Then and now: When American jet-set and Beatlemania came to town

Can you believe that this blue-tiled beauty….

The Southern Cross Hotel in all its glory. Photo: http://www.nealprince-asid.com

…was demolished to make way for this beacon of blandness?

 
Admittedly, by the time it was closed in 1995 (demolition came a few years later), the Southern Cross Hotel  was past its prime, its blue tiles having long since given way to a drab brown façade, but surely its historical significance alone should have ensured its survival?

Designed by Welton Becket, the architect responsible for mid-century LA landmarks such as the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion and the Capitol Records Building, the Southern Cross Hotel boasted more than 430 rooms, eight restaurants, Melbourne’s first-ever ten-pin bowling alley (in the basement, no less), a massive ballroom and a shopping plaza. Its vividly coloured interior was masterminded by Neal Prince, director of interior decorating for the Intercontinental Hotel Corporation. 

Wilawa Cocktail Lounge. Photo: http://www.nealprince-asid.com

Southern Cross Hotel plaza, as photographed by Wolfgang Sievers. Photo: NLA

Lifestyles of the rich, famous… and fab

Such was the excitement about this flashy American-style establishment located on Exhibition Street between Bourke and Little Collins, that its August 1962 opening was even broadcast on local TV! Ushering in a new era of world-class accommodation and customer service, the Southern Cross Hotel quickly became the place to stay for visiting dignitaries and celebrities, hosting the likes of Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, Marlene Dietrich and Roger Moore, plus a cavalcade of prime ministers and presidents. Over the decades, it was the venue of choice for the Logies, the Brownlow Medal and various Liberal Party shindigs.

But the Southern Cross Hotel’s main claim to fame was for hosting The Beatles, who stayed there during the Melbourne leg of their 1964 Aussie tour (almost 50 years ago to the day).

John and Paul saying g'day to the heaving throng, June 1964

No less than 20,000 screaming fans crammed the surrounding streets trying to catch a glimpse of the Fab Four — a spectacle that was televised live for those who didn't make the scene. I can’t think of a single star who could pull that off today. But the appearance of John, George, Paul and Ringo on the Southern Cross’s balcony caused pandemonium, and sealed the hotel’s place in history.

Can you imagine this many teenyboppers turning out for One Direction?

After they left, enterprising staff tore up their bed sheets and sold the strips — marked with the name of the Beatle who’d slept on them — to raise money for charity. I wonder if any survive to this day?

Neville Waller, photographer for Everybody's magazine, captured The Beatles hanging out in their twelfth-floor digs.

Nice sandals, George

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Melbourne song of the month: 'Chicago'/The Purple Hearts (April 1967)

Here’s a challenge for you: whack this baby on your car stereo and try to stick within the speed limit. Released in April 1967, three months after they’d broken up, The Purple Hearts’ version of “Born in Chicago” (under the abbreviated title “Chicago”) is a rip-roaring, faith-restoring joyride that leaves The Paul Butterfield Blues Band’s original pirouetting in the dust. Goddamn, I love it!

Unfortunately, I can’t find an online link to include in this post, so unless you’re lucky to own the original 7” (on Sunshine Records - anyone have a copy they want to sell me?), your best bet is the brilliant Half A Cow anthology, Benzedrine Beat.

Originally from Brisbane, The Purple Hearts relocated to swinging Melbourne in early 1966. Their second and third singles, “Early in the Morning” and “Of Hopes and Dreams and Tombstones” (killers in their own right) were recorded at the popular Armstrong’s Studio in South Melbourne, so I’m making an educated guess and assuming “Chicago” was too. 


 
The Purple Heart’s reputation as one of Melbourne’s most dynamic live bands comes across loud and clear in this recording. Frenetic but full of swaggering groove, totally unhinged but perfectly tight, its only fault is that it leaves you gagging for more after a measly 2:21 minutes. Sure, a short song is a good song, but this takes the whole ‘treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen’ ethos to another, altogether sadistic level!

