Working Class Man

by Jimmy Barnes

  DEDICATION

  For my Jane,

  I love you.

  I have loved you.

  I will always love you.

  And for my children.

  Your father has made a lot of mistakes.

  But when I look at you I know

  that I have done something right.

  For my grandchildren.

  This is a story from the dark past.

  Now you are here everything is all right.

  For Oliver and Snoop.

  You have lived through this

  with me. But even in the

  thick of it, you never judged me,

  and you wagged your tails

  whenever you saw me.

  I love you all.

  CONTENTS

  dedication

  preface

  prologue

  PART 1 THE BEGINNING ONE I was a serial runner

  TWO Thunderbolt’s Rock

  THREE take the shirt off their backs . . . or rip your head off your shoulders

  FOUR Deep Purple overdosed on methedrine

  FIVE this is what you have to be prepared to do

  SIX play every show like it is your last

  SEVEN Pig, Bear, Beaver, Spider . . .

  EIGHT very positive fucking forward movement

  NINE a reputation for being very volatile

  TEN you clowns had your chance

  ELEVEN I’ll be in the pub if you need me

  TWELVE do yourself a favour

  THIRTEEN not really groupies

  FOURTEEN your taxi is here

  FIFTEEN what a girl she was

  SIXTEEN Rising Sun

  SEVENTEEN this hotel’s a cesspool

  EIGHTEEN what are we doing with our lives?

  NINETEEN a small fish in a big sewer

  TWENTY good evening, Red Rocks

  TWENTY-ONE love your single

  TWENTY-TWO we weren’t young boys singing for free drinks and chicks anymore

  TWENTY-THREE we’ve got a lot of very sick people in here

  TWENTY-FOUR they’ll fucking miss me when I’m gone

  PART 2 THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  TWENTY-FIVE this is not a song

  TWENTY-SIX rock is dead

  TWENTY-SEVEN it’ll sound better when I sing it properly

  TWENTY-EIGHT this business is full of crooks

  TWENTY-NINE harder than Chinese algebra

  THIRTY chemicals can do strange and wonderful things

  THIRTY-ONE what’s it going to take

  THIRTY-TWO this was a racing car and I was a lousy driver

  THIRTY-THREE out of control like a bushfire

  THIRTY-FOUR higher and higher

  THIRTY-FIVE we’re not getting any fucking younger

  PART 3 A NEW BEGINNING THIRTY-SIX wipe the slate clean

  THIRTY-SEVEN love songs don’t sell anymore

  THIRTY-EIGHT it’s a gift from God

  THIRTY-NINE let’s ride

  FORTY read my lips

  FORTY-ONE world record time

  FORTY-TWO keep your nose out of trouble, son

  FORTY-THREE everybody in this place was crazy

  FORTY-FOUR I’d been nobbling myself for years

  FORTY-FIVE all roads seemed to lead to me

  FORTY-SIX I’ll live forever

  FORTY-SEVEN your dog is always happy to see you

  FORTY-EIGHT we’d had a second chance

  FORTY-NINE lost at sea

  FIFTY we share good times and bad

  FIFTY-ONE I can feel the change

  epilogue

  acknowledgements

  lyric credits

  photos section

  about the author

  praise

  copyright

  PREFACE

  IT’S HARD TO BELIEVE that this is book two of my memoirs. Who would have thought that I would remember any of my life, especially considering I spent so much time and money trying to forget it all? But I do. I remember most of it. Some of it is not pretty and some of it is just plain painful to relive. But I have done my best to write it down, for you to read and for me to make sense of.

  When I started writing my first book, Working Class Boy, I had no idea how it would finish. I knew I had things that I had to write down. I knew I had things that I had to get out of my system. But as the writing process progressed, I found more and more to write about. The simple act of sitting at the computer unlocked a lot of memories that had been hidden somewhere in the darkest places in my mind. Fuzzy and hard to see at first, they came into focus the more I wrote. I can see now that these events were waiting until I was ready and able to deal with them before they presented themselves to me. So the whole process was enlightening and disturbing at the same time. I found that once these hidden gems of family history were out and on paper, things seemed to feel better. Then of course I went on the road, talking about the book, sharing my darkest secrets with the world.

  I was surprised, at first, how many people the book touched. But the more I toured the more I realised that there were a lot of people who went through similar childhoods to myself. I was not alone. I have been stopped in the street and after shows and total strangers have broken down and cried with me as they thanked me for starting a conversation about family violence. And I know that I have started healing because this is no longer locked inside me. It’s out there, I can start to let it go now.

  I have met people who are still living in violent, abusive relationships. I have had to suggest that they get help. I am not qualified to help people with this. My only qualification is that I have lived through it. There are people out there who are qualified to talk about this. Rosie Batty, through her foundation, the Luke Batty Foundation, is working tirelessly to help women and families find help. To find peace. To feel safe. But we can all do something to help. I have found that being able to talk about this has broken down barriers that had previously stopped me from getting on with my life. If you know someone who is living with family violence, reach out to them. Let them know that they’re not alone.

