Groovy guru: the photography of Henry Talbot

When you think about some of Australia’s biggest (and best) bands of the 60s --The Easybeats, Masters Apprentices, Purple Hearts et al – it’s impossible not to be struck by what a great contribution European and British migrants have made to this country’s rock’n’roll tradition.

The same can be said of our photography, with European-born luminaries like Bruno Benini, Wolfgang Sievers, Mark Strizic and Helmut Newton all having a profound impact on the national photographic scene during the 50s and 60s.

Henry Talbot

Henry Talbot (formerly known as Heinz Tichauer) was another one. Fleeing his natal Germany in 1939 to escape the Nazis, he ended up in England — interned as a suspected German agent! Along with thousands of other German and Italian detainees (some of whom were prisoners of war; many more of whom were Jewish refugees like Talbot), he was deported to Australia in 1940 aboard the notorious hell-ship, Dunera.

After spending a couple of years interned in Hay, NSW, Talbot volunteered for the Australian Army, where he became friends with fellow German refugee Helmut Newton. 

Both Talbot and Newton ended up in Melbourne, having established independent post-war careers as photographers. They went into partnership in 1956, specialising in fashion and advertising: needless to say, the Newton & Talbot Studio became one of Melbourne’s most successful. 

Work it, baby!

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1967 (copyright, Lynette Anne Talbot)

Groovy OR WHAT?! Sure, Melbourne was hip in the 1960s (or this blog wouldn’t exist) but this photo, part of an ad for New York fashion label Brooks Brothers, takes it to a whole new level. That sports car looks like it’s been snatched from the set of some trippy late-60s Italian spy flick, while the slinky chick in the background could be Emma Peel’s — or Modesty Blaise’s — stunt double. The guy’s pretty sharp too.

Brooks Brothers were eager to cash in on the burgeoning Aussie youth market — and Henry Talbot was just the man to help them, with his unerring eye for the aesthetics and vibe of the times. The fabtastic stunner below is part of the same series. David Bailey, eat yer heart out!

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1967 (copyright, Lynette Anne Talbot)

In 1959, the Newton and Talbot studio scored a lucrative contract with the Australian Wool Board, and moved their studio into the basement of the Board’s office in Bourke Street. Concerned about the rising popularity of synthetic fabrics, the AWB was relying on Talbot and Newton to give it the cred it needed to remain competitive in a market that was becoming ever more youth-focused. 

This gorgeous promo photo, taken by Talbot for them in 1964, certainly delivers the goods.

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1964 (copyright, Lynette Anne Talbot)

When Newton departed for London on a self-declared mission to become the world’s greatest photographer some time around 1960, Talbot carried on alone, racking up an impressive folio of work for a who’s who of big-name clients such as Vogue, Vanity Fair, Sportscraft, General Motors and Holeproof Hosiery (below). 

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1962 (copyright, Lynette Anne Talbot)

Dating from 1962, this glamorous tableau was shot on location at the long-since closed Walnut Tree restaurant in William Street, Melbourne. It’s especially noteworthy for the male model standing in the background – none other than Bruno Benini before he became a fashion photographer himself! (Anyone else think the dark-haired bloke at the front looks like Don Draper’s cosmic twin?)

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1965 (image found on http://www.joseflebovicgallery.com/)

A vintage print of this candid and evocative photo appears to be for sale on the Josef Lebovic Gallery website, with the following accreditation:

Helmut Newton...and Henry Talbot. [Behind the Scenes at a Fashion Parade], c1965…Studio stamp reads "Helmut Newton & Henry Talbot Pty Ltd. Latrobe Court, 165 Latrobe St. [Melbourne]. [Ph] 662 2199, 662 2208. No. 506/35 Pos. 186." 

I’m guessing it’s a Talbot: by 1965, Newton was long gone, pursuing world domination on the other side of the world.

