Playing to Win

by Jeff Apter

  ‘Can you take me to the bank?’ he asked his mum. ‘I’d love to see all that money.’

  Ever the pragmatists, the Farnhams used their windfall sensibly, buying two lots and building adjoining brick-veneer three-bedders, one for John Sr, Rose and their kids, the other for the grandparents. Noble Park – or Australia, for that matter – had never looked so good.

  School, however, was another thing altogether for John Jr. He didn’t last long at the local primary school, colliding head on with a headmaster by the name of Knight. ‘He was deadly nightshade, a real ratbag,’ John said. ‘I think he had something against English kids.’

  On his first day at school, which he’d recall as ‘the worst of my life’, John Jr broke a major Knight rule by speaking out of turn. John was only responding to another student, who’d farted and then snorted, ‘I’ve shit myself!’ But Knight had his target.

  ‘You,’ Knight said to John, the token Pom, ‘come out here.’

  As John timidly made his way to the front of the class, Knight produced a rubber strap. Three lashes on his hand later, John slunk back to his chair, his hand throbbing, his spirit broken. He was humiliated. School in Dagenham was nothing like this.

  John went home, reported what had happened and was shifted to the recently opened Lyndale Primary School. The biggest problem there was confronting the heavy traffic while crossing busy Dandenong Road.

  In the mid to late 1950s, Australia, at least in matters of entertainment, was undergoing a rowdy revolution. A wild-eyed Sydney black sheep by the name of Johnny O’Keefe – tagged the ‘Wild One’, in reference to both his onstage manner and his hit single of the same name – had been raising rock-and-roll hell with his band the Dee Jays in an old tin shed called the Sydney Stadium, blowing such international stars as Bobby Darin and Ricky Nelson right off the stage, and winning the admiration of Bill Haley and Little Richard. He’d even scored a record deal with local label Festival Records, a massive achievement. The mild-mannered Col Joye, a lanky, Brylcreemed nice-guy from Sydney’s western suburbs, was also winning over the masses, cutting such hits as 1959’s ‘(Rockin’ Rollin’) Clementine’ and ‘Oh Yeah Uh Huh’, both chart-toppers in Melbourne and Sydney at a time when the pop charts were not a national event. TV shows Bandstand (which featured Joye prominently) and Six O’Clock Rock (hosted by O’Keefe) were doing for Australian music what Countdown would achieve in the 1970s: gaining recognition for local acts on the rise and building new audiences all over the country. Joye and O’Keefe were quickly becoming our first true homegrown rock-and-roll stars. In time they’d both play their part in John’s own musical journey.

  Getting locally produced music heard on the radio, though, was another matter. When an Australian record finally found its way into the hands of massively influential DJs such as Melbourne’s Stan Rofe or Sydney’s Bob Rogers and John Laws, it still had to compete with the best of the rest of the world: American hip-swiveller Elvis Presley, harmonising siblings The Everly Brothers, Britain’s bachelor boy Cliff Richard. The persistent O’Keefe did manage to break through with ‘She’s My Baby’, a number-one hit in February 1960, but that and Joye’s two hits were rare Australian exceptions. Coincidentally, cardigan-wearing Jim Reeves, John Farnham’s favourite from his days in Dagenham, usurped O’Keefe only a few weeks later, with – you guessed it – ‘He’ll Have to Go’, a hit here some time after its initial release.

  John watched and listened to Joye and O’Keefe and the rest with what could best be called a dabbler’s interest: the idea of a career in music wasn’t something he’d considered. To John, at least for the moment, singing was a lark, a hobby, a bit of fun. He did, however, find two like-minded kids at Lyndale High School, Steven and Phil; between the three of them they knew enough guitar chords to strum their way through Elvis’s ‘Wooden Heart’ and the old chestnut ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’. Usually they’d play by themselves in the classroom during lunch, although they sometimes performed at school assemblies, a big step for John. Perhaps having his two mates nearby helped a bit with his stage fright.

  John was moving into an awkward teenage phase. He was prone to chubbiness, and the kids at Lyndale High didn’t hold back, calling him ‘Fatty Farnham’. John would go home, close the door to his bedroom and stare in the mirror. ‘Maybe they’re right,’ he’d think to himself. After all, he was no Charles Atlas. He had prominent features – lips and ears, especially – and an oval-shaped face. At school, unwilling to expose his legs, John would try and talk his way out of any sport that required wearing shorts. His lack of self-confidence bordered on the chronic. Amazing to think that within a few years he would be the biggest pop idol in Australia, rendering thousands of young women weak-kneed.

