The moment I decided to sing again, the lump disappeared as suddenly as it appeared, and that was the last of it. It reinformed to me what the amazing Louise Hay always said: ‘You are what you think.’ The minute my thoughts changed, my body changed. I understood from that day on that I would always sing. It’s part of my purpose on this earth, the way that I reach people, and to stop would be like allowing part of me to die.
My life was evolving, and I focused on doing what was in my heart: raising my daughter, supporting breast cancer and environmental causes as much as possible – and singing. This realisation helped to inspire my 1998 album, Back with a Heart.
I was also surprised with an offer to act again. It was for a film called Sordid Lives, written and directed by a highly talented friend of Rona’s and mine named Del Shores, who also wrote the stage play on which it was based. I was intrigued by the part he wanted me to play: a lesbian singer named Bitsy Mae. I had seen the play with Rona some time ago and loved it. Back then I said to Del, ‘If you ever make a movie version, think of me for Bitsy Mae.’ He didn’t forget.
I adored the idea that I’d be wearing tattoos and chomping on a large wad of gum all the time. It was completely against type and I had a ball. Over the course of two days, at a lake house outside of Toronto, my friend Amy Sky and I wrote five songs for the Sordid Lives television series, including the cheeky ‘You Look Like a Dick to Me’. It was written for my abusive onscreen boyfriend Richard: They say your name is Richard, but you look like a Dick to me.
Enough said.
It was kind of fun because for years there had been rumours that I was a lesbian, even though I had been married or had a boyfriend throughout most of my career.
The rumour mill taught me a lesson: where there’s smoke, there isn’t always a fire. In fact, there might not even be an ember burning at all.
After playing Bitsy Mae in Sordid Lives, I finally got an opportunity to go on the record saying I’ve always supported gay rights. An article appeared in an issue of The Advocate, a widely distributed gay/lesbian magazine, in which Del Shores, who is openly gay, interviewed me.
‘Let’s talk about the rumour, Olivia,’ he said.
I answered quite simply. ‘I’m not a lesbian. Next!’ But I also asked him, ‘How would you like it if I accused you of being heterosexual?’
I think I made my point!
Just when I thought that my career was going quiet (again), in early 2000 I was invited to sing at the Vatican for the Pope. Can you believe it? It was to be an evening concert for people going through difficult times, and I was told that Muhammad Ali would also be there. I was so honoured and decided to take Chloe with me. Her paternal grandparents were staunch Catholics, so this was an incredible moment for her to represent the family and meet the Pope. She wasn’t particularly excited about going, but that would soon change.
We arrived at the Rome international airport, only to be met on the kerb by an Aussie photographer who said, ‘Love, you know the Pope’s not going to be there. He’s sick.’ Wait just a second! We had flown all the way to Rome to meet the Pope and he wasn’t going to be there? I dismissed this as being impossible and we drove to our beautiful hillside hotel overlooking the breathtaking city.
We were driven to the hotel by one of the Vatican staff – the Pope’s producer, meaning that he produced his records. This was a big surprise to me. The Pope had a producer? Who knew the Pope made records? Was I back in LA? The producer was complaining in a thick Italian accent, ‘I can’t believe it! It didn’t sell like I thought it would!’ This was the Pope we were talking about, and I was having the same conversations I had at a record company!
Time was short and I had a rehearsal that day, so I dropped Chloe off at the hotel and headed for a cavernous hall with lots of marble and incredibly high ceilings. There were special boxes in the theatre where the VIPs would sit. More news: Muhammad Ali wasn’t coming either. It turned out that what I heard at the airport from my Aussie Vatican spy was correct.
The Pope had a cold.
He wasn’t coming. We flew and the Pope had the flu.
I asked my ‘Pope producer’ if we could have a private meeting with the Pope, expecting nothing to happen, but I had to ask since we came all that way and it would have been terrible not to meet him.
‘Leave it with me,’ he said.