Here’s one final jaw-dropping example of Talbot’s work, taken for Fibremakers Australia. I mean, wowsers! Not only does this photo of Jackie Holme (Billy Thorpe's ex) grooving against the Parkes telescope tap into the decade’s obsession with all things space-age, it also captures its sense of freedom, fun and female fabulosity. They don’t make fashion photography like this any more…

Photo: Henry Talbot, 1964/5; National Gallery of Australia; NGA 89.1436

Given his eye-catching style, it’s no surprise to learn that Henry Talbot won a raft of prestigious awards during the 50s and 60s, the Australian Photo News’s Fashion Photographer of the Year (1958) and a Distinctive Merit Award from the Art Directors Club of Melbourne (1968) among them. 

He went on to Head of the Photography Department at the School of Art and Design at Preston, (later the Phillip Institute of Technology), from 1973 to 1985, after which he moved to Sydney with his family. He died of cancer in 1999, aged 79.

UPDATE
There is currently an exhibition dedicated to Henry Talbot's photography at the Ian Potter Centre in Federation Square, which is well worth a visit. You can see the special e-book the gallery has prepared to mark the occasion here.

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Then and now

Groovy Prue

Everyday Melbourne in the 1960s

Big news in Batmania! I have an article about The Mystrys — a sensational but short-lived band previously profiled in this blog — in the forthcoming issue of legendary British magazine, Shindig! I’ll be ppublishing a couple more blog posts about the group to mark the occasion, based on interviews I did with a couple of the key players, but while they’re taking shape, I wanted to share this interesting photo-essay about ‘everyday life in Melbourne in the Swinging Sixties’ that I found on The Herald Sun website.

Naturally, the usual suspects are present — The Beatles, The Stones, Normie Rowe, Jean Shrimpton at the Melbourne Cup. But there’s also Graham Kennedy, a haunting shot of Ronald Ryan and two photos of the footballer that even folks who couldn’t give two flying whatevers about AFL can’t help liking... Ron Barassi. 

Don't knock the Ron: Barassi, Hawaiian style. Photo: Herald Sun

Whether he’s helping women in distress, pulling folks from flaming cars, bowling in Melbourne’s first ten-pin bowling alley, posing with Hawaiian beauties or (so I hear) kicking a footy, Ron Barassi is The Man.

New Australians

A couple of pics of European migrants arriving in Melbourne provide a stark contrast to the current immigration situation. As the exuberant scene below illustrates, approaching Aussie shores by boat 50 years ago was a joyous rather than fraught experience. And not a border control official in sight..

Migrants on the Flavia arriving at Station Pier in 1964. Photo: Herald Sun

Hitting the streets

Unsurprisingly, the street scenes included in the photo essay are wonderful, not least for the drool-worthy cars upping the aesthetic ante. Bourke, Flinders and Spencer Streets all look distinctly more glamorous than they do these days, but this one of Sydney Road is pick of the bunch. Did someone say Holden heaven?

Sydney Road (1964)  looking somewhat less chaotic than it does today. Photo: Herald Sun

Meanwhile, a selection of suburban shots evoke a palpable sense of nostalgia for simpler times. Check out this back-street billy cart race: can you imagine that happening in this era of helicopter parents and PlayStation? 

Full tilt! Billy cart kids in action, 1962. Photo: Herald Sun

Hello, ladies!

But pièce de resistance is this stylin’ line-up of likely lads taken from a spread in the newspaper’s fashion pages in 1967 (is that John Steed on the left?). While I’ve featured plenty of women’s fashion in this blog, local male fashion snaps from the decade are a rare treat. 

Five alive: men's fashion in Melbourne, 1967. Photo: Herald Sun

Factor in several photos of children, the Royal Show and the Queen, and one can't help thinking that the 1960s portrayed by The Herald Sun isn't so much swinging as downright sweet... 

All these pics and more can be seen here: Photo essay: Take a look back at everyday life in Melbourne in the Swinging Sixties

Go!! at the St Kilda Film Festival

It’s rare that contemporary events rate a mention in this blog, but I feel it’s my civic duty to alert Melbourne-based readers to the upcoming Go!! Show screening at the St Kilda Film Festival. This will be the third year in a row the festival has featured a special screening devoted to Australian music of the 1960s, presented in partnership with the National Film & Sound Archive Australia. 

