tag:theconversation.com,2011:/us/topics/molly-meldrum-27525/articlesMolly Meldrum – The Conversation2023-10-02T19:11:40Ztag:theconversation.com,2011:article/2138962023-10-02T19:11:40Z2023-10-02T19:11:40ZThe rise and ‘whimper-not-a-bang’ fall of Australia’s trailblazing rock press<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/550221/original/file-20230926-17-uy2ape.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=0%2C0%2C4000%2C1994&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption"></span> </figcaption></figure><p>People under 30 don’t need to care about – or even understand – this. But there really was a time when exposure to culture was mediated by curators who had far too much power over what we all saw, heard or experienced. </p>
<p>In the era before social media and widespread internet access, artists had no direct connection to their fanbases, and required whole distinct manifestations of media to communicate news of their activities, directions and products. </p>
<p>We had a film press, a television press, a literary press – and a music press. </p>
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<p><em>Review: Full Coverage – Samuel J. Fell (Monash University Press)</em></p>
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<p>I needed to read Samuel J. Fell’s <a href="https://publishing.monash.edu/product/full-coverage/">Full Coverage</a>, the first (and surely only) ever history of Australia’s rock press, for selfish reasons: I consider my tastes and values to have been significantly shaped by the phenomenon. </p>
<p>Over 300 pages, Fell surveys the development of local rock music coverage in (mainly national) magazines, stopping to inspect some of the eccentric and/or dedicated writers, editors and publishers who made the greatest impact along the way.</p>
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<p>My first music writing was published in Vox, the short-lived tabloid “muzpaper”, in 1980 – and I flitted at the edges for more than a decade afterwards. </p>
<p>In a “journalism” career I was lucky enough to bail from a few years before the internet began to bite, I was more involved in teenage (largely, pop-oriented) colour magazines than in the out-and-out rock press in Australia. Nonetheless, I would read rock publications voraciously and I never passed up the opportunity to contribute.</p>
<p>There are a lot of people named in this book I have met, befriended or worked for, in my ten or more years working in publishing in Sydney in the 1980s. In that regard, Fell’s narrative has a strange, dreamlike quality for me. </p>
<p>Reading Full Coverage, I learned some interesting background and connections between particular writers, editors and publishers – I gained a new historical understanding of the field. There were also things that Fell failed (or perhaps chose not) to include. </p>
<h2>Molly, Lily and Go-Set</h2>
<p>After some courageous short-lived forays, the Australian music press started in earnest in 1966 with the Melbourne-based Go-Set. Set up by university students, whose only prior experience was Monash University’s paper, Go-Set quickly filled a need for information and connection among pop fans. </p>
<p>Enthusiastic writers like Lily Brett, Ian (Molly) Meldrum, Johnny Young and Douglas Panther conveyed the inside story of the lives of musicians and celebrities, while maintaining a particular accessibility for their “teens and twenties” readers. </p>
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<p>Meldrum’s famous tale of being told by <a href="https://theconversation.com/john-lennons-imagine-at-50-a-deceptively-simple-ballad-a-lasting-emblem-of-hope-167444">John Lennon</a> that the Beatles were breaking up (Meldrum didn’t quite take it in, and it wasn’t until someone at Go-Set listened to the interview tape he sent back from London that the story “broke”) isn’t in this book. </p>
<p>But Brett’s testimony of the global pop stars – <a href="https://theconversation.com/on-the-50th-anniversary-of-her-death-janis-joplin-still-ignites-147097">Janis Joplin</a>, the Mamas and the Papas, <a href="https://theconversation.com/50-years-ago-jimi-hendrixs-woodstock-anthem-expressed-the-hopes-and-fears-of-a-nation-120717">Jimi Hendrix</a> – she talked to one-to-one gives us a sense of the importance the magazine held for its readership. </p>
<p>Go-Set’s publisher, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phillip_Frazer">Philip Frazer</a>, went on, in a haphazard way, to bring a Rolling Stone franchise to Australia. </p>
<p>“Stone”, as Fell and his informants insist on calling it, has been running locally ever since. In its early days, it coexisted with some key 1970s and 1980s tabloids, namely <a href="https://collections.artscentremelbourne.com.au/#browse=enarratives.1834">Juke</a> and <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_Australia_Magazine">Rock Australia Magazine</a>, popularly known as RAM. </p>
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<figcaption><span class="caption">Go-Set Four Corners.</span></figcaption>
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<p>In the early 1990s, a substantial part of the Rolling Stone staff, including Toby Creswell and Lesa-Belle Furhagen, broke with its publisher Philip Keir and set up their own magazine, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Juice_(Australian_magazine)">Juice</a>. Accounts vary among players about what led to the split. </p>
<p>Oddly, Fell muses on Juice’s similarity to the American <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spin_(magazine)">Spin</a> for many pages, before he notes that a proportion of its editorial was directly licensed from that publication. This was the case to the degree that the Spin logo was on the cover of early issues!</p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/molly-is-lacking-as-a-tv-show-but-millions-including-me-are-hooked-54471">Molly is lacking as a TV show but millions, including me, are hooked</a>