We ended up staying an extra day, which was wonderful because I was able to take Chloe to see the sights of Rome. We even had a magical tour of the Vatican. Eventually, we received a message with a time – the Pope was feeling better and would be able to see us the next morning.
I remember being led through hallways where the walls were covered in beautiful and priceless artworks. Finally, we stopped in a room with a huge, ornate red chair that looked like a throne.
The first thing I saw was his head covered by a small hat and wisps of white hair. His face was ruddy and shiny. His head came through the door first while his body, hunched over, followed. I’m not a Catholic, but I was very honoured to meet him. He handed me a box with a beautiful blessed rosary inside and said some words in Italian. Then he took my hands and the hands of my daughter, who was visibly moved and burst into tears.
At the concert, there were people lying on gurneys with IVs in their arms, and people in wheelchairs and the infirm in the seats. It was a humbling experience. No one had told me what to expect, but the concert was for what they called the ‘Untouchables’. It was the Jubilee Celebration for the Sick and Healthcare Workers at the Vatican.
I sang ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ for them accompanied by a tall, thin piano player who spoke no English.
Somehow, we got by with a lot of waving of the hands.
Back home, Chloe and I were living in a French-style country cottage in Malibu where I’d wake up early with our Irish setter Jackson to feed three cats, three dogs and two cockatiels. I loved that quiet time early in the morning when it was just me and the animals. I’d fix myself a cup of tea and then take breakfast up to Chloe, who was fourteen now and attending a local private school.
I’d drive Chloe to school and her activities, spending my downtime pruning my rose bushes in my gorgeous garden or taking long walks on the beach. If I went into town, I’d take an art or yoga class. Tennis became an obsession of mine, and I hired a private coach because I was hooked on it.
Then, one day, the most wonderful call came in – asking me to perform at the 2000 Summer Olympic Games’ opening ceremony in Sydney. The idea of stepping onto a stage at the 110,000-seat Stadium Australia that September, to perform the new Olympic song ‘Dare to Dream’ with fellow Australian John Farnham, had my heart beating fast.
I was extremely honoured and thrilled to be asked to sing for my country in my heart home of Australia. I loved that the Olympics stood for all the qualities that my mum had instilled in me and which I was trying to teach Chloe: strength, determination and perseverance.
Before I went to the Olympics, I was honoured to sing at an LA fundraiser for President Bill Clinton. This was a small, private dinner in a restaurant where I sang one song and then chatted with the President about our daughters. Bill Clinton was charming and made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
To even things up, I later sang at another fundraiser for Hillary. I was not a political person, though, and being Australian, I couldn’t even vote. I simply chalked it all up to experience.
Slowly, I began to date again, and now I had a boyfriend named Patrick McDermott, a 44-year-old cameraman and gaffer. We met for the first time in Los Angeles while I was shooting a commercial. In fact, it was my mother who pointed him out to me and said, ‘I’d like to take his photograph. That man has a beautiful face.’
Patrick and I found that we had several things in common, including that we were both divorced and cautious about getting involved. He was a thoughtful and considerate person, and funny. He liked to play tennis, hike and take nature walks. He even helped me prune my roses.
Patrick had his own home in Los Angeles and a four-year-old son who would sometimes come over to hang out with Chloe.
He had a romantic heart and would prepare delicious meals for me that we ate by candlelight on the beach.
My life was blooming again.
As we got closer to the Olympic Games, I was back in contact with John Farnham, who had been a friend of mine for many years. We were both thrilled to be representing our beloved country and there was a huge build-up to the main event. Chloe and I jetted off to Australia where I would first record in Melbourne with John. Just in case there were any microphone problems on the big night, we decided to record the song beforehand and were prepared to lip sync to our own voices as a last resort. Our dream, though, was to sing live, and we headed up to Sydney to have several rehearsals at the actual venue. I’ll never forget arriving for the first time at the enormous, empty stadium.