If the previous two years are anything to go by, we’re in for another corker.

In 2013, we were treated to the obscure Easybeats doco, Easy Come, Easy Go, along with that indescribably wonderful testimonial to swinging Melbourne, Approximately Panther (so wonderful I dedicated a post to it here), plus a few other musical gems from the era such as the video for The Loved Ones’ “Sad Dark Eyes” and an obscure piece of Molly Meldrumalia, Meldrum 1971.

The Fab Five in Easy Come, Easy Go

Last year, the Festival took us Back to the Sixties, with a fascinating documentary called The Snap and Crackle of Pop, revealing the machinations of a nascent Aussie pop-music industry, and the adorably corny Once Upon a Twilight, in which The Twilights do their best Monkees impression.

Snap, crackle and pop in Sydney

This year, we get Go!! Put it in your diaries now, groovers (and book your tickets): 7.30pm, Monday 25 May, at the St Kilda Town Hall.

I spoke to Television Curator/Archivist from the National Film & Sound Archive, Simon Smith, about this insanely rare opportunity to view an entire episode of possibly the most important teen TV show of its era. 

Why is footage from The Go!! Show so hard to come by?
Simon: 
Two hundred and twenty-two episodes were produced and only portions of seven survive. And this is the only complete one, episode 117 [part of the Johnny Young era]. The show used to be produced on two-inch video tape, which was very expensive, very heavy and very large. So rather than have mountains of videotape around, the TV station would reuse the tapes. Episodes were kept for three weeks before being taped over. 

The only reason anything survived was that Go!! was sold to other TV networks around the country. It was on the 0-10 network, and screened in Brisbane, Adelaide, Sydney, Melbourne — but it’d also be screened in regional Australia, in places like Albury and Mildura, and some of these places wouldn’t have videotape facilities. 

In those cases, they’d have to send it as a kine (short for kinescope), a 16mm print – they’d project the two-inch videotape onto a very high quality screen and they’d record it onto film. That 16mm print would then get sent off. Thing is, you can tape over videotape but you can’t tape over film. That's  how much 60s TV survives - not on the original videotapes but on these lesser quality film telerecordings.

Here's Johnny! Johnny Young, one of the Go!! Show's three hosts

What’s so great about Go!! compared to, say, a show like Kommotion? 
Simon: 
In my opinion, Go!! was a far more important show than Kommotion. 
Kommotion was a miming show. They did have artists on, but you’d usually get things like Molly Meldrum miming to “Winchester Cathedral” or “Why Don’t Women Like Me?” and Denise Drysdale doing various songs… They’d have the occasional pop act on there – I think they’d do one song per episode. It was more a matter of the mimers with a guest artist, as opposed to the Go!! Show, which was just artist after artist after artist. 

This autographed photo of the Kommotion cast is currently available on eBay for $7,000!!!

Did the Kommotion episodes suffer the same fate as The Go!! Show eps? 
Simon:
Kommotion was a disaster in terms of survival. 
All that survives of Kommotion – and we’ll screen it on the night – is a 45-second home movie. Hundreds of episodes were made of Kommotion – it was a five-day a week, half-hour show, with a weekend edition as well in its hey day. There’s one three-minute clip which we don’t have — a private individual has it; it’s one of the show’s mimers, David Bland. He does a Roger Miller song, then it flashes back to Ken Sparkes, who hosted the show. The only reason it survives is that it was given to a motorcycle club, because one of their motorbikes appears in the clip and they asked for a copy.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for the St Kilda Film Festival to feature a special Aussie 60s music screening as part of the program. How did the partnership with NFSA come about? 
Simon:
We’d done this restoration on the Easybeats documentary working with producer Peter Clifton -- he was involved with Led Zepellin’s The Song Remains the Same. We’d already screened it at the Sydney Film Festival, and when we mentioned it to the Director of the SKFF (Paul Harris), he was interested in screening it in Melbourne because it only had one screening in Sydney, as a support feature to Searching for Sugarman. 

