by Jeff Apter
As for being on the road, it was a classic catch-22 situation for John: he loved touring but hated being away from his family. Jillian was pregnant, so she and Robbie stayed at home while John toured Whispering Jack. He missed them enormously. It all came home to him when he called Robbie during a Canberra pit stop.
‘I’ll be home soon, son,’ John said down the line.
‘Forever?’ Robbie innocently asked, as his father’s heart broke.
Back on stage, John was having some fun with a fan’s gift, playfully examining a bouquet of flowers handed to him – ‘Oh, hello, there’s a phone number,’ he said on closer inspection – and then providing a little man-of-the-people stage patter, graciously accepting more gifts and offerings from his doting audience, all the while turning on some serious charm. Screams punctuated John’s every comment, his every gesture. His smile, meanwhile, said that no-one should be taking all this too seriously, as thankful as he was of the recognition. To his own way of thinking, John was just a singer, a regular bloke in an irregular job, just as comfortable in a tinnie on the river as fronting the screaming masses. He didn’t need his ego massaged. Well, not too much.
When John and the band finally pulled off the road in late 1987, his resurrection was complete. And the stats were astounding: Whispering Jack continued to sell strongly a year after its release, outstripping Crowded House’s hit debut, Paul Simon’s Graceland and U2’s The Joshua Tree. It even made the Top 20 of the bestselling albums in 1988. (At time of writing Whispering Jack is inching towards sales of 2 million in Australian alone, making it the number two bestselling album of all time in Oz, just behind Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell.) ‘You’re the Voice’ was the second-bestselling Oz single of 1986 and it made John a household name throughout Europe. ‘Pressure Down’ was among the top-five bestselling Australian singles of 1987; ‘Touch of Paradise’ also hit the Top 20 on release. John collected virtually all the silverware at the 1987 Countdown awards and the ARIAs. He played to hundreds of thousands of punters in Oz and Europe.
And after 20 years in the biz, finally he was flush; he could now pay off all his debtors, the taxman included. John indulged himself and bought a Porsche. Second-hand, admittedly, but still a Porsche.
The Nine Network’s top-rating Hey Hey It’s Saturday pretty much gave its entire program over to John on 1 August 1987. Farnham played several songs, grinned a lot, traded lame gags with pint-sized Dickie Knee and the rest of the cast, and looked pretty damned great in a knee-length, stonewashed denim coat. It was like The Don Lane Show all over again; the camera loved him. He didn’t even mind being upstaged by former Skyhooks’ singer Shirley Strachan, who commandeered the mic for a roaring ‘Women in Uniform’, an old Hooks’ shouter that John now often sang. The smile never left John’s face as he retreated to the rear of the stage and happily joined voices with Field and Fields. Why should he worry? He was back on top.
Even more important than his lofty sales figures and bounty of awards, John had achieved what many thought impossible: he’d gained credibility. He may not have been the most serious of men, but he was a serious singer, a major talent, now rated with the world’s best. Finally, some respect.
13
AUSSIE OF THE YEAR
Even in his wildest dreams, John would never have dared imagine success on the scale of Whispering Jack. But in early 1988 his profile would climb even higher. Already John was widely recognised as the ‘Ray Martin of pop’, a public figure, but he was set to enter a whole new stratosphere of popularity.
It started with a letter that hit Wheatley’s desk in late 1987, from the Australia Day Council, stating that John was on their Australian of the Year shortlist. While thrilled, Wheatley knew straight away there was a potential issue – John wasn’t an Aussie citizen, despite living here for the past 30 years. He put in a call to the Council’s office.
‘Is there any way I can find out in advance if John will win?’
He was shut down immediately; no-one, not even the PM, knew this information in advance. Wheatley revealed John’s citizenship problem and was promised a call back the next day.
His phone rang early in the morning.
‘Mr Farnham could very well be the next Australian of the Year.’