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<h2>Street papers: ‘uniquely Australian’</h2>
<p>The next format to crash down all assumptions about best music journalism models were the “street papers”, which Fell suggests were a uniquely Australian creation. Their extensive advertising revenue from venues, record companies and related industries allowed these publications to be provided at no cost. </p>
<p>The street paper killed RAM and Juke, not by being anywhere near as good, but far, far cheaper. The finale of Full Coverage is the whimper-not-a-bang decline of music-based print media in the face of social media, mercifully hastened by the pillow-on-the-face of Covid. </p>
<p>Fell loves the “street papers”, and one gets the sense he would happily have written about them alone. He does concede a lot less time went into them editorially, compared to those that cost money – like Juke or RAM (or Vox!). </p>
<p>But he doesn’t spend a lot of time on the obvious additional truth that the street papers’ editorial positions tended to be driven by the advertising dollar, which meant negativity was almost always absent from reviews. Indeed, advertising was really the only way to guarantee a feature or review. </p>
<p>I am reminded of a time when the editor of a street paper I occasionally wrote for declared a special issue, in which all writers would be permitted to opine freely on anything they wanted. The plan was later abandoned.</p>
<p>Fell explains a lot in this broad history, though he too often takes his informants at their word, and uses their words as his basis, I suspect, to construct his narrative. </p>
<p>He probably had no choice, given the unavailability of archives. Most of the publishers I worked for had no respect at all for legislation requiring copies of all published material to be presented to the relevant state library and the NLA. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/how-a-pot-smoking-acid-gobbling-smart-arse-became-the-producer-behind-some-of-australias-greatest-music-205744">How a 'pot-smoking, acid-gobbling smart-arse' became the producer behind some of Australia's greatest music</a>
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<h2>Undeniable soap operas</h2>
<p>He was surely dissuaded, probably by word-count considerations – but perhaps also by lawyers – from getting his hands dirty in the ins-and-outs of the personalities and behaviours of the individuals he’s writing about. What’s the word for respecting an author’s restraint, while wishing there was just a bit more goss within their pages? </p>
<p>Of course, there were many links between the producers of music magazines and the people they wrote about. By links, I don’t just mean romantic or domestic entanglements, though I do mean that, of course. There are also great, undeniable soap operas. </p>
<p>A public spat between <a href="https://theconversation.com/speaking-with-steve-kilbey-lead-singer-of-the-church-34751">Steve Kilbey</a> of The Church and music journalist <a href="https://theconversation.com/gudinski-by-stuart-coupe-is-a-fast-and-wild-tale-of-australias-music-industry-43838">Stuart Coupe</a> in the early 1980s springs to mind. </p>
<p>It would appear that Kilbey and Coupe spent a long time talking for a feature, during which Kilbey made some broad claims about his own genius. Coupe recorded the conversation and published some choice elements in RAM – to some derision from readers. (Though let’s be clear: Kilbey at his best is pretty good!) But no doubt there were hundreds more conflicts – some manufactured, others heartfelt – between artist and reporter/critic. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/friday-essay-under-the-milky-way-how-a-beautiful-accident-of-a-song-was-born-and-became-an-anthem-193095">Friday essay: Under the Milky Way – how a 'beautiful accident' of a song was born and became an anthem</a>
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<p>Similarly, Fell either doesn’t know or doesn’t care about the connection between the music press and TV, which was strong. Channel 0/10 shows, such as <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uptight_(TV_series)">Uptight</a> in the late 1960s, featured content and tie-ins with the “teens and twenties” magazine Go-Set. </p>
<p>Michael Gudinski’s failed foray with the early 1970s paper <a href="http://www.milesago.com/press/daily-planet.htm">(Daily) Planet</a> was repeated with a TV show, WROK, a decade later – in both cases, Gudinski failed to understand the difference between advertising and journalism. Nor does Fell mention <a href="https://youtu.be/cFS06jMlIio?si=v83a33rsgDKh_p56">the tragically hilarious “burial” of Go-Set</a> following its demise, broadcast on the ABC kids’ show Flashez in the mid-1970s.</p>
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<figcaption><span class="caption">The ‘burial’ of Go Set, staged by Stephen McLean, Daryl Nugent and photographer Philip Morris in 1974.</span></figcaption>
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<p>Then there are careers like that of radio announcer, pop singer and jockey <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donnie_Sutherland">Donnie Sutherland</a>. Fell remarks on Sutherland’s induction into the world of Go-Set, but doesn’t mention his subsequent 12-year career as host of Sounds on Channel 7 – which is how most readers would remember him. </p>
<p>Fell also touches on Countdown magazine briefly, as a tie-in between Australia’s best known and (still) best loved TV pop show. But he hardly mentions the magazine’s content: Countdown used its biggest advantage – that the show was incredibly popular and any magazine called Countdown was going to sell – to go outside musical coverage and engage with its readers’ lives, opinions and politics. </p>
<p>More generally, it needs to be noted that, of course, context can get out of control. Personally, though, I could have handled the sacrifice of some of the half-remembered accounts of ins and outs of owners and editors, in return for more discussion of the publications’ content and impact. </p>