Last year, Paul Harris asked if we had any suggestions for any other 60s stuff, and I told him about this fantastic episode of a current affairs program from ATN7 in Sydney called Seven Days, where they devoted an entire episode to pop – a documentary on the 60s music scene in Sydney. I also managed to push through an HD telecine of Once Upon a Twilight. If we’d screened the old video master as it was, it would’ve been 30%-40% worse. But it looked good.

Did it ever! No doubt The Go!! Show will look pretty snazzy too, when it’s projected on the big screen next Monday…

Simon will be moderating a Q&A session after the screening, with Dennis Smith (Go’s Associate Producer), Peter Robinson, bass-player of the show’s house band The Strangers; Tony Barber, original rhythm guitarist with Billy Thorpe and The Aztecs; and performer Marcie Jones from Marcie & the Cookies.

How cute were Marcie & the Cookies?

Related posts:

The Go!! Show: they don't make 'em like that anymore...

Read Simon's own behind-the-scenes blog post about how this screening came about.

Then and now: Fashion Street

So much for that saying, ‘The more things change, the more they stay the same.’ 
Looking at the photos below, I’d say that while things have changed a lot, very little (besides the location) has stayed the same.

Check out 262-270 Collins Street as it looked in 1969, when Angus O’Callaghan took this photo and called it ‘Fashion Street’.

'Fashion Street'. Photo by Angus O'Callaghan.
I love how his photos are often cropped square. He'd be a hit on Instagram.

Now check out how it looked the other week when I took a photo during my lunch break and called it ‘Non-descript city scene’… Not a groovy old car or chic pill-box hat in sight.

'Non-descript city scene'. Photo by Yours Truly. 

The glory days

A 12-story modernist gem, the Hotel Australia opened in 1939. Beneath nine floors of lavishly appointed bedrooms, there were three levels of public space, including the Venetian Court Ballroom, the Main Dining Room, several bars, restaurants and even two basement cinemas.

Hotel Australia dining room. Photo: Wolfgang Sievers, 1969. Courtesy NLA (nla.pic-vn3309841)

The hotel was a hit with Melbourne society from the get-go. The Packer family kept a suite there for 25 years; Robert Menzies dined there so often they named an omelette after him; and Harold and Zara Holt held their wedding reception there (as did my colleague Norm, who’s featured in this blog before).

Attached to the hotel was a shopping arcade which led through to Little Collins Street. Thousands of pedestrians passed through on a daily basis; many of them commuters who’d stop at one of the hotel’s bars for an after-work bevvy on their way home.

One of the hotel bars. Photo: Wolfgang Sievers, 1969. Courtesy NLA (nla.pic-vn3309872)

Yet rather like another well-known Melbourne grand-dame, Dame Edna Everage, the Hotel Australia’s glitz’n’glam was shot through with a distinctly risqué vibe. Almost from the day it opened, the hotel was popular with the city’s gay population, and during World War II, it was the hang-out for frisky servicemen on the prowl. The cocktail bar and one of the basement theatrettes were acknowledged pick-up joints. 

According to one website I came across, the hotel was even offering a call-girl service by the 1960s. Camp romance and girls for hire: that’s what I call covering all bases! 

Centreway Arcade on the other side of the street: Photo by Wolfgang Sievers, 1967
Courtesy NLA (nla.pic-vn3314126)

Sadly, when the famous Southern Cross Hotel opened in 1962, it stole much of Hotel Australia’s thunder, soon becoming the new in-crowd favourite. Neither hotel survived into this century. The Hotel Australia was demolished in 1989 (ten years before the Southern Cross) to make way for the shiny new Australia on Collins shopping arcade. 

Now Australia on Collins has been demolished to make way for ‘luxury shopping precinct’ St Collins Lane. The more things change, the more they stay the same? Hmmm. Maybe there is something in that after all...

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Carry On Touring: when The Who and The Small Faces hit town

The Who and The Small Faces on the same bill: it’s almost too monumental a concept for my brain to process. And in 1968, no less! A pretty exciting year for both bands, now past their mod heyday and on the verge of mind-bending new musical explorations, such as Tommy (still taking shape in Pete Townshend’s fevered brain at that point) and Ogdens’ Nutgone Flake.