  At the time of John’s musical debut, however, the fastest rising star in Australia was a sharp-looking Melburnian by the name of Normie Rowe, who’d been championed by DJ Stan ‘The Man’ Rofe. In 1965 Rowe, still in his late teens, had blitzed the local charts with a rockin’ reworking of ‘It Ain’t Necessarily So’, the old Gershwin show tune. Rowe had a rebellious streak, too: he’d been holding down a day job training as a technician, while singing after hours in and around Melbourne. When his boss told him to get a ‘respectable’ haircut, Rowe scoffed and headed for the door. So much for regular employment. His pop-rebel reputation was further entrenched when Sydney radio station 2SM – owned by the Catholic Church – slapped a ban on ‘Necessarily So’ for its supposedly sacrilegious lyrics. Bingo. A hit. Five hundred screaming girls were treated for hysteria during one particularly wild Rowe show.

  An end-of-year fundraiser was coming up at Lyndale High and the organisers of the event decorated the school with banners proclaiming: ‘He is coming.’ In Melbourne at the time, the only person this could relate to, John and his fellow students concluded, was Normie Rowe, pop star and accidental iconoclast. John was as excited as his classmates: Normie was playing at Lyndale! Imagine that. This was about the biggest coup any teenager could hope for in the 1960s.

  As the big day grew nearer, John spoke with the girls who were arranging the event.

  ‘How’d you get Normie Rowe?’ he asked. ‘That’s amazing.’

  They looked at John quizzically. ‘Normie Rowe? What are you talking about?’

  John was confused. ‘So who is coming?’ he asked.

  ‘You are,’ they told him. ‘You can sing; we’ve seen you do it.’

  John was mortified. For one thing, he was dead keen to see Rowe sing – with his latest massive hit, ‘Que Sera Sera’, Rowe had given Doris Day the same treatment he had Gershwin. And John knew there was no way he could live up to the hype. What chance did he stand? He was no Normie Rowe. ‘He is coming?’ Really?

  ‘I can’t even tune a guitar,’ John pleaded with them. ‘I just can’t do it.’ He hid in the art storeroom until the organisers found him and dragged him to the stage.

  The curtains parted to reveal a fearful Farnham. What ensued was one of John’s shorter performances; the booing began even before he started to sing, and he slunk off stage.

  ‘That really hurt me,’ John admitted. ‘It was a big letdown for me, for everybody.’

  Although they’re not likely to be admitted to the ARIA Hall of Fame anytime soon, a group known as The Mavericks played an important part in Oz pop history. Made up entirely by Lyndale High students – known simply as the two Mikes and the two Johns – the band provided John Farnham with a musical apprenticeship when they recruited him as their lead singer towards the end of 1964, his final year at school.

  On weekends The Mavericks (also known as the MJs, a nod to their Christian names) played at local dances, school socials and pretty much anywhere they could swing a gig. John’s audition for the band took place at the Lyndale shopping centre, about a mile from his home. There were two songs they all knew – that old faithful ‘Wooden Heart’, and ‘Love Potion Number 9’, a Lieber and Stoller song turned into a hit by The Clovers, then The Searchers – so they
played those two a few times. In the crowd that day was Hans Poulsen, an expat Dane. Poulsen was a multi-instrumentalist, a dab hand with the balalaika and the bouzouki, and a member of Melbourne act the 18th Century Quartet. Poulsen, who harboured ambitions as a songwriter, was impressed by Farnham. It wouldn’t be long before he would re-enter the singer’s life.

  The Mavericks spent much of their time in the Farnham family lounge room, which they used as a rehearsal space. As they played, Rose would sneak a peek at the local kids gathered out the front, watching The Mavericks through the window. John, now performing as Johnny, looked sharp in his winklepicker shoes. And no-one seemed to mind that he was forced to use a broomstick as his microphone stand: Noble Park had never had a neighbourhood rock band before.

  Rose was bursting with pride for her eldest son. Johnny Farnham had his first true believer.