<p>No doubt Fell has a life, and lives can easily be frittered away reading old music magazines. But discussion, for instance, of <a href="https://jennyvalentish.com/2014/08/jenny-interviews-jen-jewel-brown/">Jen Jewel Brown</a>’s piece for the early 1970s Daily Planet on the tribulations of being a woman writing about music would have revealed plenty. </p>
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<figcaption><span class="caption">AC/DC interviewed by Molly Meldrum on Countdown.</span></figcaption>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/friday-essay-punks-legacy-40-years-on-60633">Friday essay: punk's legacy, 40 years on</a>
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<h2>Smash Hits and Rolling Stone</h2>
<p>Back to the topic of Countdown: Fell pays its competitor, Australian <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Smash_Hits">Smash Hits</a>, minimal notice. I worked for this magazine (primarily as features editor) between 1984 and 1991. While most definitely a music magazine, it really isn’t in Fell’s terrain. Its readers ranged from the very young to the mid-teens – they were more into “pop” than “rock”. </p>
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<p>But I do believe to suggest Smash Hits was “struggling” in the mid-to-late 1980s, as Fell does, is a misrepresentation: it had its ups and downs, but it was the national market leader in music magazines for at least ten years after its launch in 1984, outselling all others. In short, it was the leading music magazine of its era, and someone is feeding Fell misinformation. </p>
<p>That it sold the most is not an argument for the magazine’s quality, of course, though it had its moments. I mention this because it speaks once again to the problem with dependence on oral history: given the long-ago demise or sell-off of various publishers, historical sales figures are largely unattainable and subject to the vagaries of memory. Fell didn’t talk to anyone from (or even really about) Australian Smash Hits. </p>
<p>Which only leaves the elephant in the room. </p>
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<p>Rolling Stone has, of course, a 50-year history in Australia. Whereas Australian Smash Hits was often criticised for including content from its British parent, the first decade of Rolling Stone in this country was typically little more than a distillation of old cut-and-pastes from the American magazine. (Fell alludes to this, but doesn’t mind.) </p>
<p>Rolling Stone was often a shambles, and Fell appropriately gives the most space to its best era, under Kathy Bail’s editorship, when a few great moments – the Paul Keating cover most of all – brought it dangerously close to relevance. </p>
<p>Fell discusses the defection of key players, which led to Bail’s recruitment by publisher Philip Keir. And he gives credit to Keir and Bail for recognising the importance the internet was going to play in media, moving towards the 21st century. </p>
<h2>‘I thought it was sci-fi nonsense’</h2>
<p>No one could have imagined the changes afoot, of course, but I take my hat off to Keir for seeing it more clearly than most of us. I spent time with him for a few weeks in the mid-1990s while he employed me to work up another publication for his stable – and he availed me of his knowledge of, and passion for, the possibilities of online publishing. </p>
<p>I was impressed that he believed it, but I thought it was sci-fi nonsense. In less than ten years, as you know, the whole landscape of print media was lacerated. </p>
<p>Of course, there is still a music press: look at the preposterously overblown global influence of <a href="https://pitchfork.com/">Pitchfork</a>, for instance. In Australia, the music press only takes print form in the most boutique of varieties, <a href="https://efficientspace.bandcamp.com/merch/enthusiasms-issue-02-issue-03-bundle">like Melbourne magazine Efficient Space</a>. A whole social realm, a way of understanding a culture, is gone. Is that bad? </p>
<p>Ironically, online resources can help us understand whether it is or not – for instance, the University of Wollongong’s repository of the best 1970s-80s rock magazine of them all, Adelaide’s <a href="https://archivesonline.uow.edu.au/nodes/view/3493/">Roadrunner</a>. </p>
<p>If Fell’s book doesn’t entirely convey why Australian rock journalism was worth the candle, the six years of Donald Robertson’s witty, passionate, innovative paper just might.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/213896/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>David Nichols does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>David Nichols was a music journalist for more than a decade, starting in 1980. Samuel J. Fell’s new history of Australian rock writing takes him down memory lane.David Nichols, Professor of Urban Planning, The University of MelbourneLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1967932023-01-26T19:05:37Z2023-01-26T19:05:37ZMolly Meldrum at 80: how the ‘artfully incoherent’ presenter changed Australian music – and Australian music journalism<p>Ian Alexander “Molly” Meldrum is 80 on January 29 2023. </p>
<p>The Australian music industry would not be where it is today without his work as a talent scout, DJ, record producer, journalist, broadcaster and professional fan. </p>
<p>His legacy has been acknowledged by the ARIAs, APRA, the Logies, an Order of Australia and even a <a href="https://theconversation.com/how-will-molly-help-us-remember-australian-culture-54117">mini-series</a>. </p>
<p>Just a couple of weeks ago, Meldrum made headlines again for an appearance at Elton John’s farewell concert in Melbourne when he <a href="https://themusic.com.au/news/molly-meldrum-bares-his-bum-at-elton-john-concert/oL24srW0t7Y/14-01-23">“mooned” the crowd</a> in a playful display of rock and roll rebellion. He later <a href="https://www.nme.com/en_au/news/music/molly-meldrum-apologises-for-mooning-audiences-at-elton-johns-melbourne-concert-3381156">apologised</a> to the audience and old friend Elton, keen to make sure no one else was blamed. </p>