  The other problem I can see, that caused grief and violence and abuse in my life, was poverty. We live in ‘the lucky country’, but look around. There are families all over Australia struggling to put food on the table or to keep a roof over their children’s heads. Yet we allow our governments to cut spending on schools and on health care for families that need it most. I don’t want to stand on a soap box and preach, or take sides with any political party here, but we need to reach out to those families less fortunate than we might be. If we ignore these social issues they will get worse. Most people who grow up like I did, grow up with problems, just like I did. I was lucky to get to a point in my life where I had the chance to deal with some of those problems. There were many times when I thought I wasn’t going to make it. There are a lot of us who don’t make it. Our jails are overcrowded and the suicide rate, particularly among our young people, is way too high. These are cries for help that no one is hearing. We have to listen. People all over this country are suffering.

  YOU DON’T HAVE TO have read my first book to read this one. But if you do, it will explain a lot of things. From the time I was born until I was seventeen, the building blocks of my life were never that strong. I had no role models to speak of except my stepfather Reg Barnes, and by the time Reg came along I was already damaged goods. My adult years, and I do use that term loosely, were spent crashing through life, waiting to fall. Some of you will recognise me at this point because, unfortunately, I did all of this in the public eye. It’s all there for everyone to see.

  I couldn’t leave my childhood behind. It was too painful to forget. So I built a life around the mess that I was left with. I stumbled around in
the dark trying to make sense of what I was dealing with, falling flat on my face most of the time. When I found my feet I ran again until I hit another wall. My life has been an adventure to say the least. Along the way I found the love of my life and we had a beautiful family. But I almost let them slip through my fingers so many times. I flirted with death regularly. Almost every night. I stared into its eyes and never learned a thing.

  In my first book I faced the damage that a broken home and a broken heart can bring. In this book I face the impact that a childhood like mine can have on a man. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not blaming anyone for any of this. We all do the best with what we have. But here the blame rests squarely on my shoulders.

  The book picks up where the last left off, in the back of that truck with my newfound family, Cold Chisel, as I ran from my past. I have retraced my rampage through the ’70s and ’80s into the ’90s and the new millennium. I have had incredible highs in my life but there were despicable lows too. My childhood has affected everyone I have ever come in touch with: my wife, my children, my friends and the people who listened to our music. In the end I asked for help. I used to think that if someone asked for help they were weak. But the toughest thing I ever did was reach out and ask for help. And that was when I started to heal. It took courage. I will no doubt make more mistakes in my life, but not like before. We all make mistakes. We all have problems. It’s how we tackle those mistakes and problems that defines us. Good luck, you are not alone. If you or someone you know is in need of crisis or suicide prevention support, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14 or visit www.lifeline.org.au/gethelp

  This second book covers a lot of time, from seventeen up until now. I have written about what I felt was important to me. There are a lot of people whose paths have crossed mine along the way. I couldn’t write about you all, but you have all helped me in one way or another. So, thank you. I hope that knowing me hasn’t held you back. There are a few of you out there I wish I had never met, but I try to be philosophical.

  I drank and smoked and snorted my way through a lot of this life and I ask you to cut me some slack. I have tried to remember what happened but of course some of it is a bit hazy and blurred. I have also tried to bare it all. The truth. Warts and all. There are a few things I have kept close to my chest because they are no one’s business but mine. I hope you understand.

  Lastly, I don’t think I’m finished yet. I love life and will try to love and laugh for many years to come. In which case, maybe you’ll see book three in a few more years. I’m not slowing down.

  Jimmy Barnes

  PROLOGUE

  AUCKLAND, 2012

  I AM ALONE IN the darkness. With my eyes squeezed shut I scream.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’

  It comes straight from the darkest depths of my soul. My heart is pounding. I can feel the blood rushing through my veins. I move around the room, slowly at first but gathering speed. Every night it’s the same thing. Alone, I wait to see if I am going to make it. Wait until I am told that I am all right.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’

  The sound is stronger. Louder and higher. Bang! I slam my fist into the wall, leaving indentations of my knuckles. Bang! I hit it again. This time I nearly go through to the other side.

  ‘Pleeeeeeeeeeeease Pleeeeeeassssse he-elp meeeeeeeeeee!’

  It spews from deep inside of me, tearing at my throat on its way out of my body and into the room. A room that is dirty with graffiti scrawled across the walls. I lash out again at the filthy, stained walls. Bang! Bang! I hit again and again. There is movement in the room. It’s nearly time.

  ‘Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’

  It’s a call that only those who really know me understand. Even they don’t know why I go through this every night. I feel like I am expelling the poison from deep inside of me, out of my system. I have to purge myself of all the toxic energy that is in my way, blocking me. I look into the mirror that is covered in condensation. The room feels like an oven. There is smoke coming under the door. I can see the shadow of the man I once was looking back at me, asking the same questions. Every night it is the same questions.

  ‘Can I get through this? Will I survive tonight? Am I good enough?’

  I take one last look at the face in the mirror. I am not going down tonight. Not without a fight anyway. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to do this.