During the few days preceding the Opening Ceremony, we’d arrive at the venue, and then it was time for immediate lockdown. The security was crazily tight, and this was before the post 9/11 world we live in now. I was thrilled to learn that for the final dress rehearsal the night before the event, we would have a live audience of 30,000 athletes. It was like a mini-performance in itself and I was nearly as excited as I would be the next day.
That afternoon, the building crews were laying down carpet and painting it so it would look like the brown earth. As we blocked out our moves on stage, I made John promise to hold my hand as I was coming down the stairs in my high heels. It wasn’t about the singing. I felt beyond prepared to perform after so much rehearsal. It was more about my shoes. There. I said it. My shoes! The heels weren’t sky-high, but they were tall enough, and I felt insecure about walking across that bumpy, freshly painted, turf-like surface.
It was John’s duty to be the Olivia catcher.
‘No matter what happens,’ I implored him, ‘don’t let go of my hand. I can barely walk in these shoes, let alone navigate stairs in them.’
‘No problem, Livvy,’ he assured me, grinning in his inimitable fashion. ‘You can count on me.’
That night at the dress rehearsal, fully made up and dressed to the nines in a sparkling silver gown made by Lisa Ho, I grabbed John’s hand tightly. I made sure my microphone pack was secure at my back and adjusted my ear piece, so I could lip sync the words in an emergency. Everything was in perfect order, and as the massive crowd of 30,000 was allowed to pour into that glorious stadium, I felt ecstatic. John and I sang our way down the stairs (why did I wear those shoes!) and then began to cover the long distance through the crowd to finish our song.
I walked precariously, somewhat secure in John’s protective grip – until a pretty girl spoke to him. He became so distracted that he jerked his hand out of mine abruptly while rushing over to say hello. As if on cue, I tripped and fell. When John saw me in a prone position splayed out on the turf, he rushed back to help me. We ended up finishing our song, never missing a beat.
In case I hadn’t been humiliated enough, I later heard him telling fans and onlookers in his thick Aussie accent sprinkled with laughter, ‘I dropped the blonde like a bag of sparkly shit.’ Later he would tone the story down to ‘a sack of potatoes’. Oh, God love him!
I had to laugh in spite of myself. That was John – an adorable, funny man and one of my favourite singers ever.
It made the night quite memorable. And this was only dress rehearsal!
The night before the Opening Ceremony, I had been asked to carry the Olympic torch around the Sydney Opera House. I’d asked if Chloe could be with me and they allowed her to run behind me. I was holding the torch high with the beauty of Sydney Harbour out in front of me, twinkling with stars and city lights. It was magical, ending with me passing the flame to tennis star Pat Rafter.
When it was placed in Sydney Town Hall overnight, burning brightly in anticipation of the next day, I felt so grateful to be a part of a group of lucky people who had represented their countries in this way through the ages.
Finally, the big night arrived, and it was clear and magical. The gates opened for the Opening Ceremony and soon 100,000 people filled every stadium seat, not to mention close to four billion television viewers worldwide. The energy was electric as the greatest athletes in the world were gathered in one place to celebrate this traditional coming together of nations in the country that was my home. My heart began to swell while my nerves were going a mile a minute.
‘You’re not nervous. You’re excited,’ I repeated over and over to myself, as visions of my fifteen-year-old self trying to form a little rock band crossed my mind. I was suddenly back in my kitchen telling my mum that I wanted to be a singer. And now here I was, representing my country in a gorgeous long dress with those killer silver heels. I clutched John’s strong hand so hard that I’m sure I cut off his circulation. This time, he vowed to really not let go – no matter who was distracting him!
I opened my mouth to sing the first few words in perfect sync with the voice in my earpiece and all I could hear was . . . static! This was a performer’s nightmare because if you couldn’t hear then you couldn’t follow along with the song.
Christ, I can’t hear. The transmission is bad! I thought to myself. Then I glanced at John, singing away, cool as a cucumber. Obviously, the interference in my ears was my problem alone. He was fine, which was demonstrated by his easy and confident demeanour.