<p>It was an irreverence typical of Meldrum’s long career. But his legacy is not just in the musical acts he supported. It is also in the taste makers who followed in his footsteps.</p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/countdown-just-nostalgia-or-still-breaking-new-ground-83963">Countdown - just nostalgia, or still breaking new ground?</a>
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<h2>‘Artfully incoherent’</h2>
<p>A journalist at pioneering music magazine Go-Set, a presenter and record producer, Meldrum became a household name with the ABC TV music show Countdown (1974-87). Countdown was a weekly touchstone for the industry and fans, promoting local acts alongside the best in the world.</p>
<p>Meldrum’s approach to interviewing and commentary is legendary. ABC historian Ken Inglis called his interviewing style “artfully incoherent”. </p>
<p>Importantly, his charm put artists and fans at ease. </p>
<p>Meldrum is not a slick player, but a fan. This fandom is felt so deeply that, at times, he became overwhelmed. </p>
<p>One of Meldrum’s most famous interviews was in 1977 when the then Prince Of Wales appeared on Countdown to launch a charity record and event. The presenter became increasingly flustered. </p>
<p>Even now, watching back, it’s hard not to side with Meldrum rather than his famous guest. Pomp, ceremony and hierarchy really didn’t make sense in this rock and pop oasis. </p>
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<p>In another interview, Meldrum spoke to David Bowie on a tennis court. Both men casually talked and smoked (it was the ‘70s!), talking seriously about the work but not much else. </p>
<p>As Meldrum handed Bowie a tennis racket to demonstrate how the iconic track, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vkLE1Gno724">Fame</a> (with John Lennon) was born, the Starman was given space to be hilariously human.</p>
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<p>When meeting a sedate Stevie Nicks, Meldrum met her on her level. </p>
<p>Nicks told Meldrum she was only happy “sometimes”, and rather than probing, he just listened. When Meldrum asked about the dog Nicks had in her lap, she opened up: </p>
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<p>I got her way before I had any money, I didn’t have near enough money to buy her […] She’s one of the things I’ve had to give up for Fleetwood Mac, because you’re not home.</p>
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<p>Meldrum approached this, and all his guests, with humanity. This is how his insights into the reality of rock royalty are effortlessly uncovered. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/how-will-molly-help-us-remember-australian-culture-54117">How will 'Molly' help us remember Australian culture?</a>
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<h2>New taste makers</h2>
<p>A country boy who came to the city, Meldrum studied music and the growing local industry much more attentively than his law degree. He passionately supported (and continues to support) Australian popular music – and Australian music fans.</p>
<p>He speaks a love language for music that musicians and fans share, and a language which has continued in other presenters.</p>
<p>Following in Meldrum’s footsteps we have seen distinct critical voices like Myf Warhurst, Julia Zemiro and Zan Rowe. </p>
<p>Each of these women have approached the music industry with charm like Meldrum, but also their own perspectives: Zemiro with a love of international influence; Warhurst with pop as a language to connect us to the everyday; Rowe with a way to connect audiences and musicians through conversations about their own processes and passions. </p>
<p>Our best music critics, and musicians, have embraced an unapologetic energy Meldrum made acceptable.</p>
<p>Meldrum is also a pioneer in the LGBTQ+ community, weathering the storms of prejudice during his early career. Today, members of the media and musical community have greater protection from the prejudice common when his career began. </p>
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<h2>The music, of course, the music</h2>
<p>The Australian music industry would not be what it is had Molly Meldrum gone on to be a lawyer. </p>
<p>Through the pages of Go-Set and on Countdown he worked to promote new talent, believing in and developing acts like AC/DC, Split Enz, Paul Kelly, Do Re Mi, Australian Crawl and Kylie Minogue before the rest of the industry knew what to do with them. </p>
<p>He did the same for international artists. ABBA, Elton John, KISS, Madonna and many other now mega-names were first presented to Australian audiences via Meldrum’s wonderful ear.</p>
<p>Today, Australian music encompasses pop, dance, electro and hip hop, and artists from all walks of life. Meldrum’s willingness to listen has contributed to this, and he encouraged others to do the same. </p>
<p>Meldrum remains revered not just for nostalgia but as an example of what putting energy into the local scene can achieve. </p>
<p>Most importantly, Meldrum continues to be a music fan. He loves the mainstream, the place where the majority of the audience also resides. He has never bought into the idea of a “guilty” pleasure – if it works, it works, no music snobbery here. </p>
<p>His catch-cry – “do yourself a favour” – really does sum up the importance of music. It is not a luxury, but something to really keep us going. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/molly-is-lacking-as-a-tv-show-but-millions-including-me-are-hooked-54471">Molly is lacking as a TV show but millions, including me, are hooked</a>