Wheatley reminded the Council of the possible hiccup; if John was going to be anointed, he’d need to become an Australian citizen, and fast. And this may not be a decision he’d make lightly, given that he still had family, and ties, in the Old Dart.
The next day, Wheatley’s phone rang yet again; it was the same staffer at the Australia Day Council. Wheatley was immediately sworn to secrecy. Yes, he was told, John was about to be crowned the Australian of the Year. A bureaucrat was despatched from Canberra to sort out the citizenship situation.
Farnham, fortunately, was fine with the arrangement: as a dual citizen he could keep his British passport and become an Aussie. So on 5 January John took a day off from being a parent-in-waiting – his second child was due around Australia Day – and rolled up to Wheatley’s office at EON FM in South Melbourne. A few minutes later, John walked out into the January sunshine as an official Aussie. It was a big moment for him, but he knew that an even bigger event was just around the corner.
Since its inception in 1960, an eclectic bunch had been named Australians of the Year, including comic Paul Hogan in 1985 and explorer/business-brain Dick Smith in 1986. Historically, it had been the domain of sporting greats – Dawn Fraser (1964), Evonne Goolagong Cawley (1971) and Shane Gould (1972) – and big thinkers like historian Manning Clark (1980) and author Patrick White (1973). Even business mogul Alan Bond had been crowned in 1978, well before his fall from grace. But with the exception of The Seekers in 1967, musicians had not been named Australians of the year.
The criteria for Aussie of the Year failed to mention entertainers at all. It stated that the award provided ‘an insight into Australian identity, reflecting the nation’s evolving relationship with the world, the role of sport in Australian culture, the impact of multiculturalism, and the special status of Australia’s Indigenous people.’ Not a word about big-haired singers with runaway hit albums.
But the impact of ‘You’re the Voice’ and Whispering Jack, John’s remarkable rebirth and his under-the-radar social conscious made him the perfect choice for the bicentennial year gong. Officially, he was anointed ‘for his outstanding contribution to the Australian music industry over 20 years’. Unofficially, he’d been the people’s favourite ever since ‘You’re the Voice’ heralded his return. And if Hoges could be Aussie of the Year, why not Farnesy?
But there was the odd dissenting voice.
‘I wonder what the process is for naming the Australian of the Year?’ sniffed one letter writer to the Fairfax press. ‘Apart from having a number one hit tune in 1987, I cannot recall anything John Farnham has done for the nation.’
Clearly the writer knew nothing of Farnham’s charity links, especially his role with the Victorian Association for Deserted Children, an organisation he’d been involved with since the mid-1970s. If John had a dollar for every telethon and fundraiser he’d taken part in, he’d be an even wealthier pop star.
John, his son, Robbie, and his parents – Jillian was at home, very pregnant with their second child, James – rocked up to Kirribilli House to accept the award on a blazing hot Australia Day. TV cameras from Channel 10 took it all in, cutting between the festivities at Kirribilli and events on the harbour, as the ‘tall ships’ glided through Sydney Heads – it being the bicentennial year – and were quickly swamped by spectator craft.
John looked fit and tanned, if slightly stunned.
‘It’s very difficult to put into words how this feels,’ he managed to say. ‘I’m very overawed. I sometimes sit back and wonder how I can live up to it. All I am is a singer – that’s what I do best.’
‘I wasn’t chosen because of my political beliefs,’ John continued. ‘Australian music has made one hell of a contribution to me. I’ve been abl
e to do what I love more than anything else in the world for the past 20-odd years.’
John paused, taking this in.
‘Twenty-odd years!’ he repeated, stunned by the thought. ‘I’m more grateful for that than you’ll ever know.’
Bob Hawke was never a man to shy away from a TV camera, and he soon joined John (‘Johnny’ to the grinning PM, whom Farnham addressed more formally as ‘Mr Hawke’) on the makeshift Channel 10 set. Hawke laughed about meeting Farnham at the recent Adelaide Grand Prix, where they had shared a cheeky ciggie, a habit John hadn’t quite kicked yet. It was a cosy moment, even though John looked a bit uncomfortable when Hawke grabbed his hand. That was unexpected.
