Playing to Win Read online

  But he also didn’t forget about Farnham. ‘There has to be something more for him,’ Wheatley figured, as he headed back to Melbourne. ‘There just has to be.’

  6

  A FADING STAR

  Friday 8 November 1974 is a significant date in Oz pop history – the start of an institution that over time would launch dozens of careers, local and international. It was the debut of Countdown, an ABC music program that, despite the influence of UK’s Top of the Pops and numerous US ‘clip’ shows, was presented with a distinctly homegrown Australian spin. Countdown was MTV before the notion of music television even existed. It was the brainchild of the ubiquitous Ian ‘Molly’ Meldrum – soon to become the face of the show – and collaborators Michael Shrimpton and Robbie Weekes. The first episode screened on a Friday evening, but Countdown quickly settled into a Sunday night routine and became essential dinnertime viewing for pretty much every Australian under the age of 25. Countdown was different to precursors Six O’Clock Rock and Bandstand; it was more tribal and homespun, a bit looser and less starchier than those early pop shows. And much of the music was original, a huge step forward for Oz pop and rock. No more dodgy covers of overseas hits.

  ‘I was so nervous,’ Farnham said of his appearance on the first episode of the program. ‘It was national – it was the ABC.’

  Farnham was to sing ‘One Minute Every Hour’, and to prepare himself – and walk off his nerves – he paced around the ABC dressing room in Ripponlea with a tape deck, playing the song over and over again.

  ‘I didn’t want to make a complete idiot of myself.’

  But anyone could see that Farnham was out of step during those early Countdowns. ‘One Minute Every Hour’ had a strong pedigree – it was the handiwork of Harry Vanda and George Young, the former Easybeats who were fast turning Sydney’s Alberts studio into a house of hits – but the song wasn’t their finest few minutes. Johnny dug deep and sang as if his very life depended on it, but it was no ‘One’, nor could it compare with Vanda and Young’s remarkable mini-symphony ‘Evie’. And by comparison with the offerings of Johnny’s fellow guests on that inaugural episode of Countdown, it was positively humdrum.

  Sherbet’s Daryl Braithwaite crooned his hit power ballad ‘You’re My World’, while his band, Sherbet, also appeared, sweetly harmonising ‘Silvery Moon’, decked out in satin and platforms, their voices in great shape, their hair even better. But more crucially, Skyhooks left the deepest impression with ‘Living in the 70’s’. This was the title track to their monster album, a smart, risqué record that documented life in Melbourne’s fast lane, with an unmistakable undercurrent of dissent. Skyhooks’ key songwriter, Greg Macainsh – later a Farnham bandmate – tapped into the sense of disquiet felt by young men who’d been aware that the random drop of a ball could result in them becoming a human target in the jungles of Vietnam. Over time, the LP would sell 250,000 copies and top the charts for 16 weeks, setting new Australian records.

  So here were Skyhooks on Countdown, telling it like it is, how it felt to be ‘living in the ’70s’. Guitarist and agitator Red Symons, his face splashed with Max Factor, stood as still as an Easter Island statue, casting disdainful stares at the shrieking teenyboppers, while singer ‘Shirley’ Strachan, perhaps even prettier than Farnham at his peak, was breaking hearts left, right and centre with his every pout. They were a pop band, but they were cutting-edge, mixing their astute insights into modern life with shock tactics and a splash of funny, macabre cabaret. And on the other side of the cultural divide was Johnny Farnham, a fading King of Pop, warbling ‘One Minute Every Hour’. It was no contest. Johnny remained a great singer, without doubt, still packing loads of charm, but musically he was lost, directionless.

  By the time Johnny returned for the 13 December 1974 episode, Countdown had hosted Stevie Wright, Renée Geyer, AC/DC, Daddy Cool, Madder Lake – and Skyhooks again, during the show’s first outdoors shoot, at Melbourne’s Luna Park, performing their new hit, ‘Horror Movie’. Countdown was capturing the zeitgeist; these acts were all making huge waves. But not Johnny: it had now been 20 months since his last Top 10 hit.

