OZ IS IN THE AIR

A MISH-MASH OF TWO CHAPTERS FROM TWO OF MY BOOKS - BLACK VINYL WHITE POWDER - SOUR MOUTH SWEET BOTTOM

This week I've been in Australia, first in Brisbane, then in Sydney. always a pleasant experience. I’ve been coming here for fifty years and never failed to enjoy it.

The first time was in 1971, when I was in my early 30s. I’d been doing well in the music business in London - managing groups and producing records - but I was getting tired of it. In Sydney I thought I’d try something new and I got myself an audition with a TV channel who wanted a compere for a kids’ afternoon show. I had to be Uncle Grumpy but they thought I wasn’t up to it.

‘You’re not cranky enough,’ they said.

Then, finding out I knew about record production, they gave me a TV programme to record songs for.

By the end of the year everyone was chasing me to do the same and I’d fallen back into the music business. At RCA they played me some tracks by a girl called Alison McCallum. She had a great range and sounded red hot when she sang at the top of it. So I went looking for songs and ended up at J. Albert and Co.

Alberts was an old-time music publishing company run by a young man called Ted, grandson of the iron-fisted Russian emigré who'd  started the business in 1896. Ted was trying to modernise things and had signed two young songwriters – Harry Vanda and George Young – who’d formed a group called the Easybeats. In the 60s, they'd had hits – big ones - in Europe and America but they were beginning to fade. Ted wanted to find new artists to record the new songs they continued to write and played me one called Superman. It felt right for Alison McCullum so I recorded it with her and it went into the Top 10.

My intended three-month visit to Sydney became extended to  four months, then five, then six. I was in the studio every day, making records with artist after artist, all them hits, but all with Australian stars who would never be heard of outside the country - Lil Patti, Bobbi Marchini, Soffrok.

Then Ted Albert played me Pasadena, another song by Vanda and Young. I liked it best of all the songs I'd heard but we didn't have a suitable artist.

‘Definitely a hit,’ I told him. ‘But it needs the right voice.’

Ted agreed. He said if I could find the right singer he’d give me a healthy recording budget so I told him a fib and said I already knew the perfect person.

It wasn’t true; it was just that I was sure I’d be able to find one. Sydney was awash with pubs that had music. Pasadena was a gentle, mid-tempo song; all

it needed was a young guy with a pleasant voice. I’d spend a few evenings touring Sydney’s music pubs and find the right person.

Ted booked the best recording studio in Melbourne, hired the Melbourne Symphony’s string section, and paid me to make the musical arrangements. Then he bought air tickets to Melbourne for the following week – for him, for me, and for the singer. (In those days, in Australia, air tickets were like train tickets – they didn’t need names on them.)

With the beach beckoning and pleasant al fresco dinners in the evenings, the next ten days somehow whizzed by quickly. The evening before the recording session I suddenly realised I hadn’t yet found a singer. I hadn't even looked.

I searched the local paper to see what bands were playing that night but it was a Wednesday, the worst day of the week for gigs and the only one I could find was at a pub in Newcastle, an hour by train from the city.

Hoping to find a decent group, I went there, taking  the spare air ticket to Melbourne with me, and a demo cassette of the song, but the band was dreadful and the pub smelt of vomit.

I went outside and stood on the balcony where a pleasant looking young guy was smoking a cigarette.

‘Can you sing?’ I asked him,

‘I think so,' he replied.  'I’m in a group and we’re on soon. Why not come in and listen?'

But the thought of going back into that vomity pub was too much for me. This young guy had an attractive confidence about him, so I gave him the air ticket and the demo, and said, ‘If you learn this song and come to Melbourne tomorrow afternoon you might end up a star.’

The next morning I flew to Melbourne with Ted Albert. I used Vanda and Young’s demo as the rhythm track and added the Melbourne Symphony’s string section to create a presentable backing for the song. On the outside I was quite calm but inside I was direly afraid the kid wouldn’t show up.

I told Ted, ‘You’ll love him – he’s a superstar’.  But when Ted asked me his name I couldn’t tell him because I’d forgotten to ask.

At 3pm, just as I was panicking, the studio doors opened and he walked in. I put him in front of the mike, placed headphones over his ears, played him the track, and ten minutes later it was done.

Ted was over the moon. ‘He’s great. How did you find someone unsigned that good?’

‘My secret’, I said.

The singer's name was John Young and three weeks later, Pasadena was in the Australian Top 10.  For John it was the start of a new life - he'd become an Aussie pop star.

A little while later, he recorded another Vanda and Young song, 'Love Is in the Air’. And with the addition of a new middle name, he transitioned into John Paul Young, a name that became known the world over.

Last year, I got an email from him out of the blue. 'Hello Simon - I hope this finds you well and happy. It just so happens that yesterday was the 50th anniversary of you walking up to me, cigar in hand, and asking if I would like to make a record, You changed my life forever and I am so glad you took a chance with a kid you had never heard sing a note. This was the start of a wonderful life for me. I will always be indebted to you for your derring-do. With love – John.'

'Derring-do' sounds dramatic. It was hardly the truth. I was just being lazy and shouldn't claim too much credit.

Still, it was a nice email to get, so thanks John. It’s always nice when things fall into place.  And in Australia they so often seem to. That's what I love about it.

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