Like so many Aussie bands of the 1960s, The Purple Hearts didn’t write their own material, opting instead to cover the r’n’b and blues classics they dug so much. But their creative take on these tracks ensured they ended up with a totally different beast at the end of the process. 

“Chicago” is way tougher-sounding than the original; faster and wilder. Swinging between a soulful falsetto and a deep throaty growl, Mick Hadley’s vocals are impassioned (to say the least) and his harmonica brutal; Lobby Loyde’s guitar, meanwhile, prowls around in the background like a tiger waiting to pounce – which it eventually does, in a lead break so freakin’ cool it hurts. Meanwhile, the turbo-charged rhythm section of Tony Cahill, Rob Dames and Fred Pickard doesn’t let up for a millisecond. If this isn’t a band at the peak of its powers, I don’t know what is.

Here’s the band playing it at a reunion gig in 2006 (I was there! Great gig, so much love in the room – I even managed to give Lobby a hug afterwards). It’s not quite the original line-up, but it’s still got that joyous energy….“Lobby, give it to me!”

RIP Lobby Loyde and Mick Hadley 

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Melbourne song of the month: 'The Real Thing'/Russell Morris

Dreaming of Denise

Last night I dreamed I was in a band with Denise Drysdale. I was on drums, which I didn’t know how to play (and don’t in real life, either), and she was on guitar. Not only did Denise have some serious guitar chops, but she somehow managed to go-go dance while she played. Needless to say, I felt extremely inadequate in the dream, a feeling that was magnified when I couldn’t decide what to wear for a big gig we were playing, and got so caught up in my wardrobe dramas that I was late for the show. By the time I arrived, Denise had replaced me with one of my work colleagues.

How shallow is my subconscious? Wait: don’t answer that.

Anyway, Denise Drysdale is a Melbourne icon, and a more-than-worthy subject for this blog. Australia’s first and most famous go-go dancer, she’s had an illustrious career over the decades: releasing singles, entertaining the troops in Vietnam, appearing in theatrical productions and becoming one of the country’s most beloved, multi-Logie winning TV personalities. 

 
Moorabbin-born and Port Melbourne-raised, Denise started dancing very young. Her parents were publicans and, not wanting to expose her infant daughter to the no-holds-barred barbarity of the six o’clock swill, Mrs Drysdale sent her off to early evening dance classes. By the age of six, young Denise was winning competitions — and by 17, she was a go-go gal on ATV-0’s Kommotion.

Shaking it like a Polaroid picture

One thing led to another, and she was invited to tour with Ray Brown and the Whispers; after that she scored a recording contract (which included a winsome cover of Fontella Bass’s “Rescue Me”) and went on to perform on 26 episodes of the Bobbie and Laurie-hosted teen show, Dig We Must.

In between all this, Denise ran classes for aspiring go-go gals. The video below shows her in action:



You gotta love her instructions: 
Now relax your back and flop your head around. People aren’t going to look at anything else but your head. They don’t want to see your feet dancing, they want to see your head. And smile, whatever you do.

Yep, they're just looking at your face, Ding Dong!

It was Ernie Sigley who gave Denise her nickname ‘Ding Dong’, when she was his barrel girl on The Ernie Sigley Show during the 1970s. Their working relationship has endured til the current day, and they sometimes tour the club circuit together.

Other TV shows she appeared over the years on have included Hey, Hey It’s Saturday, The Norman Gunston Show, Young Talent Time, Division Four, Bellbird, Melbourne Today and, more recently, The Circle. She even had her own show, Denise, for awhile in the late 90s. Not too many TV personalities can claim a career spanning more than half a century — but then, very few TV personalities can come close to matching Ding Dong’s charm, humour, sense of fun and entertainment value. 