  During that 13 December episode he appeared immediately after Skyhooks – a tough spot, the ’Hooks being one hard act to follow – and sang the heavy-hearted ‘Things to Do’. It was a sudsy ballad, more a show tune than a contemporary pop song like Sherbet’s ‘Silvery Moon’ or William Shakespeare’s ‘My Little Angel’. Yet another misstep. At least he’d lost the suit: Johnny sported blue denim and a yellow tank top, his hair swept gently back from his face. But the live audience’s response was polite, muted. Soon after, leather-clad vixen Suzi Quatro stepped up and tore a hole in ‘Wild One’, her bass slung low, her voice a sexy growl. Johnny’s earnest performance faded away quicker than Molly Meldrum could say ‘do yourself a favour’.

  The unfortunate trend continued when Johnny fronted for the first colour episode of the show, screened on 1 March 1975. He now had to intro the band that had stolen his thunder.

  ‘Hello, I’m Johnny Farnham,’ he announced, ‘and this is Countdown, the first edition for 1975 in glorious colour. Throughout the year we’re going to bring you the most exciting people in Australia. Let’s kick it off now with one of Australia’s fastest-rising groups, Skyhooks.’

  Bloody Skyhooks! It must have felt as though he was being stalked by the red-hot Melburnians. Other locals, such as Debbie Byrne, Hush, Linda George, Stevie Wright and The Captain Matchbox Whoopee Band, also featured on this special edition of the show.

  Johnny returned later to count down the Top 10, a feature of each and every Countdown, reciting a list that featured Skyhooks (yet again) and such big international names as Elton John and the Sweet. Number one was William Shakespeare’s ‘My Little Angel’. Noticeably absent was the name Johnny Farnham.

  Johnny spent much of 1975 in a commercial holding pattern. He did the usual rounds, including an appearance with Johnny Young and his Young Talent Team (and old stagers Bobby Limb and Dawn Lake) at a Night of the Stars, staged in Adelaide on 1 July. He also contributed to charity events, including a Cyclone Tracy benefit in May.

  Johnny even put in an unlikely TV cameo, playing the part of a bank robber by the name of Tom, in an uncharacteristically light-hearted episode of cop show Division 4 entitled ‘Once Upon a Time’ and screened on 1 September. But Johnny Farnham was no bad guy; this was very much a one-off. And the dodgy wig he sported on screen, which left him looking like a frightened clown, did Farnham no favours.

  Regardless, Crawford Productions, the trailblazing creators of Division 4 and other local TV shows, continued searching for a vehicle for Johnny. In late 1975 Johnny filmed a pilot for a Crawfords TV comedy with the working title of Me & Mr. Thorne, playing the lead, a character named Bobby Fletcher. The plot was a twist on the Sherlock Holmes story; Bobby was the Watson character, the sidekick of Thorne, antique bookseller and amateur sleuth.

  ‘I don’t know what it will do for my image,’ Johnny told a reporter on the set. ‘The minimal music in it gives me a chance to do some serious acting.’

  Yet despite the presence of well-known actors Gordon Chater (fresh from My Name’s McGooley, What’s Yours?) and Chuck Faulkner, some good reviews – ‘Farnham could very soon become one of Australia’s top acting talents,’ TV Week proclaimed, ‘the sooner it becomes a series the better’ – and the muscle of Crawfords, Me & Mr. Thorne didn’t get picked up as a series. The 90-minute pilot was put on the shelf. It didn’t air for another year and duly died a quick and relatively painless death.

  Johnny set to work on a new album. But if this was intended to be the musical statement that would reposition him at the top of the pop ladder, someone, somewhere didn’t get Sambell’s memo.

  There were some wonderful Australian releases in 1975 – Skyhooks did it again with Ego Is Not a Dirty Word, another daring collection of songs, which became the country’s fourth bestselling album of the year (their Living in the 70’s was the number one bests
eller). Ariel’s Rock and Roll Scars featured the timeless hit ‘I’ll Be Gone’; AC/DC delivered the double whammy of High Voltage and T.N.T.; Stevie Wright pumped out ‘Black Eyed Bruiser’; Sherbet, with their, ‘Life … Is for Living’ (and their first greatest hits set) was unstoppable; Hush were Rough, Tough ’n’ Ready. All these albums were great in their own way – okay, maybe not the Hush record overall, but their take on the rockin’ chestnut ‘Boney Maronie’ was a massive hit. J.P. Farnham Sings, however, was not a record to get excited about.