On this, his first official day of duty, John quickly learnt that the questions got a little harder, as hosts Tim Webster and Katrina Lee, both huge Farnham fans, threw some curly ones his way.
‘You deal with young people all the time – what are they like out there? Are we relating to them?’
‘I think we’re doing a good job,’ John replied, a little hesitantly, ‘but even if we’re doing an excellent job, we could do better.’
Hawkey then slipped into his natural role as Australia’s number one spruiker, smoothly taking the load off John.
‘Look at that,’ he pronounced, gesturing towards the sun-splashed harbour like a proud parent. ‘What other country has 16 million people, basically united, the vast spaces, the resources we’ve got? There’s no hierarchy of class. Everyone, no matter where they come from, is an Aussie and they have as much right as anyone else.’
Hawke seemed just one breath away from his famous ‘any boss who sacks anyone for not turning up today is a bum’ line, which he’d declared after Australia’s America’s Cup win back in 1983.
‘What about your children?’ asked Lee, turning back to John. ‘What do you want for them, growing up in Australia, over the next few years?’
‘There’s obvious things: health and happiness. And I travelled a lot recently, in the last few years, and I don’t really think you know what you’ve got until you haven’t got it anymore. Just flying back into this country – there’s nothing like it.
‘If we spoil what we have we can’t just move next door, we can’t find another paddock to build another house on … Australia does deserve national pride, we are right to instil national pride in our children but please, let’s make our national pride include humanity.’
‘If I had one wish,’ John said later in the day, ‘it would be to stop people shooting each other, abusing each other and killing each other. As Australians, we also must look at the darker side of this country.’
He was right. There’d been several brutal slayings over the past few years: five family members shot to death in the Sydney suburb of Campsie by a deranged father, then seven killed during the infamous Milperra bikie massacre. Seven people also died during the 1987 Hoddle Street carnage. Eight died a few months later in Melbourne’s Queen Street massacre. The death count was high and rising. The cautionary lyrics of ‘You’re the Voice’ were taking on a whole new and confronting meaning.
John seemed more at ease when he talked through all things Australian of the Year with DJ George Moore, in front of a happy audience of invitees and radio competition winners. They discussed such pressing issues as young Robbie Farnham’s career aspirations (fireman, bike rider and definitely ‘not a pop star’, according to his doting dad), John’s childhood nickname – ‘Wingnut’, a nod to his jug ears – and exactly who took out the Farnham family garbage (John, whenever he was home). John was at his most animated when he spoke about a three-day break he had awaiting him.
‘I’m going to put the champagne in the freezer and share it with the bride. She likes that,’ John smiled. ‘Can’t wait.’
As for upcoming business, John mentioned a possible trip to China, which Wheatley was busy negotiating.
‘Music is a universal language, doesn’t matter what colour you are or language you speak, that’s the bottom line.’
In between shrieks from his rapt audience, John took the moment to reflect on his remarkable recent history.
‘I have had the most amazing two years of my life. I’ve met a lot of people and never felt so warm. It’s been lovely.’
The events of Australia Day 1988 typified John’s manic new life. He, Wheatley and John’s parents had a standing invitation for drinks with Channel 7 owner Christopher Skase, on board his $6 million boat Mirage III, which Skase had sailed down from Brisbane for the occasion.
Getting to Skase’s floating gin-palace proved to be a harrowing experience. First stop after Kirribilli House was their hotel at The Rocks, for a quick change of clothes. But the entrance was blocked with hundreds of fans and well-wishers, many of whom clamoured onto John’s limo, yelling for his attention, screaming his name.
John was concerned for his dad, immobilised by his recent stroke. They were trapped.