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<img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/196793/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Liz Giuffre does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Molly Meldrum is not a slick player, but a fan.Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology SydneyLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/1595332021-04-23T04:36:24Z2021-04-23T04:36:24ZAll my loving: Young Talent Time still glows, 50 years since first airing on Australian TV<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/396681/original/file-20210423-22-fhj0hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=30%2C206%2C2873%2C2764&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">
</span> <span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://photos-cdn.aap.com.au/Image/20060831000015089030?path=/aap_dev2/imagearc/2006/11-18/4a/9c/79/aapimage-5c9dzyqrj1y1fhquw9ue_layout.jpg">AAP/Ten</a></span></figcaption></figure><p>This weekend marks 50 years since the television premiere of <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0243097/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Young Talent Time</a> — a pastel-coloured, saccharine-sweet mix of talent competition, pop music tribute show and star factory.</p>
<p>Accordingly, the National Film and Sound Archive (NSFA) has <a href="https://www.nfsa.gov.au/collection/curated/young-talent-time-50th-anniversary">curated a digital tribute to the program</a> that is in turns nostalgic and cringe-worthy. There is also a <a href="https://www.adelaidefestivalcentre.com.au/events/young-talent-time-50th-anniversary-reunion-special/">50th anniversary stage show</a> in the works. </p>
<p>Young Talent Time (YTT) first aired April 24, 1971 and ran for 18 years. It was launched at a time when music television was still dominated by local performers doing covers of (or even just lip synching) hits from the American and British hit parades. </p>
<p>YTT was Saturday evening viewing for a generation of families. It helped shape not only its young stars but also viewers’ musical tastes.</p>
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<figcaption><span class="caption">Doing the Neutron dance and partying like it was 1999 (even though it was much earlier than that.)</span></figcaption>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/rewind-repeat-tvs-fame-machine-is-oh-so-retro-19155">Rewind, repeat: TV's fame machine is oh-so retro</a>
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<h2>The real thing</h2>
<p>Produced and created by Johnny Young, YTT was a play on his surname as well as the faces on screen. Young was a record producer, composer and pop star who had already appeared on music television as a young (sorry) performer and host of <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt3877794/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">The Go Show</a> and <a href="https://televisionau.com/search/label/club-seventeen">Club Seventeen</a>. </p>
<p>He had a sweet face and voice, and was exactly what the teenagers of the day wanted, while still being clean-cut enough to avoid worrying their parents.</p>
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<p>Perhaps Young’s biggest claim to fame (pre-YTT) was writing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wylEB-P76nA">The Real Thing</a>, Russell Morris’ hit song that still stands as the sound of a psychedelic generation and movement. The song is also remarkable for Young’s collaboration with another television icon, track producer and future Countdown host <a href="https://www.profiletalent.com.au/talent/molly-meldrum/">Ian “Molly” Meldrum</a>.</p>
<p>Unlike <a href="https://www.countdownmemories.com/beginning_index.html">Countdown</a> (which hit screens a few years later) or <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0343240/fullcredits">Bandstand</a>, YTT wasn’t necessarily about the stars of today but the stars of tomorrow. The idea drew some inspiration from <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047757/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_5">The Mickey Mouse Club</a> on US television and extended off screen with Johnny Young Talent Schools popping up (and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/johnnyyoungtalentschool/">still operating</a>) around the country. </p>
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<p>Sure, there were other talent quests around, but YTT was more of a celebration rather than a cut-throat competition. </p>
<p>The “musical family” feeling was built into each episode with its regular all-in finale singalong of The Beatles’ <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TSpiwK5fig0">All My Loving</a>. The host, who today goes by <a href="https://tvtonight.com.au/2021/04/young-talent-time-50-we-were-perfect-programming.html">John Young</a>, recalls, “People used to tune in, just to see that”, tempting us to imagine a whole nation apparently tuned in for wholesome entertainment. It was always followed by Young’s smiley send-off: “Goodnight Australia!” </p>
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<figcaption><span class="caption">‘Remember I’ll always be true.’ Featuring tiny Tina Arena.</span></figcaption>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/countdown-just-nostalgia-or-still-breaking-new-ground-83963">Countdown - just nostalgia, or still breaking new ground?</a>
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<h2>Learning to love local talent</h2>
<p>Beyond the bright young things, catchy tunes and shiny sets were significant developments in the Australian entertainment industry. The show’s long run served as a bridge between old and new forms of music television. </p>
<p>When YTT began, radio was still king and <a href="https://www.jstor.org/stable/853189?seq=1">Australian artists</a> were largely dependent on international markets and trends to make their way. With the odd exception (like Young himself), the Australian music industry still prioritised songs and artists that had “made it” overseas.</p>
<p>By the end of YTT’s run, the tide was starting to turn. Local artists and audiences wanted to see and hear more of their own performing their own work. </p>