  Credit where it’s due: it was an attempt on Johnny and Sambell’s part to present a more mature sound and image, targeting an older audience. The days of ‘Sadie’ and other novelties were long gone. Each track on the album was an Australian composition, Johnny singing cuts from Brian Cadd (‘Show Me the Way’), Vanda and Young (‘Things to Do’), Russell Morris (‘Don’t Rock the Boat’), a cover of Billy Thorpe’s ‘Most People I Know (Think That I’m Crazy)’ and a Farnham original, ‘To Be or Not to Be’. The back-cover shot, of Johnny’s denim-clad legs and an acoustic guitar, looked like something straight from the singer-songwriter handbook – even the album title implied a more sophisticated Johnny. But nothing worked. EMI pulled two singles from the album – the Russell Morris and Vanda/Young songs – but neither charted, nor did the album. It was apparent that Johnny’s days as the label’s poster boy, a dependable hit-maker, were well and truly over. His time with EMI was about to expire, along with another key relationship.

  Clearly, if Johnny was to continue making music, it was time for a change. In early 1976, the relationship between Johnny and Darryl Sambell, begun in Cohuna in 1967, was finally, acrimoniously annulled by Farnham. It’s hard to pinpoint one particular event that brought things undone, although it’s likely that the deathblow was dealt on New Year’s Eve, when Darryl insisted that Johnny perform a midnight Melbourne show, even though Johnny had already made plans to see in the new year with his family. After the gig, an angry Johnny went home, late, while Darryl drowned his sorrows – in booze and tears. (On a bad day, Sambell could work his way through an entire bottle of Scotch. He was also prone to the occasional nervous breakdown; he’d had nine while working with Johnny.)

  Jillian, on the other hand, laid the blame on a drunken drive with Sambell after a party at the home of his business partner, Kevin Lewis.

  ‘He could have killed us all,’ she said. She’d had enough of ‘Dazzling Dazza’.

  The formal showdown took place in the office of Johnny Young.

  ‘I’m quitting the business,’ Sambell added, a tad shrilly, after Johnny told him of his decision.

  ‘No, you’re not quitting the business,’ Johnny replied. ‘I’m sacking you. You can work with someone else.’

  But Sambell’s mind was made up. He was done.

  The demise of the partnership was announced in The Age in mid-January 1976. ‘Farnham Sambell Split’ roared the headline.

  This wasn’t the first time a Sambell/Farnham row had been covered by the dailies; in June 1969 they’d even gone to court, briefly, when Farnham filed a writ claiming Sambell owed him a substantial sum of money (‘Singer Asks for $30,000’). The writ, filed by John’s father, sought a court order demanding that Sambell produce all books and records of their accounts. It was resolved, but that didn’t matter now. They were through.

  There’s no denying that while together, Sambell and Farnham had made history. By his unique blend of nous, hype and sheer bloody-mindedness, Sambell had helped transform a shy apprentice into the country’s biggest star since Johnny O’Keefe, a star of stage, small screen and the pop charts, the idol of a good chunk of under-20 Australia. Sambell had played a key role in Johnny’s unprecedented run of hits, starting with 1967’s ‘Sadie’ and ending with 1973’s ‘I Can’t Dance to Your Music’; Farnham cut 13 Top 20 songs during that red-hot run. ‘Sadie’, the song Sambell claimed as his discovery, was still the biggest-selling single in Australian music history. Johnny was crowned King of Pop for five years running. And Darryl was always in the wings at Johnny’s many shows, concerts that generated the type of weak-kneed teen hysteria rarely seen since The Beatles’ tour of Oz. Sambell was actively involved in every aspect of Johnny’s career, from his wardrobe to his song selection, to his work in the theatre and on TV. He lived and breathed Johnny Farnham.

  ‘He was the youngest manager in the pop business,’ Melbourne’s Herald once noted of Sambell, ‘and his property was of sun-surface temperature – Johnny Farnham.’

  But now there was too much personal baggage, there’d been too many conflicts, and Johnny’s career was flat-lining. Almost immediately after the split, Sambell moved to Auckland, while Johnny also took a break.

  Johnny and Jillian flew to America in April, where he had the chance to sit in on a recording session with a personal hero, Motown great Stevie Wonder, perhaps his biggest musical influence. It was bliss, the perfect escape from all his hassles back in Oz. Once back home, Farnham would sing Wonder’s ‘All Is Fair in Love and War’ during an appearance on the Dave Allen Show and, in another killer performance, Wonder’s challenging ghetto drama ‘Living for the City’. He’d already covered ‘Ma Cherie Amour’, back on 1971’s Johnny LP. He was a rusted-on Wonder fan. They’d also get to tour together, a dream fulfilled for Johnny.

