There was also the time Wayne was enjoying a three-month holiday in South Gippsland at the expense of Her Majesty. Yes, Wayne loved a drink—white wine mostly—but he had been caught just one too many times driving under the influence. A judge took a dim view of his decision to drive to the bottle shop one Friday morning to pick up his weekend beverage supply. Turning right into Union Road, Wayne’s distinctive orange Peugeot was spotted by a local copper; a breath test followed. Unfortunately he was still over the limit from the previous night’s festivities. But what was even more unfortunate and what distressed the judge the most was Wayne was driving without a licence, it having been suspended some months previously as a result of multiple drink driving offences, the odd speeding fine other sundry misdemeanours. When Wayne came before the judge and, despite being represented pro-bono by a QC and despite multiple character references from a range of respectable members of Melbourne’s elite, he was sentenced to a three months convalescence at Wron Wron Prison and a chance to reflect on his actions. But as I’ve explained, people liked to do things for Wayne, so there was a happy ending to this dark tale.
Wearing his green tracksuit Wayne arrived at his allotted accommodation carrying his bedding in his arms and sat forlornly on his bunk. A shadow fell across the room and Wayne looked up to see a 6 foot 3 brick-shithouse filling the entrance to his rather humble accommodation. Wayne noticed tear drops tattooed on the gentleman’s cheek—here stood a murderer and lifer. The man ordered Wayne to stand and, fearing the worst, he obeyed and resigned himself to his fate. But then something remarkable happened: the cellmate took the bedding from Wayne’s arms and said in a gentle voice, ‘I’ll make up your bunk mate … you’re from Daddy Cool, you’re a fuckin’ legend.’ Then, lowering his voice, the brick-shit house added ‘Ya have any trouble in here mate, just see me …’
That sums up Wayne. People loved him, family, friends, fans—we all loved him. We loved his gentleness, his encyclopaedic knowledge of music, his sunglasses worn at night and his Converse runners worn constantly. We loved his loyalty and his kindness and we loved him because he was unique—in every sense of the word.
I’d been asked to lunch at the Woodend home of Adam Johnstone, the Managing Director of Sound Vault Records—The Hornets’ label at the time. He had asked a few members from his stable of bands to share a relaxing Sunday afternoon eating barbequed chicken while discussing ideas for promoting the label, as well as a bit of schmoozing and networking. Adam was in his thirties, honest, incredibly enthusiastic and hardworking—a rarity in the music industry—but he was also a man with amazingly bad timing. He had formed his record company just as the music download phenomena was causing havoc in the traditional recording industry, which at that very moment had entered into a downward and ultimately fatal spiral—especially for small, independent labels like Sound Vault.
As I drove up the Calder Highway towards Woodend I wondered if Ross Wilson would be at the lunch. He had released Go Bongo Go Wild! as well as Country and Wilson on Sound Vault, and as I had never actually met him, I hoped that this would be the day. I had always admired Ross as a valiant singer, astute songwriter and great storyteller. He had not only written the jubilant Australian dance classics ‘Eagle Rock’, ‘Come Back Again’ and ‘Hi Honey Ho’, but also had, sung, written or co-written some of the country’s most enduring rock/pop classics, such as ‘Chemistry’, ‘Come said the Boy’, ‘Cool World’, ‘Bed of Nails’ and ‘A Touch of Paradise’ just to name a few. When I finally walked into Adam’s backyard I cast my eye around the assembled glitterati: Peter Cupples, Cyndi Boste and, yes, Ross Wilson. Even though I was eager to meet him I was also a little daunted. Would I be an embarrassing, gushy fanboy, would I think of anything witty or original to say or would the whole thing be an altogether awkward experience for the both of us? Before I knew it I found myself sitting next to him, so I made a conscious effort not to say uncool stuff like ‘Oh my god Ross, I’ve been a huge fan of yours and it really is a huge honour to meet you,’—even though it was true. But I need not have worried. Maybe it was the relaxed nature of the lunch, or the couple of glasses of fortifying red, but he opened our conversation by enquiring after The Hornets drummer and bass player, Gary and Wayne. I recall him saying something like ‘I hope you’re keeping my rhythm section up to speed.’