<p>The biggest stars from the show, including Debra Byrne, Danni Minogue (and sister Kylie Minogue who appeared as an occasional YTT sibling guest) and Tina Arena, all went on to have careers presenting work in their own distinctive voices. </p>
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<p>There was a limited <a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt2553426/?ref_=fn_al_tt_2">2012 YTT reboot</a> hosted by Rob Mills, but it didn’t really take. Music television today like <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/triplej/news/musicnews/find-out-whos-playing-season-3-the-set-abc-tv/13292442">The Set</a>, which will start its new season on YYT’s anniversary, is dominated by original work by a diverse range of Australian artists. </p>
<p>Past viewers have often wondered: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p285V-15hys">where the YTT stars are now</a>? Some of its stars have <a href="https://www.news.com.au/entertainment/music/the-voice-australia-young-talent-time-star-joey-dee-auditions/news-story/71ea29f13653c441c62dbb5e5572a778">returned to television talent quests</a> to try their luck. Others have had the good grace to laugh at their younger selves (hello, <a href="https://www.abc.net.au/doublej/music-reads/features/beven-the-musical-oral-history/11890902">Bevan the Musical</a>). </p>
<p>But how many snapshots into the lives of “ordinary Australians” remain captured in the YTT archive? For every Tina, Danni, Bevan or Vince, there were thousands of kids in the audience at home or in the studio cheering them on and connecting through music. </p>
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<p>The <a href="https://www.nfsa.gov.au/collection/curated/young-talent-time-50th-anniversary">NFSA celebration</a> is understandably chock full of Minogues and mini-epic feats of costuming, choreography and pizzazz. But somewhere in storage there might be the many audition tapes, one-off appearances, studio audience snippets and letters to the stars. Not to mention the DIY shows in backyards, bedrooms and playgrounds around the country, perhaps captured on cassette or VHS. What could we learn from those wonderful pieces? </p>
<p>Young Talent Time was significant for its national reach and accessibility — a way for audiences, especially young audiences, to connect through music. While there were many flashes in the pan that fizzled, others have continued to burn bright. The joy for the audience (then and now) is the glow of having a go. </p>
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Read more:
<a href="https://theconversation.com/michael-gudinski-how-a-titan-of-the-industry-shaped-australian-music-for-five-decades-156290">Michael Gudinski: how a titan of the industry shaped Australian music for five decades</a>
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<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Liz Giuffre does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Where are they now? It’s half a century since Young Talent Times aired on Australian television. It changed its young stars and audiences.Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology SydneyLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/839632017-09-14T23:58:05Z2017-09-14T23:58:05ZCountdown - just nostalgia, or still breaking new ground?<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/185951/original/file-20170914-6564-1y6q0on.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Shirley from Skyhooks in Countdown</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">ABC</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>Audiences of a certain age still gush about Countdown, the ABC’s music show that ran between 1974 and 1987. The ritual of sitting down to watch the ABC at 6pm on a Sunday (and maybe again for the Saturday repeat) is one that many remember fondly. The lucky might catch old Countdown episodes during music video program Rage’s popular summer series, also an event worth setting the recorder for. Either way, the idea of setting aside time to commune with a TV show based on a particular time slot is an experience that the YouTube generation can scarcely get their heads around.</p>
<p>The ABC will be recreating this experience in 13 “<a href="http://www.abc.net.au/tv/programs/classic-countdown/">Classic Countdown</a>” episodes - one per year - from September 17 at 6pm (with repeats the following Saturday). </p>
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<p>When Countdown debuted on the ABC November 8 1974, television had only been in Australia for about 20 years. The medium was still relatively new and audiences across the nation were still divided by distance as well as access. The ABC lead the way in creating strong networks across regions in a way that commercial outlets couldn’t (or weren’t interested) in duplicating.</p>
<p>Countdown’s emergence in the 1970s was part of a perfect storm. Young people were being included in the national conversation in a way they hadn’t quite been before (including the lowering of the voting age from 21 to 18), while a renewed interest in local production and creative output was emerging. Other music television programs like Kommotion, Young Talent Time, Six O’Clock Rock and the long-enduring Bandstand did feature Australians, but often in supporting roles. Instead, Countdown, lead by talent co-ordinator Ian “Molly” Meldrum, was intent on fostering the local industry beyond cover versions and imitation acts.</p>
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<p>Ian Meldrum began in the Australian music industry as a print journalist for the Melbourne based (then nationally circulated) pop culture magazine Go-Set. Launched in 1966 by university students, the magazine soon gained significant attention, not just for its pioneering approach but because of its clever cross-industry promotion.</p>