How could such a line-up go wrong? Well, by all accounts, it could — and did — when both groups headed Down Under for a ‘Big Show’ tour of Australia and New Zealand along with Paul Jones (ex-Manfred Mann). Having recently read A Fortnight of Furore, a book by Andrew Neill about this infamous tour, I was surprised to learn what a complete and utter schmozzle it was. 

It seems Australia just wasn’t ready for The Who and The Small Faces: our media and police treated them as a threat to public decency rather than visiting artists, and our venues were woefully under-equipped for their rock’n’roll onslaught. Throw in a highly strung air-hostess with an axe to grind, and it’s no wonder Pete Townshend vowed never to return.

The build-up

By the time the Big Show rolled into Melbourne after legs in Brisbane and Sydney, the madness was well entrenched. The local gutter press had been in attack mode from the moment the bands touched down on Aussie soil, accusing them of being dirty drug-taking Poms here to corrupt the nation’s teenagers and panning the concerts with great relish. 

Among other things, The Who and The Small Faces were dubbed ‘pouting princes of popdom,’ ‘scruffy, guitar-twanging urchins,’ and ‘pop show louts’. Some journalistic bright spark even nicknamed The Small Faces ‘The Small Faeces’! Strangely enough, neither band responded well to this kind of treatment, and press conferences tended to be fraught affairs. (The more wholesome Paul Jones didn’t seem to evoke such an extreme reaction)

Page from tour program

And another page from tour program

Tour program again: yep, you could take this one home to meet your gran

Then there were the technical malfunctions. In Brisbane, The Who requested a 1000-watt sound system and received a 100-watt system; in Sydney, the rotating stage got stuck mid-concert and The Small Faces (who made no attempts to hide their irritation) were pelted with coins by disgruntled punters. What’s more, Pete Townshend managed to spear one of The Small Faces’ Marshall amps with his guitar in Sydney, damaging a speaker and causing temporary friction between the two bands.

Add to this a taste for hotel hell-raising that – surprise, surprise – usually involved Keith Moon, and the scene was set for the Melbourne leg of the tour to be every bit as controversial as what had come before. And so it was, starting with Pete Townshend punching out an obnoxious journalist at their airport press conference, and Keith Moon chucking a snare drum through the window of his room at the Southern Cross Hotel soon after arriving!

From the tour program: check out this jaw-droppingly dorky ad for the Southern Cross Hotel!!

The concerts

Compered by legendary radio DJ Stan Rofe, the Melbourne concerts took place at Festival Hall on Thursday 25 and Friday 26 January, with performances at 6pm and 8.45pm both nights. As well as Sydney band The Questions (who’d been on the bill from the beginning, in their own right and as backing band to Paul Jones), local act The Dream joined proceedings, having beat out the cream of Melbourne’s rock bands in a ten-pin bowling tournament for the honour. From all accounts, they didn’t set the world on fire. 

Stan Rofe, sometimes known as the 'rocky jockey'

In fact, if you believe the reviews, the whole shebang was a bit… umm… forgettable. In a review entitled ‘Desecration in my generation’, one journo described The Who’s equipment-smashing finale as ‘oh, so predictable and really so dull’, and the evening as ‘boring, amateurish and altogether wasted.’ His waspish conclusion? ‘Britain has more than economic problems’.

Even Rofe, usually a passionate supporter of young bands, wrote in Go-Set that the audiences were ‘unenthusiastic’ and went so far as to suggest that The Small Faces were a fraud. ‘Tunes like “Itchycoo Park” and “Tin Soldier” bore little resemblance to the real thing. So different did they sound, it made me believe that a bunch of studio musicians were used on their records’. Meanwhile, The Who’s destructo antics left him ‘with a feeling of nausea, if not sudden longing for the smallest room in the stadium.’ Ouch.

But reports from fans themselves paint a far different picture. On an odd, unofficial Who website I stumbled across while researching this post, a certain John Moon (yes) recalls being an impressionable 14-year-old at his first ever concert: “Fuck…what an introduction … I remember seeing a row of MARSHALL stacks (I think there were 4 of these (at the time) giants across the stage...could have been 6) on stage and for those days it looked quite awesome...”