The original raven-haired beauty

And hell, if I’m going to have neurotic dreams about famous Melburnians, I could do a lot worse than Denise… 

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A pop cultural time capsule: Approximately Panther

“What was the Charleston if not a Victorian go-go?” (Douglas L. Panther)

Where is Douglas L. Panther now? In 1966, he was a writer (or self-proclaimed ‘drunken reporter’) for Go-Set magazine, starring in the fabulous teen documentary Approximately Panther and pontificating on the daily lives of Melbourne’s groovy youth.

But then, much like a one-hit wonder or a one-night stand, he dropped off the radar. At least, as far as I can tell. A fairly extensive Google search reveals a big fat nada in terms of his current whereabouts or activities, which seems odd, as the man was clearly not publicity shy. Maybe he’s changed his name? Gone into witness protection? Been abducted by aliens? To be honest, nothing would surprise me, considering his, well, unique presence in Approximately Panther.

The drunken reporter at work, baby.

“Maybe mini-skirts are simply wide belts?” (Douglas L. Panther)

This half-hour gem of a film, directed by Peter Lamb, takes us on a guided tour of Melbourne’s pop culture scene in 1966. From the discotheques and drag races, to the house parties and radio stations, it’s a fun-filled romp featuring interviews with the likes of a young, very earnest Lynne Randell, Bobby and Laurie, model Jenny Ham, band/venue manager David Flint, and a rather pompous fellow (a poet, apparently) called Adrian Rawlins spouting bollocks about “pop rejuvenation” and how he knows The Rolling Stones.

Lynne Randell chats to Panther about teenagers

Jenny Ham discusses fashion; Panther puffs on a dart

There’s amazing footage of the Running Jumping Standing Still performing for a moving, grooving crowd at legendary discotheque the Thumping Tum, as well as The Loved Ones doing “The Loved One” and Normie Rowe being mobbed at the airport. And then there is Douglas L. Panther.

“There is no such accessory as a hairy chest. More in demand is a combination of masculine beauty with gentlemanly chic-ness and attentiveness to feminine fancy considered effeminate a few years ago.” (Douglas L. Panther)

Nice fringe, Panther.

Usually with a ciggy in his hand and a knowing smirk on his face, young Douglas cuts an unforgettable figure. His longish, brushed-back hair looks like it’s going to spring out of control at any moment, while his half-hearted fringe seems to be wondering why it’s there. When he’s not banging away on his typewriter, he’s discussing “wenches’ expectations” and the erotic motivations behind fashion. He’s hilariously pretentious and strangely endearing at the same time.

But why take my word for it, when you can watch the doco in all its glory here?

Related post:
Melbourne song of the month: 'The Loved One'/The Loved Ones (May 1966)

Then and now: Tram Town!

And now for something completely different: the memories — and amazing photos — of an ex-tram-driver. As someone who’s regularly heard bad-mouthing her local tram in no uncertain terms (96, I hate you!), this has been quite a revelation.

Peter Bruce started with the Melbourne and Metropolitan Tramways Board in 1966, and worked for them until 1977. A railway enthusiast since he was a toddler, his interest in trams started with the job. He also happened to be handy with a camera, which resulted in photos like this:

St Kilda Road, c. 1968. Photo: Peter Bruce

This photo is both familiar and strange. In the foreground, we see the number 8 tram to Toorak, still going strong today. (Peter tells me the number 4 behind it has since become the 67 service.) The iconic Flinders Street Station dome is hard to miss, and the spire of St Paul’s Cathedral dominates the horizon.

In the distance, the former Carlton and United Breweries site is just visible, with its rooftop logo and a ghostly ‘Victoria Bitter’ sign beneath it. ‘The Wales’ (Bank of NSW) is now Westpac (in a different building), while the Olympic Tyres sign twinkling coquettishly in the centre of the image also appears in the Angus O’Callaghan photo I featured in my first blog post. The Arts Centre had yet to be built (construction started in 1973), and the me Bank skyscraper is nowhere to be seen.

Peter explains another big difference between then and now: “City Road, which now passes underneath St Kilda Road, crossed on the level then. You can see distant traffic there in this shot.” And speaking of traffic, check out all the cool cars: a Mini, the front right corner of a Holden, a few Beetles, just to name a few.