<p>Wrapped up in this was Meldrum – first as a young journalist and commentator, and then for a while as a performer on music television shows like Kommotion and Uptight. Convinced to be part of the medium because “it would be good for Go-Set”, it was during this time a mini-Molly cult first began to develop. There was no hiding his sheer love of pop music and shameless fandom for all that was good in the genre.</p>
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<p>Meldrum’s influence developed sharply once Countdown found its audience. Still working as a DJ as well as writer, his ear for the next big thing was what the show and its viewers relied on. It was also what a nervous local industry waited on, with his endorsement (“Do yourself a favour”) seemingly making or breaking a release. Shamelessly trying to avoid any form of musical snobbery, he did his best to champion what he genuinely considered to be the best of the form.</p>
<p>Molly’s charm on Countdown, as it had been earlier, was his enthusiasm. It’s an approach that made him something of a laughing stock with television professionals – but made those at home love him more. He wasn’t slick like his US and UK counterparts, and instead often became visibly nervous and excited. Even watching again now you can’t help but empathise with him. It was (and still is) bloody charming.</p>
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<p>Is there anything new left to say about Countdown?</p>
<p>It’s easy to assume that Countdown is just a nostalgia piece. But there’s still a lot to be learned from the show and its success. Australian music has been given little moments in the (television) sun since the 1970s and 80s, but nothing quite with the same impact. These days artists and audiences are much less naïve to the machinations of the industry - something that can leave us all a little stale in terms of innovation and experimentation.</p>
<p>Countdown’s legacy, and continued lesson, lies not just in the high profile success pieces like AC/DC, Skyhooks, Olivia Newton-John and Marcia Hines. Watching back again, the real lessons lie in the diversity of people and sounds that were featured. The lesson is the kids dancing down the front busy just losing themselves in the pleasure of music. These same kids then went to school or uni or work (or better, the record store) the next day to continue to support the local industry. At least a few who are in the industry now got their first inspiration by watching people, just like them, having a go.</p>
<p>There are also lessons to be gained from the apparent “bumbling” of Molly. He may have “ummed” and “ahhed” during interviews, but you could never deny his belief in the artists he was speaking to. He championed the “big hits” but also the underdogs and “not quite there yet” artists. Especially local artists who didn’t quite look or sound like they belonged anywhere else - and that difference was what made them so fantastic.</p>
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<p>So - when you’re digging into the archive and enjoying the Countdown of old, also do a little searching and take a chance on the next local mould breaker. Go on, do yourself a favour.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/83963/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
Audiences of a certain age still gush about Countdown, the ABC’s music show that ran between 1974 and 1987. The ritual of sitting down to watch the ABC at 6pm on a Sunday (and maybe again for the Saturday…Liz Giuffre, Senior Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology SydneyLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/765782017-04-24T02:24:21Z2017-04-24T02:24:21ZLogies 2017 – Samuel Johnson wins gold for Molly at a wonderfully daggy ceremony<p>The <a href="http://www.nowtolove.com.au/celebrity/tv/59th-tv-week-logie-awards-winners-36755">59th Annual Logie Awards</a> came with the usual ceremony and criticism. Is this really the best that the Australian television industry can offer? And if it is, why is it, at times, so daggy? Those criticisms forget that all awards ceremonies are (ironically) quite undignified – groups of people who are being celebrated for their day jobs are squeezed into uncomfortable clothes and pitted against each other for a little statue.</p>
<p>Last night’s ceremony showed an industry and public who are coming a little closer together in terms of values, however some gaps clearly remained. When Kerri-Anne Kennerley took the stage to receive her Logies Hall of Fame award (the third woman to do so in nearly 60 years), she also confessed to having been on Australian television, in some way, continuously for the last 50 years despite having never won an award.</p>
<p>“I am very excited to get this, and even more excited not to get it posthumously. Not that there haven’t been a few people who have tried to bury me,” she said with a smile that only a survivor with too much class to name names could muster. </p>
<p>“Working in television has given me so much joy. It’s a privilege, and an education in humanity, compassion … cruelty, and so much more.” </p>
<p>She ultimately thanked her audience, looking right down the barrel of the camera into our lounge rooms like a true professional, thanking the ordinary people she had spoken to as part of her work, “people who came on [television] to get a message out” to the rest of Australia. While network television may no longer have that scope (or at least, it now has social media to give it a run for its money), hers was an important acknowledgement of television’s role in letting ordinary Australia see itself.</p>
<p>The talk of the night was the triumph of the mini-series <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt4158318/">Molly</a>, the biopic focused on Molly Meldrum’s life. The series created something of an upset given it took up relatively little airtime compared to other series it ran against – a mere couple of hours and two episodes instead of those that go for many weeks and series. The series received Best Drama, and its star Samuel Johnson won the Silver Logie for Best Actor as well as the Gold Logie itself. </p>