While Moon says The Small Faces were “great” and played all their hits, he saves his most lavish praise for The Who…

“Finally on came THE WHO.....they were absolutely AWESOME!!!! The birdman was doing his windmills, Daltrey was swinging his mic, Moon was just goin' for it on the kit and John Entwistle was a rock of Gibraltar holdin’ it all together. 

“Townshend was playing a blue Fender Stratocaster with a white scratch plate and during SHAKIN' ALL OVER the guitar neck snapped off midway thru the song and he just threw it across the floor backstage and was given STEVE MARRIOTT'S black Les Paul to play. When the song finished, Townshend explained to the audience that his roadies loosen the bolts at the back of the neck/guitar body join so he won’t hurt his hands when he smashes it at the end of the show. The crowd were calling out to him to smash the Les Paul but he said he couldn’t cos it was Steve Marriott's guitar. The road crew then came back with his Strat bolted back together again. 

“Finally at the end of the show all hell broke loose on stage, the amps had smoke rising out of the top of the boxes and thinking of it now, it was obviously some special effect that was planned to go off cos the smoke was uniform from all amps and they all ‘smoked’ at precisely the same time....but it was very effective, no one had ever seen anything like this before.”

Another punter, Ian Clothier, adds that "‘awesome’ just doesn't seem enough to describe the effect this show had on us teenagers.” Apparently, one of his mates managed to nab a piece of Stratocaster scrap that flew into the audience when Pete smashed it, only to have it confiscated by a bouncer on the way out! The roadies would later rebuild the guitar as best they could, as the mounting costs of equipment damaged by The Who were getting out of hand.

Who was who (no pun intended) behind the scenes of The Big Show

Best tour poster ever! Designed by Go-Set's own Ian McCausland

High-altitude hi-jinx

Next stop was Adelaide, scene of the tour’s final Australian concert (on Saturday 27th January) before heading to New Zealand. As far as they were all concerned, Melbourne was behind them.

Despite knowing that their flight out of Adelaide departed early the next morning, the bands partied typically hard in their hotel that night, and were feeling a tad worse for wear when they boarded their Ansett plane at 7am. The tone was set when none of them returned the air hostesses’ cheery greetings upon entering the aircraft (with the exception of the ever-perky Paul Jones); and got steadily worse when the hosties blatantly overlooked them while serving tea and coffee to other passengers.

An ad for Ansett from the tour program. Let's hope Susan Jones wasn't the air hostess behind the dramas...

What happened next remains unclear, with conflicting accounts of the incident depending on who’s telling it. Tour manager Ron Blackmore; Production Manager for The Who, John “Wiggy” Wolff; Doug Parkinson (singer of The Questions), and Paul Jones all recall it slightly differently in A Fortnight of Furore. The general consensus seems to be that the grumpy, bedraggled and unwashed touring party offended the delicate sensibilities of one of the air hostesses, who not only refused to serve them, but gave them a right old ear-bashing before dragging the captain into it. The fact that members of The Questions were passing around a stubbie of beer they’d smuggled on board didn’t exactly help matters either.

The captain radioed ahead to Essendon Airport, where the bands and their entourage were informed they were under arrest and escorted to a VIP lounge by a posse of federal police to be interviewed.

 Slap-stick gold or what? Ronnie Lane recalled, “When we landed, there were all these police and television cameras there, and we were carted off. The television cameras were on the plane, so I said to everyone, ‘Go out with your hands on your head, and it’ll look like the plane was hijacked, it’ll look really good on TV,’ so we did!”

Kenney Jones adds: “They lined us all up on the tarmac, with our hands on our heads, and we’re saying ‘You can’t do this, we’re British!’ It was hilarious.”

Hello again, Melbourne!

Needless to say, the local media went into a feeding frenzy. So what if nobody (including those directly involved) knew exactly why the arrest had been made? These creative journos weren’t about to let facts get in the way of a good story. Reports of foul language, bare-arsed shenanigans, violence and public drunkenness were thrown about with merry abandon until a press conference was finally held, with Paul Jones acting as spokesperson. While he couldn’t shed much light on the situation, he confessed that beer was involved, as well as some colourful language — but “only the same bad language as you’ll find in practically any conversation.”

