Playing to Win

Jeff Apter

Description

In this deeply personal and insightful biography, author and music industry insider Jeff Apter provides a rare glimpse inside Farnsies world. Thanks to the support of those close to John its unlike any other book about the man. A family man at heart and the most loyal of friends, John was sometimes uncomfortable with the spotlight and for many years struggled to make his music career as successful as those close to him - including Glenn Wheatley and Molly Meldrum - could see it could be. He finally hit his stride with 1986s Whispering Jack and the breakaway success of Youre the Voice, which became the anthem of a generation. Jeff reveals the drama behind John being named Australian of the Year, how the cassette demo of Youre the Voice was nearly overlooked, and how John once accidentally sparked the attention of ASIO. And he explores Farnhams relationships with the figures who have been instrumental in making him The Voice: his first manager, Daryl Sambell; his wife of 40-plus years, Jill; and longtime friend and manager Glenn Wheatley.

Sujets

• Musique
• Histoire de la musique
• Performing Arts
• Biography
• Entertainment
• Autobiography

Informations

• Publié par: Woodslane Press
• Date de parution: 01 février 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781922800299
• Langue: English

Extrait

Jeff Apter has written more than 30 books about Australian music and musicians. His subjects include Bon Scott, Daniel Johns, AC/DC’s Young brothers, Marc Hunter, Johnny O’Keefe, Jon English and many others. As a ghostwriter and/or co-writer, Jeff has worked with Kasey Chambers, Richard Clapton and Mark Evans (formerly of AC/DC), and was on staff at Rolling Stone for several years. Jeff lives on the NSW South Coast with his wife and two children, and enough pets to fill a small zoo.
Also by Jeff Apter and available from Woodslane Press:
Behind Dark Eyes: The True Story of Jon English

Woodslane Press Pty Ltd
10 Apollo Street
Warriewood, NSW 2102
Email: [e-mail]
Tel: [phone] Website: www.woodslanepress.com.au
First published in Australia in 2017 by Black Inc
This re-issued edition published in Australia in 2022 by Woodslane Press
© 2022 Woodslane Press, text © 2022 Jeff Apter
ISBN: 9781922800299
This work is copyright. All rights reserved. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of study, research or review, as permitted under Australian copyright law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any other form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator”, at the address above.
The information in this publication is based upon the current state of commercial and industry practice and the general circumstances as at the date of publication. Every effort has been made to obtain permissions relating to information reproduced in this publication. The publisher makes no representations as to the accuracy, reliability or completeness of the information contained in this publication. To the extent permitted by law, the publisher excludes all conditions, warranties and other obligations in relation to the supply of this publication and otherwise limits its liability to the recommended retail price. In no circumstances will the publisher be liable to any third party for any consequential loss or damage suffered by any person resulting in any way from the use or reliance on this publication or any part of it. Any opinions and advice contained in the publication are offered solely in pursuance of the author’s and publisher’s intention to provide information, and have not been specifically sought.
Cover image courtesy and copyright Tony Mott
Text design and typesetting by Tristan Main
Cover design and text revisions by Mike Ellott
CONTENTS
Introduction: ‘If You’re Not Standing, You Have No Soul’
1. Blue-Collar Balladeer
2. When Darryl Met Johnny
3. The Loneliest Number
4. The Prince of Panto
5. Wedding Bell Blues
6. A Fading Star
7. Help Is on Its Way
8. Uncovered and Reborn
9. Playing to Win
10. Reined In
11. Whispering Jack Phantom
12. Back on Top
13. Aussie of the Year
14. Spokesman for the Common Man
15. Burn for You
16. Riding the Rails
17. Facing Fifty
18. How Many Last Times?
19. Warm Undies and Shameless Nostalgia
20. Good Deeds and Close Ties
Epilogue: Jack’s Back
Discography
Acknowledgements
Bibliography
For Diana, who found her own voice
INTRODUCTION
‘If You’re 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. It’s fair to say that the closest he’s come was during his mid-1980s Whispering Jack –era 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, Farnham’s kept cool at a reasonable distance. He’s 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 they’d rather live in a garret and focus on their art than ‘sell out’ by going commercial. These acts treated success on Farnham’s scale – millions of records sold, many arenas filled, Australia’s favourite middle-aged son – with extreme caution. They were in it for the music, man. Or at least that’s 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 wasn’t 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 I’d 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 I’d 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 didn’t 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 night’s MC, a perennial nice guy – TV’s very own Farnham – stepped forward.
‘When it comes to our next performer,’ he gushed, ‘they don’t come bigger than this.’ He listed Farnham’s 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 he’d just been handed pop’s equivalent of a retiree’s 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 Farnham’s signature song, ‘You’re the Voice’, but in unplugged mode, low-key.
‘We’re all someone’s daughter,’ Farnham sang, gently urging the crowd to get involved, ‘we’re all someone’s 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/DC’s ‘It’s 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. Farnham’s 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 evening’s 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 didn’t 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 Farnham’s hand. ‘If you’re not standing – in this room, or at home,’ McManus shouted above the din of the audience, who didn’t plan to stop cheering anytime soon, ‘you have no soul.’
In jus