  Kenn Brodziak, the man who’d produced Charlie Girl, agreed to manage Johnny, but in a very different manner to Sambell. Brodziak chose to be hands-off, business-like; he wouldn’t involve himself with Johnny on a day-to-day basis. Theirs was a strictly professional relationship. There’d be no haggling and no late-night, post-gig dramas. He’d ensure that promoters always paid upfront. Farnham wasn’t going to do any more TV ads, at least not on Brodziak’s watch. ‘They’re just not right for a star of Johnny’s stature,’ Brodziak believed. And as far as Brodziak was concerned, Johnny’s personal life was just that – his own. There’d be no unplanned drop-ins or after-hours phone calls. It was all about business.

  Johnny’s first move with his new manager, however, was yet another miscalculation. It seemed as though he just couldn’t take a trick.

  Johnny may have admitted that it ‘wasn’t the best comedy in the world’, but Bobby Dazzler wasn’t a completely terrible TV show. The local television industry, especially sitcoms such as this Crawfords production, was still relatively young. Until now, dramas had been dominant – The Sullivans had just begun its eight-season run – and cop shows were as common on the small screen as certain actors’ faces: Homicide, Matlock Police, Bluey and Solo One were all either in production or still screening during 1976. Number 96 and the long-running rural soap Bellbird rated highly. But well-scripted sitcoms were rare; the order of the day comedy-wise was variety shows such as Paul Hogan’s regular specials and The Norman Gunston Show. Comedy benchmarks like ABC’s Mother and Son remained way off in the future.

  The plotline for Bobby Dazzler, which began production in April 1976, was uncomplicated. This wasn’t Chekhov; hell, it wasn’t even Kingswood Country. Essentially, a young man reconnects with his errant father; easy laughs ensue. End of story. At least Crawfords got the casting right. Johnny played Bobby Farrell, the male lead, but there wasn’t a lot of acting required: Bobby was a pretty young pop singer on the rise, searching for a manager to build his career. This was almost reality TV.

  ‘The series is not based on my life and career as a singer,’ insisted Johnny, ‘but obviously there’ll be material based on the sort of experiences I’ve had.’

  Fred, Bobby Farrell’s wayward old man, played by veteran actor Maurie Field – who’d just been seen in Bellbird – was a former vaudevillian, which provided plenty of opportunities for he and Johnny to sing, or at least ham it up, song-and-dance-man-style. In the pilot they mugged their way through ‘Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey’. Also in the pilot was a very young, extremely green Sigrid Thornton, playing a gushing, weak-at-the-knees fan of Bobby’s who seemed on the edge of a breakdown.

  Interesti
ngly, the pilot originally closed on a slightly different note. At its close, Bobby (Johnny) announced that his father might be staying ‘for a night – or two’, his smile fading noticeably as the credits rolled. But that bittersweet ending was modified for the finished episode, as was Farmham’s Christian name, which was briefly billed in the credits as ‘John’ but then reverted to ‘Johnny’.

  The pilot was successful enough for Channel 7 to commission a 13-episode series, with production starting in November 1976. Screenwriter Terry Stapleton, who’d later hit pay dirt with The Flying Doctors, wrote all 14 episodes. There was easy-going chemistry between old-stager Field and Farnham; Hector Crawford himself talked it up to the press. ‘It’s a great vehicle for Johnny Farnham and the rest of the very talented crew,’ the producer stated. ‘We are looking forward to this with great optimism. We think it’s sufficiently amusing and different to be a top-rater.’

  Yet the show seemed doomed from the start. It didn’t screen in Melbourne until 20 November 1977 and then ran through summer, the non-ratings period – the cricket season – which was not a huge vote of confidence from Channel 7. When its ratings were briefly monitored, Bobby Dazzler cornered only 14% of the viewing audience – hardly must-see TV. Also, its timeslot was tweaked, which confused viewers. The show was canned after one season.

  Farnham’s attempts to reboot his career as a TV actor, though not entirely without merit – he had a knack with wholesome comedy – had fallen flat. He was treading water, yet again, and the tide was rising. Countdown hadn’t invited him back since 1975, his place now taken by other Jo(h)ns – as in, English, St. Peeters and Paul Young. Skyhooks, meanwhile, made at least a dozen appearances in the show’s first 12 months.