Flash forward to 2014, and this is what you get:

Try as I might, I couldn't get both the Flinders St station dome and the Cathedral spire to show.

Peak hour squeeze

Hands up who finds the peak-hour tram-crush hard to endure? Rest assured, you’re not the first. Says Peter, trams “could be very crowded especially in the am and pm peaks and the connies [conductors] had to work hard to collect all the fares and keep the car (tram, but trammies always referred to them as cars) as close to time as possible. That required close co-operation between driver and conductor.” Beats Myki’s uncooperative attitude, I reckon.

Clarendon St & Albert Rd, c. 1968. Photo: Peter Bruce

The photo above shows the number 12 — “the equivalent of today’s 112 which runs from the corner of Fitzroy and Park Streets, St Kilda to St. Vincent’s Plaza.” This is what it looks like now:

To take this photo, I had to brave a tsunami of 4WDs and luxury sedans flooding out of Albert Park (what is it about so-called ‘sporty’ people and their SUVs?). While the gate, tree and house to the left remain, the pub and dry-cleaner to the right are no longer there.

Breakdown shakedown

Asked about whether trams broke down very often back in the 60s and 70s, Peter says, “The old trams didn’t break down very often and we’d always try to limp along so as not to delay the rest of the service.” (so what happened, Metlink?)

But he’s pretty diplomatic about how today’s trams stack up in comparison. “Trammies then were expected to use initiative to prevent avoidable delays; today they are not allowed to. Risk management is necessary but it has become an industry and thus has to continually justify its existence by finding more risks.”

Park Street at Kingsway, South Melbourne, c. 1968. Photo: Peter Bruce

There’s the number 4 again, at an intersection that’s completely unrecognisable today, Park Street and Kingsway. The 67 no longer takes that route, but then, I doubt you can get Voca dictation machines anymore either, if the photo below is any indication...

Believe it or not, this is the Park Street-Kingsway intersection today

Fairweather friends

One of my pet tram peeves is how they immediately go haywire when the weather changes. Peter recalls them being a bit hardier back in the day: “The weather, rain that is, had to be pretty heavy and sustained to badly affect the service, basically there had to be about 200mm flooding over the tracks.”

Number 11 at Park and Heather Streets, South Melbourne, c. 1968. Photo: Peter Bruce

“Number 11 was not a passenger-carrying tram. It was what was called a Scrubber Car and it existed to clean the head of the rail. The service at this intersection is the same today, route 1, South Melbourne Beach-East Coburg.”
 

  
As the photo above so hideously demonstrates, Park Street is no longer a swoonfest of EHs, Cortinas, original Mini wagons, EJs and other automotive gems. The milk bar advertising Craven Filter ciggies on the corner now appears to be vacant, if not downright derelict (that’s it with the graffitied wall), and a roundabout has since been built to moderate the traffic flow (interestingly, Peter recalls that “motor traffic in those days was much lighter but much less disciplined!”)

One thing that’s much the same is the towering council flat high-rise up the top of Park Street.

The television effect

Perhaps the most fascinating difference between then and now is the impact of television on peoples’ lifestyles (and their tram-going habits). Whereas the majority of PT passengers these days sit there glued to their mobile device, back then, people had to wait til they got home for their entertainment fix — the goggle box.

As Peter explains: “After about 8.00 or 8.30pm, the trams didn’t carry many people and that has to do with popular culture, TV. Most of the suburban picture theatres had closed down shortly after the advent of TV in 1956-57 and most people were glued to the box after they got home from work.”
 
Well, with shows like Go!! to be had, who could blame them?

A note about Peter’s photography:
“In 1968 I bought a Pentax Spotmatic which was a camera and lens system which enabled enthusiastic amateurs to buy a great camera at a reasonably affordable price. Most of the Japanese optical companies made very good cameras in this price range. I nearly always took black and white photos as I had my own darkroom.”