  The door flies open and a blinding light fills the room. The muffled noise I have been hearing in the background has turned to a roar. It’s the same thing every night. The same ritual, every single night before I go on stage.

  ‘GOOD EVENING, NEW ZEALAND!’

  Bang! The band kicks in like a freight train, unstoppable and relentless. Just like my life. It rolls down the track way too fast and the only thing holding it down is the speed at which I’m travelling. With every song, we take it up a notch in tempo, in volume and in intensity. My world is spinning out of control but up here I can still find myself. Whatever happens to me for the rest of the day is gone. All that matters is them and me. The connection that is formed every night on stage between me and the audience. By the end of the set it sounds like a hurricane tearing through each town that we visit. And then it grinds to a screaming halt. Jackie, my son, crashes down on as many drums as he can hit at once and it is over.

  ‘Thank you.’

  I hold up a towel and a bottle of water and shake the sweat from my hair. The crowd is screaming for more but we have given enough. Two encores and a two-hour set. I walk off stage, the same way I walk off every night. The booze that I poured down my throat while on stage has taken me beyond reach. As we leave the venue people thump the car, begging us to stop and talk. Girls in short skirts and high heels, too much eye makeup and lipstick freshly applied, smiling at me through the windows of the slow-moving car, looking for a good time. Guys with wild eyes and bulging pockets, full of God knows what, wanting to party until the next show, sway in front of the car. I’ve seen them all before and probably have taken them up on their offers. I can’t remember.

  Unable to talk to me anymore, my wife Jane sits in the car saying nothing. We drive in silence to the hotel. The casino in Auckland is the best hotel in town and we have booked a big suite. The biggest they have. Maybe it will be big enough so that we won’t have to talk anymore. We are both sick of talking. Talking and nothing ever changing. Jane has tried everything to reach me. Everything to help me. But I am beyond help. I stare at the road, wishing the car would travel faster so we could get there and I could consume every drug that I have hidden in my bag. We pull into the driveway and move to the elevator with our heads down, trying not to be stopped by the Saturday night crowd of party animals and chronic gamblers, all down on their luck and looking for somewhere to get fucked up. We get to the room and lock the door. The quiet is good for a minute and then I turn on the television to break the deafening silence. We take all that we have as quickly as we can. Trying hard not to say anything that would start a fight, I pace the room from end to end. Trying to wear myself out and stop myself from walking away. Jane falls into bed and I follow a little later, trying not to wake her up.

  THERE IS NO LIGHT coming into this room. The air conditioning is screaming as it blows the cold stale drug-filled smoke from one room to the next in our hotel suite. Only hours before, we flew into Auckland on a tour that felt the same as the last, that felt the same as the one before. It’s as if we desperately try to keep moving, knowing that if we stop too long, one of us might die. The motion is all that is keeping our hearts beating. I have dragged Jane all the way from her old life, full of hope, into my world, my own personal hell, and there is no way out. Not for me anyway.

  I can hear Jane sleeping; she breathes in and then breathes out, her lungs gasping for air. The only time we seem to breathe just air is when we are passed out. Otherwise we are trying to force something toxic into our bodies. Anything, as long as it stops the pain.

  Next to me on the bedside table I have pla
ced everything I could find in the minibar. Scotch, vodka, bourbon, gin. I am in the process of pouring it all down my throat as fast and as quietly as I can, so as not to wake her. I am gagging as I wash down as many sleeping tablets as I can. This is how I get to sleep these days. In the haze I think about it all ending. Not waking up. Never having to face myself again. The red light on the television even seems bright to me as I pull an eye mask over my eyes and pray for peace.

  I wake to the sound of Jane in the next room, sending empty bottles out the door with the room service girl. My eyes are nearly stuck together but I prise them apart and look at the time. Ten o’clock. I walk into the lounge. Jane is trying to be upbeat and happy. I can see by the red rings around her eyes she’s been crying again but she smiles at me anyway.

  ‘Let’s eat something and then go for a walk and get some fresh air.’ Jane starts every day trying to be positive but I can tell it’s getting harder. ‘I don’t want to do this anymore. Can we just start again, please?’

  I nod my head and try to smile. ‘Sure baby, let’s do that.’

  The lounge room is the size of a basketball court and everywhere I look I see something that reminds me of something else I did wrong the night before. How can we be living in such luxury and feel like we have so little? We are just being ungrateful. We have everything in the world but we don’t appreciate it.

  I head to the dressing room to get some clothes. I pick up my jeans from the floor and pull them on and then I see it.

  The end of last night suddenly runs through my head like an old newsreel. Scratchy and unclear. I remember drinking the minibar but I don’t remember getting back up. But I know I did. I can see the evidence right there in front of my eyes. Tied around the clothes rail is the dressing gown cord, just where I must have left it. It all comes flooding back. The rail, the cord and me with the cord around my neck waiting to die. But I didn’t. It’s not that easy to die, apparently.

  I quickly take the cord down and place it back with the dressing gown. No one must ever know about this. I don’t want to remember this. This will never happen again.