‘We’ve got to get out of here!’ John barked at Wheatley, at the driver, and at anyone else who might be able to help deal with the madness. But they couldn’t move for fear of running someone over.
Finally, thankfully, police on horseback trotted up to the hotel and formed an equine entryway for a flustered John and his entourage. They then required a police escort to travel the short distance to the Opera House, where they were taken out to the Mirage III. Once on board, John breathed deeply, perhaps for the first time all day, and got himself a drink.
But it wasn’t all smooth sailing, at least for manager Wheatley. Skase was hoping to do a deal and obtain Farnham’s services for his Mirage resorts and for Channel 7. He wanted exclusivity; the stakes were high, the figures huge. Wheatley also had ongoing talks with Skase about the purchase of a radio station, Brisbane’s FM104, as part of his expanding broadcasting empire. Business and pleasure had a habit of merging in the world of Wheatley and Farnham.
Discussions over for the time being, drinks consumed, the next challenge for the Farnham party of four was finding a safe way back to shore. Thousands of people had lined the harbour, hoping to catch a glimpse of the newly crowned Aussie of the Year. There was nowhere for them to disembark safely. This reignited Farnham’s concern for his father; suddenly all the excitement and fun had been sucked out of the day. This was crazy. Why were these people getting so worked up? he wondered. He was just a singer.
Finally they found a safe haven at the Royal Yacht Squadron, on the northern shore of the harbour; however, the stuffy Squadron members weren’t impressed to have some ‘commoners’ roll up to their dock – and so what if one of them happened to be the Australian of the Year? And no, they couldn’t use the phone. That was strictly for members. There was, however, a phone box down the street …
Wheatley, who, like his star client, was now on the brink of hysteria, was forced to use the public phone to call for an emergency ride back to the hotel. Not a great look for either Wheatley or Farnham. An hour later they finally reached their digs in The Rocks, exhausted and angry, bypassing another starstruck mob on the way inside.
John’s nerves were shot.
‘Come on, we’re leaving,’ he told his parents, who couldn’t have been more relieved. They were on the next flight to Melbourne. Sydney was out of control. So much for the celebrations.
As Wheatley would write, ‘It was the most awful day we could have gone through.’
Everything that had just happened was tangible proof of the new conflict in John’s life. Off stage, he may have craved the everyday and the normal – ‘doing the gardening in my undies,’ as he would tell reporters. But that was now more difficult than ever. He was a superstar, a very public figure, with all the complications and pressures that entailed.
John, however, still had one safe haven: the studio. Being Australian of the Year was incredibly flattering, and a huge responsibility, but it was also time to make a new record. He needed to prove Whispering Jack was no fluke.
14
SPOKESMAN FOR THE COMMON MAN
Farnham and Wheatley were backstage at the Palais, checking in with Todd and Marc Hunter, the brothers who were the mainstays of Dragon, and talk turned to new songs. John was on the hunt for material for the follow-up to Whispering Jack, and the Hunters, along with keyboardist Alan Mansfield, a David Hirschfelder-like figure in Dragon, were fast becoming songwriters-in-demand on the strength of their recent hits.
‘Why don’t you write a song for me?’ Farnham asked.
Todd Hunter turned to his wife, Johanna Pigott, a fellow songwriter, and whispered, ‘Farnham’s asked us to write a song.’ In the late 1980s there was no more attractive offer for songwriters than the chance to write for John Farnham. A song on an album like Whispering Jack could generate serious money.
Dragon were heading out on a European tour with Tina Turner, with whom Farnham had recently shared a stage in Germany, but that didn’t deter Todd Hunter. He set to work on the song, retiring to his hotel room after each show, while his fast-living bandmates were elsewhere getting blotto. Tinkering away on a Mac computer and a keyboard, he laboured over the basic musical structure for what would become ‘Age of Reason’. Tour over, he returned to his home studio in Sydney’s Bondi. Pigott set to work on the lyrics while heavily pregnant with their first son, Harry.