By the way, any trainspotters out there might like Peter's blog, I Was a Teenage Railfan, while tram-nuts will dig his online photo gallery here.

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Then and now

Bruno Benini

As the sweetheart-darlings among you would undoubtedly know, it’s the Virgin Australia Melbourne Fashion Festival this week. To be honest, I don’t consider that great cause for excitement, given the banality of most Aussie fashion these days, but it’s a mighty convenient excuse for today’s post.

After all, if today’s fashion looked anything like this, I’d be fighting my way to the front row by any means possible...

Behold, the genius eye of fashion photographer Bruno Benini (1925-2001)!

Too cool for words. Model Jan Stewart wearing Simona mini-dress for Sportsgirl, 1966. 
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

These boots were made for posin'. Unknown model in a Sharene Creations number, 1963.
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

Born in a medieval Italian town, Bruno Benini migrated to Melbourne with his family in 1935. After studying science at Melbourne Technical College (now RMIT) and working briefly at the Holden plant in Fisherman’s Bend, he returned to Italy by way of London in the late 1940s. It was during this trip he decided he wanted to be a fashion photographer.

Ahoy! Vida Elekna, Lynn Richmond, Terry Taylor and Gay Vardis at Station Pier, 1962.
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

His first studio, established in the mid-50s, was in Cotham Road, Kew. While he was honing his skills, he worked as a male model, learning the finer points of lighting and fashion photography in the process.

Gillian Dickson in grey flannel Sportsgirl suit with four cut outs of model Eric Hoek, 1965
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

After Kew, he moved his studio to several locations around the city before settling in McKillop Street. This is where he was based during the 1960s, sharing the space with his wife Hazel, a fashion display artist/stylist and his regular collaborator.

Talk about a dynamic duo: Bruno and Hazel singlehandedly cranked up the fabulosity factor of Melbourne’s fashion scene for many years!

Jan Stewart glamming it up in Stephen Glass evening gown, at the Lido nightclub (Russell St), 1968
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

Benini’s photos were primarily black and white, and appeared in publications across the country. He photographed all the top models of the time, from the divine Jan Stewart (girl crush alert!) and Maggie Taberer to Janice Wakeley and Maggi Eckhardt, capturing them in beautiful portraits that simultaneously stand the test of time and encapsulate their time.

Marg Hanna in heart-stoppingly groovy Norma Tullo ensemble, 1969
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

Benini’s photos are so much more than mere fashion snaps. They’re works of art, drop-dead gorgeous and super-creative, with a fun-loving streak a mile wide running through them. I love that they often feature recognisable Melbourne locations in them, yet there’s absolutely nothing provincial about them — they are universally swoonworthy.

Where oh where can I find a frock like this? Anne Hamilton in Simona dress for Sportsgirl, Black Rock, 1966. 
Photo: Powerhouse Museum Bruno Benini archive collection

Check out the Powerhouse Museum’s inspiring Bruno Benini photography archive for more photos of his work, spanning the 50s to the 80s.

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Groovy Prue

Melbourne song of the month: 'The Real Thing'/Russell Morris (March 1969)

It’s been honoured on a postage stamp, and covered by artists as diverse as Kylie Minogue (!), Midnight Oil and Ollie Olsen. It was in the soundtrack of the movie The Dish, and has featured in countless TV commercials: most recently, for the Subaru Forester (ugh). It’s “The Real Thing” by Russell Morris, and it was unleashed onto unsuspecting Australian listeners 45 years ago this month.

The stamp! Wish I had one of these...

The history behind this iconic track is fascinating. Written by Johnny Young, it was originally earmarked for pop singer Ronnie Burns, but legend has it that Molly Meldrum decided it was perfect for his then-protégé Morris, and cajoled Young into recording a rough demo of it for him.

Russell Morris. Photo: National Film and Sound Archive

In an interview on ABC Radio’s Into the Music program in December last year, Russell Morris explained how he first came to hear the song.