  Johnny did have one thing in common with Normie Rowe: both were from solid working-class stock. While Rowe pursued a trade, at least until the infamous haircut incident, Johnny, fresh out of school, was apprenticed as a plumber to a family friend, Stan Foster, who ran a company named Caulfield Heating. Despite the family connection, Johnny still needed a streak of good fortune to get his apprenticeship papers. His maths results were poor; he only managed 49% in his final exam – and he needed a pass mark in maths to get the job. Johnny rode the train into the city to the Apprenticeship Commission, and found a sympathetic staffer, who changed his 49 to 59, winked, nodded towards the door and told Johnny, ‘Go on, go.’ The next day Foster collected Johnny in his Holden ute at the crack of dawn, ready for work.

  Johnny worked hard. Being the apprentice, he was given most of the crap work (pun intended): anything toilet-related. ‘When it came to toilets,’ Johnny laughed, ‘the apprentice was the one who always had to roll his sleeves up.’ Literally. Johnny might have been one of Oz pop’s earliest singing tradies, but he certainly wasn’t the last: Ted Mulry, John Paul Young, Graeme ‘Shirley’ Strachan and Daryl Braithwaite, among others, all got a little dirt on their hands before becoming pop stars.

  To Johnny, an apprenticeship seemed a logical starting point in life. Learn a trade, maybe meet a girl, buy a quarter-acre block with a mortgage, settle down, get a dog, have a brood of kids – Johnny had bought into the Great Australian Dream.

  Yet music continued to hover on the fringes of his straight-arrow suburban life. Johnny was a big fan of highly rated Melbourne band Strings Unlimited – ‘I idolised this group,’ he would admit. If The Mavericks weren’t working he’d usually head out to see Strings play. What he didn’t know was that Hans Poulsen had mentioned him to the guys from Strings Unlimited. One night Johnny spotted Nick Foenander, the gun organist from Strings, in the audience of a Mavericks gig. They were playing a 21st party, for the princely sum of five quid – and free drinks. During a break, Foenander approached a starstruck Johnny. ‘We’d love you to audition for the group. What do you reckon?’

  Johnny was stunned – and torn. Loyalty was his default setting, and he didn’t want to bail on The Mavericks, who’d given him his first real chance. But he was also a huge Strings Unlimited fan, and this was a massive opportunity.

  ‘That’s great,’ Johnny finally replied, ‘but I don’t know what to do about the group I’m in.’ Foenander told him to think it through and stay in touch.

  Johnny ran home to speak with his parents. He ran so hard and was so puffed when he arrived that he staggered on entering the family kitchen. John Sr and Rose thought he was drunk – they’d caught him out a few weeks earlier after a rowdy party.

  ‘Have you been drinking again?’ they asked him. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘No, no, I’m sober,’ Johnny insisted. ‘But you won’t believe what’s happened. I’ve been asked to try out for Strings Unlimited.’

  Johnny’s parents knew this was more than just swapping one band of hopefuls for another. Strings Unlimited was a semi-professional outfit, performing several nights a week and drawing good crowds. What would happen if Strings had a hit of their own – how would that affect Johnny’s day job? What might he have to sacrifice? After all, he was only 16.

  Johnny’s parents told him to do what he thought was best. But first Johnny needed to actually audition for Foenander and the rest of the group, drummer Peter Foggie, Joe Cincotta on bass and guitarists Stewart Male and Barry Roy. The required song was the blues standard ‘House of the Rising Sun’, which Farnham sang – ‘pretty badly’, as he recalls, his voice still shot from another Mavericks gig the night before – but convincingly enough to be invited to join the band. He accepted their offer. The big time.

  Their first gig with Johnny, at a local pub, comprised ‘Wooden Heart’, ‘Love Potion Number 9’ and ‘House of the Rising Sun’, sung repeatedly until closing time. Clearly, he was moving up in the world – a three-song repertoire!

  Unlike The Mavericks, Strings Unlimited had regular work, in and around the local suburban dance-hall circuit. Johnny would sing with the band for a thirty-minute bracket, then the band would do their instrumental thing for another half hour. As loyal as ever and figuring he didn’t have to work as hard as them, Johnny agreed to pocket just $5 a night, while the others made $10.

  One of their recurring gigs was at a venue in Mitcham, to the east of the city. The owner, a lively character named Leo, also ran a pastry business. His money-maker was a flaky delight known as Leo’s sausage roll, which he shared with the band. Then he’d join Johnny on stage to belt out the Righteous Brothers’ ‘Unchained Melody’. It was one of Johnny’s favourite gigs: he got to sing and he got fed.