I still made my way down those insanely steep stairs with John, who didn’t let me fall this time. I was floating as we sang, hand in hand, cutting through the crowd. Although that horrible static was bombarding my eardrums, I could still hear our voices in the stadium itself, but just a little bit – and on a delay. That only added to the chaos. I couldn’t time myself to what the audience was hearing because there was a sound delay and my mouth would be moving out of sync with that sound.
This is supposed to be the most amazing moment of my life, I thought. And I’m screwed because I can’t hear!
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, I remembered that the cameraman was about to zoom in for my close-up. All I needed was a billion viewers – give or take a few – watching me sing out of time. It was time to muster all the performance lessons I had under my belt and think on my feet (which were killing me).
I turned my head to the side, a strange thing to do when the camera is zooming into your face. There was no choice because if my lips were moving out of time, even a speck, the close-up would have been a total disaster. They won’t understand what I’m doing in the director’s booth, I thought. But they will when I get off stage.
There was a point when John and I split apart and walked down across the field to sing directly to the athletes. Looking into their young and hopeful eyes, all of the problems of the night seemed to melt away. Many were clicking pictures and reaching out to us. Those hands belonged to dreamers from all over the globe and the enormity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. It’s funny how even in a crowd that large, you can look into the eyes of one person, and it feels as intimate as performing in a small room.
We finished our song in that gigantic stadium and I couldn’t even brace myself for the thunderous applause. With a wave and a smile, we walked calmly into the underground parking lot, which was the wings. ‘I couldn’t hear a bloody thing!’ I told John as soon as we were out of sight of the audience.
‘Neither could I, love,’ he said as we walked straight up to his manager, Glenn Wheatley, to find out how badly we’d blown it.
‘Great job, you two,’ Glenn said.
‘But we couldn’t hear a thing,’ we told him in unison.
‘No problem,’ he insisted. ‘You were perfect and the audience loved it.’
John and I just stared at each other, amazed. No one knew we’d been winging it. In fact, I didn’t even know he was struggling – and vice versa. You can still check out the moment online and it looks as if we’re both having the time of our lives.
It was a golden m
oment.
I understand now that my performance, good, bad or indifferent, was not the point. I wasn’t perfect and it doesn’t matter, I thought to myself as I went back to my dressing room to take off my make-up at the end of a very long day. I had just learned a lesson for the ages, something that would stay with me forever.
There is no such thing as perfection. If you do the best you can, instant to instant, that’s the most perfect a human being can ever be. And without these now-hilarious moments, I probably wouldn’t have remembered it so clearly.
Don’t give up; here I am.
And if you need a helping hand
I’m gonna be right here with you.
The idea for a cancer centre in Australia was not on my radar. But one day I got a call from the Austin Hospital in Melbourne and they wanted to talk to me.
I was curious and set up a meeting during my next trip home.
Accompanied by my good friend Sue McIntosh, we drove out to Heidelberg, a suburb in the northeast of Melbourne, to the Austin Hospital and met with their CEO, Jennifer Williams. ‘We wanted to see if you’d allow us to use your name on a new cancer centre,’ she proposed, explaining to me that it would be located on the grounds of the main hospital.
I had the weirdest feeling as I imagined it in my mind. My name on a building? It didn’t feel as if I deserved it. I thought that maybe it should be just the Newton-John name, which seemed fitting because my older brother is a doctor and my father, a professor and the former master of Ormond College, hailed from Victoria. I called my brother to ask him about it. ‘Oh no, it should be you,’ he said.
The next stop was a visit to Mum to talk about this amazing offer.
‘Mum, they want me to consider putting my name on a new cancer centre,’ I fretted over tea with her.
‘Listen, darling,’ she said in her strong German accent. ‘In life, if you can help somebody, then you should do it.’
Don't Stop Believin' Page 17