Eventually, after Big Show promoter Kenn Brodziak (who was spending a leisurely Sunday arvo at his mum’s house) was enlisted to pull some strings with airline owner Reg Ansett, the touring party was released without charge to catch a connecting flight to Sydney and from there on to Auckland.

No love lost

Interviewed about the incident in New Zealand, Pete Townshend explained as only he could:

“I don’t think the hostess fancied us much – she obviously didn’t like our long hair and appearance… when she saw the [beer] bottle, she refused to serve us coffee. The crew acted as if we were not there. We were victims. The crew set out to humiliate us and they succeeded. They ignored us as if there was something wrong with us. After all, we are young public figures and expect a bit of attention.”

But even after the tour was over and the bands were safely back in Blighty, Australia wasn't about to let matters drop. On February 17, 1968, a letter from Go-Set reporter Ed Nimmervoll was published in English magazine Melody Maker claiming the Small Faces’ shows were “disinterested” and “the Who’s much-vaunted stage act wasn’t much better.” (Before signing off, he helpfully suggested that these “British artists should have realised their vulnerability to knockers and with a little thought … steered clear of trouble. Just how masochistic is British pop?”)

Meanwhile, Victorian Premier Henry Bolte called them “a bunch of crummy hooligans” who fell far short of the “magnificent example” set by Australian folkies The Seekers.

Not a fan: Prime Minister John Gorton

But the cherry on top came courtesy of then-Aussie PM John Gorton, in the form of a telegram he sent to The Who. Wiggy Wolff recalls it as being along the lines of “Dear Who’s [sic]. We never wanted you to come to Australia. You have behaved atrociously while you’ve been here and we hope you never come back!”

Naturally, Pete Townshend shot off a reply, saying they’d never wanted to come to Australia, they’d had a terrible time here, and they would not be coming back.

As we all know, he kept his promise for a very long time…

A swingin’ summer: groovy Lorne

Of all the towns I’ve visited along the Great Ocean Road, Lorne has always struck me as the most similar to Melbourne. With its upmarket vibe, bustling main drag and manicured foreshore, it comes across like a well-heeled city suburb. Admittedly, I’ve never holidayed there, so my impressions could be way off the mark…

What I do know, however, is that during the 1950s and 1960s, Lorne was about as hip’n’happening as a Victorian holiday spot could be. Come summer, every man and his dog descended upon Lorne: from surfers to beach-babes; beatniks and rock'n'rollers to families on holiday. Hell, the only folks missing were Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon!

Not only did Lorne have sensational surf and idyllic beaches…

Loungin' around on the sand at Lorne. Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

…it had a bohemian coffee house boasting one of the state’s first-ever cappuccino machines….

The Arab, Mountjoy Parade, Lorne. Photo: Trevor Lemke

…AND a jumping live music venue that hosted all the coolest Melbourne bands and hippest punters!

The Spinning Wheels in action at Lorne's Wild Colonial Club. Photo Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

Why so serious? An unsmiling quartet of Wild Colonial Club-goers, 1960s. Photo: Trevor Lemke

Wild Colonials on the dancefloor. Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

 Arabs and Wild Colonials

It’s hard to imagine what the town’s residents must have thought when local brothers Graham, Robin and Alistair Smith opened their coffee house The Arab in 1956. After all, this wasn’t moody Greenwich Village or downtown Paris, it was the sun-drenched Australian coast. But somehow, it worked. In his poem, “The Arab”, Lorne poet Hayden Rickey reminisces:

This is where in ‘58
In a summertime of fun
We scattered cushions on the floor
Then sat upon our bum
This is where the action was
The coffee strong, the best
Where plans were hatched for conning birds
Then practised with much zest.

Those little devils.