Planning to leave his band Somebody’s Image and launch a solo career, he went to see Johnny Young for advice on how to strike out on his own. Young was more patronising than helpful, but shortly afterwards the two men crossed paths again on a TV show where Russell was miming to one of his band’s hits. Seeing how wild the live studio audience went for the spunky teenage singer, Young was waiting for him when he returned to his dressing room, insisting that Morris listen to some of his songs.

Of the three songs he heard, Russell quite liked one, but asked if Young had anything else, as he didn't want to be lumped in with other pop stars of the day such as Johnny Farnham, Ronnie Burns and Normie Rowe. All Young could offer was a song he’d written ‘as a joke’…

“Ian had come in at that stage, Ian Meldrum, and Michael Barnett, who was managing me as well. And we heard it and all of us looked at each other and went, That’s the song and he [Young] went, What? You’re crazy! A solo artist couldn’t do this song. And we said, That’s the one we want. The way he played it is vastly different to what Ian Meldrum envisaged and achieved.”

Molly and Russell in more recent times. Photo: news.com.au

In the same interview, Morris reveals that Young’s rendition was actually a bit too close for comfort to Status Quo’s “Pictures of Matchstick Men,” so Molly’s reimagining of the track probably prevented some nasty legal wrangling.

“Ian changed it and said, Right, we’re going to do it like ‘Hurdy Gurdy Man’ meets ‘I Am the Walrus.’ John was banned from the studio for that reason.”

In the studio

Produced in Armstrong’s studio in South Melbourne over several months, the song involved a cast of thousands. Members of The Groop formed the main backing band; John Farrar (lead guitarist of The Strangers) did the arrangement; and a session singer called Maureen Elkner sang backing vox. Then there was that haunting acoustic guitar part, apparently one of the last pieces of the puzzle to be added…

Says Molly (in the same interview):

“I wanted acoustic because I was a Cat Stevens fan. The opening with the acoustic guitar is a guy who used to be in The Zoot … Roger Hicks, who was a great guitarist. So it’s his intro and the rest, with Hitler and the bombs, is my part.”

And let's face it, without Hitler and the bombs, "The Real Thing" wouldn't be "The Real Thing"! After a deceptively beautiful start showcasing Hicks’s sweet guitar and Morris’s even sweeter voice, the song gains ever-more layers and trippy effects to reach a manic, mind-bending finale featuring Molly imitating Winston Churchill, Brian Cadd of The Groop reading instructions from the side of a tape box, the Hitler Youth choir, Hitler himself, atomic bombs exploding, and enough phasing to bring on spontaneous hallucinations. According to Molly:

“Because of the Small Faces with ‘Itchycoo Park’, I loved phasing, and so … we [worked] out a way we could do the phasing … connecting two studios and putting lines across. I wanted it to be world-class [with] some … of the different effects that had influenced me. So you’ve got the Donovan thing, and the Cat Stevens, you’ve got part of the psychedelia of the Beatles with the Magical Mystery Tour…”

But before any record label executives could hear the final product, Molly started freaking out about how they’d respond (after all, it was 6 minutes 20 seconds long, almost unthinkable for a single), grabbed the tapes from the studio and fled into the night. Russell Morris and recording engineer John Sayers eventually tracked him down in Albert Park.

Turns out Molly’s fears weren’t groundless: when the EMI/Columbia honchos heard the song, they were somewhat less than impressed. Without the label’s support promoting it, Morris and Meldrum saw no alternative than to hand-deliver their psychedelic epic to radio stations themselves. Their efforts paid off.

Top of the pops! The Go-Set Top 40, 31 May 1969

Not only was “The Real Thing” a number one hit in Australia, but it made the top of the charts in Chicago and New York. In 2001, it was voted fourteenth in APRA’s Top 30 Australian songs.

All together now: There’s a meaning there but the meaning there doesn’t really mean a thing….

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What would you give Molly for his birthday?