph: Robert Cianflone / Staff / Getty Images

Endpapers: Melinda Nagy/Dreamstime

For Diana, who found her own voice

INTRODUCTION
If Youre Not Standing, You Have No Soul

ARIA Music Awards
21 October 2003
Sydney Super Dome

J ohn Farnham has never had much time for cool. Its fair to say that the closest hes come was during his mid-1980s Whispering Jackera resurrection, when he sported hair even bigger than his voice, and dressed like a rock-and-roll stormtrooper, with a shinbone-length Driza-Bone and upturned collar on full and bold display. Yet even that look was more yuppie than trailblazer. Nope, throughout the bulk of his six-decade-long career, Farnhams kept cool at a reasonable distance. Hes always been family-friendly, G-rated, likeable. Daggy. And hugely successful, at least most of the time.

By 2003, deep into his fifties, he was part of the old guard, the music biz establishment. A survivor, an ageing sex symbol your gran would welcome in for tea and biscuits. But he was an uneasy fit at a time when every charting act seemed to boast awkward, multisyllabic names like Powderfinger, Regurgitator or Silverchair and promote themselves as so damned ethical theyd rather live in a garret and focus on their art than sell out by going commercial. These acts treated success on Farnhams scale millions of records sold, many arenas filled, Australias favourite middle-aged son with extreme caution. They were in it for the music, man. Or at least thats what they liked the public to think.

And I have to take some blame for perpetuating that narrow mindset. As a reporter for Rolling Stone, I was swept up in the cult of cool, even though my taste (at least behind closed doors) ran to the more commercial. I bandied about the words credibility and art as if they were sacred cows sacred vows, even. I found as much joy in a Savage Garden melody as I did in a You Am I rock-and-roll onslaught, but I wasnt being paid to celebrate my dagginess. So I wrote about the hip and the edgy. The alternative. The anti-everything. Bores, some of them, truth be told.

Yet I never missed the chance to attend the ARIAs. Sure, the next day Id moan about how cheesy it all was, how the deserving acts went unrewarded, how the obvious won out, once again blame the industry, so commercial and glitzy, blah, blah, blah. It was still fun, though. I guess Id never quite shaken off my uncool suburban roots. I was always quietly thrilled to be surrounded by pop stars and rock heroes, household names some of whom even knew me. Fancy that!

But I didnt anticipate what would happen at the 2003 awards. It might have been the night of nights for siren Delta Goodrem, but it would be remembered for something else altogether.

Towards the business end of proceedings, Rove McManus, the nights MC, a perennial nice guy TVs very own Farnham stepped forward.

When it comes to our next performer, he gushed, they dont come bigger than this. He listed Farnhams ARIA stats 20 wins to date before gushing some more. The name legend gets thrown around quite a bit, but this man is certainly deserving of the title. Earlier that night Farnham had been inducted into the ARIA Hall of Fame. He was a lifetime achiever and hed just been handed pops equivalent of a retirees gold watch.

The stage lights dimmed and the crowd started to make some noise, clearly excited, but not entirely sure what to expect. There stood Farnham, in a sharp black shirt and strides, his fair hair swept back, looking good. Conservative, a tad paunchy, but still pretty damned good. Brett Garsed was to his right, strumming an acoustic guitar. Together they began Farnhams signature song, Youre the Voice, but in unplugged mode, low-key.

Were all someones daughter, Farnham sang, gently urging the crowd to get involved, were all someones son.

It was hardly a show-stopping start but everyone in the room got the sense that the singer had something up his sleeve. Like a volcano starting to rumble, the band kicked in: drums, bass, keys, electric guitar, strings. Farnham sang more strongly, passionately, and the audience started to push towards the front of the stage. It was a rare sight: ARIA crowds, or at least the industry part of the audience, never got too engaged. Uncool. Not a good look. But tonight was different.

Two bagpipers, kilts and all, appeared on stage, blowing their lungs raw as The Voice built and built and built. (They were actually jamming the bagpipe riff from AC/DCs Its A Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock n Roll).) The crowd was really in the moment now; even all the jaded industry hipsters in the pricey seats were on their feet. Farnhams long-time manager, friend and true believer, Glenn Wheatley, beamed a smile at his star. Behind Wheatley, Ian Dicko Dickson, flavour of the month thanks to his role as head prefect on Australian Idol, danced a crazy jig, lost in the song.

On stage, Farnham powered on. Woah-ohh, oh-ohh, oh-oh-oh-oh, he bellowed, and the audience roared right back at him. Then even more pipers, perhaps a dozen in all, invaded the stage, kilts and pipes everywhere you looked, and the audience lifted the roof right off the building. It was pandemonium. Blissful chaos.

In the crowd, the evenings winners and grinners were up and singing, forgetting all about the pointy statuettes and high-end booze on their table. Right now, everybody from the men of Powderfinger to the indie trio of Something for Kate, from afro-ed pop star Guy Sebastian to Best Male Artist Alex Lloyd and golden girl Goodrem was a Farnham fan. They stood, awestruck, gazing at Farnesy. Smiles lit up the faces of the crowd, which had formed a mini moshpit at the foot of the stage. They knew it was a special moment. Farnham responded with a signature microphone-stand twirl, throwing it high into the air and catching it with the ease of an Aussie slips fieldsman. He cracked a broad smile Shit, glad I didnt drop it and brought the song home.

As the band crashed and clanged to a thunderous close behind him, the crowd went berserk. Everyone in the room and there were many thousands squeezed into the Super Dome was screaming, yelling, clapping, stomping. The applause, the sheer noise, was deafening, and continued for what seemed, at least from the floor, to be longer than the song itself. Farnham beamed, saluting the crowd, before waving his arm and mouthing the band, generously bringing them into the celebrations.

Finally, McManus strode out onto the stage and vigorously pumped Farnhams hand. If youre not standing in this room, or at home, McManus shouted above the din of the audience, who didnt plan to stop cheering anytime soon, you have no soul.