I laughed, said I was trying and then asked if he’d heard any of their work on The Hornets Sound Vault records. He said that he had and especially liked the blues stuff. We started talking and I was instantly at ease. I felt I had evolved; I was no longer a fan but a contemporary, swapping stories and exploring our love of the blues, especially our mutual heroes Howlin’ Wolf, John Lee Hooker and Muddy Waters. But it was The Hornets’ version of Howlin’ Wolf’s ‘44 Blues’ that Ross wanted to talk about—especially the weird feel of the song and the greatness of Hubert Sumlin’s spiky riff. I remember Ross describing perfectly the Sumlin/Wolf combination, ‘It was explosive, like … petrol and a match’. They set off explosions all through songs like ‘Back Door Man’, ‘Built for Comfort’, ‘Tail Dragger’ and ‘Goin’ Down Slow’. After a while he produced a guitar and started playing the now familiar ‘44’ riff and encouraged me to sing the song …
I wore my forty-four for so long, so long, it made my shoulder sore …
Dah di Dah Dah… Dah Di dah Di Dah, Dah di Dah Dah (repeat)
Here I was on a warm afternoon, sitting in the backyard of our generous host and label owner, swapping stories and singing songs with a very convivial, friendly and down-to-earth Ross Wilson. As the afternoon wore down and a chill came over Adam’s backyard, we all began to say our goodbyes and disappear into the early evening. I shook Ross’s hand and hoped we would catch up again soon.
As I walked to my car, my fandemonium subsiding, I reflected that if someone had told my eighteen-year-old self that one day I would share a lunch, swap stories and sing songs with Ross Wilson, I would have thought them mad. And if that same person had said that I would play in bands, record and become friends with Ross Hannaford, Gary and Wayne … really? Don’t be ridiculous! We had individually and collectively come a long way since 1970. For some of the journey we had travelled together, playing edgy, messy pub and festival gigs, recording music infused with spittle and spite and sometimes, like that summer’s day in Woodend, simply hanging out. It’s been a great journey, a journey that has informed every part of my life. Who said you should never meet your heroes?
The year 1964 was pivotal for Melbourne and the rest of the country. The whole of Australia seemed to be ruled by conservatives. In Victoria it was Premier Henry Bolte and his sidekick, Deputy Arthur Rylah. Together they banned books, demolished Melbourne’s inner city, hung Ronald Ryan, and built the State Electricity Commission and the Gas and Fuel Corporation of Victoria. Nationally, Prime Minister Robert Menzies and his loyal Country Party deputy Black Jack McEwan opened the immigrant flood gates to anyone from Britain and—oh alright yes, yes, if you must—Europe, erected towering tariff barriers, established the manufacturing industry, sent troops to Vietnam, reintroduced national service for twenty-year-old young men and refused to ratify the International Labour Organisations convention on equal pay for women.
In 1964 a stampede of writers and artists, such Robert Hughes, Germaine Greer, Clive James, Barry Humphries, George Johnson, Charmian Clift, Sydney Nolan and Albert Tucker had fled the grinding, self-congratulatory anti-intellectualism of the greatest country on Earth and relocated to foreign shores—actually it was Britain mainly, much to the old darts’ dismay, all those crass colonials throwing up in Earls Court. Britain did, however, eagerly receive her former colony’s booming wheat and wool exports; at least until she joined the European Market, after which she then gave our farmers the elbow.
At the time, Australia’s popular music scene was divided largely between Melbourne and Sydney. Both capitals were dominated by singers covering mostly British and American artists. Johnny O’Keefe, Judy Stone, Slim Dusty, Col Joye, The Delltones, Little Pattie all came out of Sydney. Melbourne boasted Johnny Chester, Merv Benton, Frankie