  Meanwhile, the band’s manager, Bob McConnell, was talking a pretty big game.

  ‘I’ve got you on Kommotion,’ he promised the guys.

  Kommotion, hosted by DJ Ken Sparkes from 3UZ, was something of a pop institution in Melbourne; it was the homegrown answer to America’s Shindig! and the UK’s Top of the Pops. The weekly program, screened on ATVo, featured local acts – it had boosted the careers of everyone from The Easybeats to Normie Rowe and The Masters Apprentices – as well as a handpicked troupe of ‘groovers’ who would mime to the hits of the day. Among Kommotion’s regulars was one Ian Meldrum – well before he became known as Molly, the mumbler in the hat. Strings, however, appeared on the show only once. They also made a single appearance on Kevin Dennis’s New Faces, covering Nat King Cole’s ‘Pretend’ and running second. One of the judges was less than impressed with Johnny: ‘The singer needs lessons.’

  Strings Unlimited had a residency at the Hampton Hotel on Port Phillip Bay. There, Johnny began to sing for the band’s entire set, his confidence growing with each gig. His childhood pudginess long gone, Johnny now had the shining hair, plump lips and easy smile of a true pop idol. Any female fan with functioning eyes (and raging hormones) could see that.

  The group also held down a weekly spot at the George Hotel in St Kilda. In its storied past the George, a striking edifice of Italian-influenced architecture, had been among the most opulent and popular hotels in the city, a favourite for wedding parties and other big social ‘dos’. But by the mid-1960s the George was rougher and rowdier, more down at heel, with a clientele to match. Johnny sometimes had to fight his way off the stage. No-one had warned him about this. Johnny described the George as a ‘blur of crazy people’, quite the sight for an apprentice plumber from the ’burbs. When he wasn’t defending himself, Johnny was making new female friends; he groped his first breast after a gig at the George. Yes, he was still a virgin.

  Johnny was living life at full speed – working by day, singing by night, sleeping and eating somewhere in between, encountering the occasional friendly female. In 1966 he and the band made the state final of Hoadley’s Battle of the Sounds, a hugely competitive national event that drew up to 500 hopefuls and offered the winners passage to the UK and a chance to perform there. Afterwards, Strings made a demo, and they also cut versions of The Beatles’ ‘I Feel Fine’ and ‘I’m Down’ at the Rambler recording
studio; some 45 rpm vinyls were pressed of the two tracks as a ‘Rambler limited release’. The label read: ‘Johnny Farnham Strings Unlimited’. Everyone in the band was very excited. A real record!

  The Strings had an upcoming gig at a pub in rural Cohuna. Little did Johnny know he was set to meet a genuine kingmaker – and his life was about to be turned upside down.

  2

  WHEN DARRYL MET JOHNNY

  Darryl Sambell was unlike any other manager doing the rounds of the Australian entertainment biz in the mid-1960s. For one thing, at twenty-two he was the youngest. Sambell was opinionated, colourful and driven; he craved success and lived as large as the stars he managed. As one client, future TV presenter Richard Wilkins, would admit, ‘Darryl knew how to get you publicity, but he also knew how to send you broke in the process.’

  Sambell was notoriously highly strung. Once – allegedly – he pulled a pistol on an unwelcome scribe. It was the type of stunt you might expect from such international music-biz heavyweights as British strongman Don Arden or American deal-maker Allen Klein, not some Aussie up-and-comer. Clearly, Sambell meant business.

  Though something of a snappy dresser – Sambell had a taste for bling before the word even existed – his comb-over, black beard, hooked nose and sharp features made it clear he’d never be a pin-up himself. Sambell, a native of Gawler in South Australia, was searching for someone to turn into a star.

  In early 1967 Johnny and Strings Unlimited arrived for their show in Cohuna, a township 275 kilometres north of Melbourne. Heading the bill was Bev Harrell, a petite blonde with a slyly sexy gap between her front teeth. Cut from the Little Patti mould, a sort of pop ingenue, she’d recently shifted from Adelaide to Melbourne and had been crowned Best Australian Female Vocal at the 1966 Australian Record Awards. Harrell was managed by Sambell. They were also engaged, although Sambell’s sexuality was ambiguous, at best. Almost every article about Sambell mentioned his ‘flamboyance’, a 1960s euphemism for gay.