Caffeine kicks at The Arab (which still exists today, incidentally). Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

By 1958, The Arab was so popular that the enterprising brothers decided to open a larger, live-music venue in an old hall down on the beach’s edge: The Wild Colonial Club. Starting out as a jazzer/beatnik haunt, it hit its rock’n’roll stride once surf culture took off in the early 60s.

Over the course of the decade, bands such as The Spinning Wheels, Max Merrit and the Meteors and The Loved Ones played to high-spirited crowds still buzzing from a day on the beach. (For more Lorne beach action, check out my post on Rennie Ellis’s immortal photos of the time)

Summer means fun: goin' off at the Wild Colonial Club. Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

And if the wild tunes weren’t enough, likely lads such as Hayden Rickey (he of the ‘conning birds’ remark) and surfer Murray Walding (a surfing memorabilia nut who waxes nostalgic about the era here), were never short of a foxy chick to twist, stomp and flirt the night away with...

Lorne lassie. Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

Far-out and fabulous! I want those earrings. Photo: Trevor Lemke (via Wild on the Beach)

Beach blanket bingo, baby! No doubt about it, Lorne was where it was at.

There goes the neighbourhood! Billy Thorpe moves to East Melbourne

Wandering the wide, leafy streets of East Melbourne the other day, I was reminded what a civilised part of town it is. As if all its towering Victorian townhouses, Deco dazzlers and historic mansions weren’t enough, it’s got the picnic paradise of Fitzroy Gardens within cooee, and seems magically buffered from the incessant traffic noise that plagues most of the inner city. An oasis of gentility, a haven of refinement… And yet…

One of Australia’s rowdiest rock’n’rollers once lived — and partied hard — in these very streets! 

Banchory Cottage, Gipps St, East Melbourne: someone was inside, watching me from the front left window when I took this, so I didn't hang around trying to take a magnificent photo!

Yep, this unassuming little cottage in Gipps Street was once home to Billy Thorpe — at the height of his pub-rockin’, ‘sink-more-piss’ phase, no less. It was in this ‘house of lunacy’ that ‘a million brain cells died and the Sunbury Aztecs were born,’ recalls Thorpie in his second autobiography, Most People I Know (think that I’m crazy). Judging by his detailed descriptions of the nocturnal festivities that went down there, I’d say that was more like a trillion.

Joining Thorpie in this den of debauchery were his girlfriend Jackie and two of his bandmates, Paul Wheeler and Jimmy Thompson. They hit town from Sydney in December 1968, and within no time, a constant flow of freaks and friends was beating a path to their front door. 

After a few months of this madness, the desperately sleep-deprived singer resorted to a drastic measure. He nailed a big sign to the front door, emblazoned with the following hand-painted message:

To those about to knock. About every 8 minutes DAY and NIGHT some arsehole knocks on this door and I’m going fucking insane! My bedroom is the front window to your right and I haven’t slept in 6 fucking months. Regardless of what you’ve been told this is not the Melbourne Salvation Army, the Hilton or the Thumping Tum East, IT’S OUR HOUSE. We don’t save souls, take confessions, serve breakfast, arrange marriages, sell cars, arbitrate disputes, find lost dogs, supply inspiration, give spiritual guidance, sell drugs, bust virgins, counsel lost teenagers, or need your stimulating conversation. Therefore:-

• If you’re not bleeding from every orifice and about to die.

• If your gear hasn’t blown up and you need to borrow an amp.

• If you didn’t leave your clothes here last night and you’re naked in the street.

• If you’re not a philanthropist with a million dollars to give away.

• If you’re not a record company that wants to give us a deal.

• If you’re a debt collector.

• If you haven’t called so we know you’re coming.

• Or if you’re a copper without a legal search warrant then;

FUCK OFF!!!!

                        Peace and love

The sign wasn’t up for long. An outraged old lady called the cops, who made Thorpie take it down. 

Don’t you just love it that little gems of rock’n’roll history like this still exist in the most unexpected places? 

Another view

Postscript:

Personally I much prefer the early, Sydney-era Aztecs (not to mention Thorpie’s rollicking account of those years, Sex and Thugs and Rock’n’Roll), but Most People I Know is well worth a read for its vivid, bawdy depiction of Melbourne in the late 1960s.