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<p>While Meldrum was acknowledged by the cameras each time the series won, his place in the pageant was distinctly different each time. When Johnson won Best Actor quite early in the night he didn’t mention Meldrum at all, or himself, but instead talked of his sister Connie’s continued battle with cancer and the “Love Your Sister” campaign to raise money for research. While there were some “tut tuts” on Twitter about the focus, from where I was sitting it was perfectly lovely and showed the sincerity that makes Sam such a compelling person to watch, in any capacity.</p>
<p>When the award for Best Drama was revealed producer and music industry icon Michael Gudinski did the talking. He did mention Meldrum a little (although with a joking dismissal), instead focusing on the “broader team” that worked on the project, including his own Liberation label and their role in the show’s soundtrack. He concluded with another appeal, “let’s celebrate Australian music, television and film – is our government listening?”</p>
<p>As Johnson took the stage to receive the Gold Logie for his portrayal of Meldrum, the cameras deliberately focused away from the real Meldrum as he was assisted up onto the stage. Now in his seventies and still a little worse for wear following his accident in 2011, he interrupted Johnson early on with some mock advice about not mumbling when presenting on television. He also told him never to tell anyone to “Do themselves a fucking favour” – dropping the expletive with the charm that only a drunk national treasure at the end of the Logies can muster.</p>
<p>Finally Johnson spoke a little of himself in a deliciously self-deprecating speech. “I have been insisting that my family address me as your royal Logie-ness”, he said of the leadup to the award. “I found my home here in the arts – a place that encouraged me to be truthful, to work harder, to peruse excellence; I did none of that,” he smiled to great applause. The camera flashed to Meldrum who laughed heartily here too. Clearly embarrassed by the attention, Meldrum took the microphone next to praise Johnson – a speech that wandered as the real Molly, overcome by the occasion, the hour, and perhaps the liquid accolades, swore more and made less and less sense. </p>
<p>He talked about his hesitation that Johnson may have wanted to learn “how to be gay” by observing him – something that made the room uncomfortable, but even through the slurring, was an important point to make. Meldrum, and all people, should be allowed to be seen as multidimensional. Just when it seemed presenter Dave Hughes was about to step in and gently remove him, Meldrum snapped back to present Johnson with a gold “Molly hat”, saying “on behalf of the drama queen of Australia, I would like to crown you with this golden hat”.</p>
<p>The conclusion showed the public’s love of two underdogs. Johnson’s win was not only the result of those couple of hours on the miniseries, but a swell of support for the <a href="http://www.loveyoursister.org/">Love Your Sister campaign</a> which he has tirelessly dedicated himself to. But it was also a win for Meldrum – and not just the Meldrum superglued into 1970s Countdown couch, but the Meldrum who has endured to be himself, in public, but on his own terms. It was all very daggy, yes. But it was wonderfully so.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/76578/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
Sam Johnson took home the Gold Logie for his portrayal as Molly Meldrum, in a ceremony that came with all the usual criticism.Liz Giuffre, Lecturer in Communication, University of Technology SydneyLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/594452016-05-17T19:34:41Z2016-05-17T19:34:41ZWhy do we find it so hard to move on from the 80s?<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122783/original/image-20160517-15939-twm79r.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">A scene from Heathers the Musical based on the 1988 film.</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">Kurt Sneddon</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>Why is it that the current darling of the pop scene, Taylor Swift, called her best-selling album (released in 2014) <a href="http://taylorswift.com/releases#/release/12453">1989</a>? It was, granted, the year of her birth - but among her inspirations for it, she cited the 80s pop group Fine Young Cannibals and the teen flicks of <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0091790/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">John Hughes</a>.</p>
<p>Why are we being assailed with advertisements for concerts in which we are invited to bop along with <a href="http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/music/tours/80s-hitmaker-martika-reveals-why-she-retired-from-pop-music-and-why-shes-making-a-comeback/news-story/1819c224ed363abad614471cb5ba76a2">Martika</a>, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPUmE-tne5U">Katrina and the Waves</a>, and Men Without Hats - as if the last quarter of a century never happened?</p>
<p>“One can never grow tired of 80’s synth pop”, announces the promotional material for <a href="http://menwithouthats.com/misc.html">Men Without Hats</a> – a Canadian new wave band best known for the 1983 ditty Safety Dance. Paul Lekakis, we are told, “is like a very fine wine, he gets better with age”. His big hit was Boom Boom (Let’s Go Back to My Room). I can attest that the song seemed to get everyone going in the Arkaba in Glen Osmond Road in Adelaide on the Queen’s Birthday weekend in 1987 but I haven’t felt a yawning gap in my life as a result of its absence since.</p>
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<p>Australian television drama used to be about a more distant past; the convict era, the gold rushes, the two world wars. Yet, while TV Anzackery has mainly flopped recently, the 1980s do very well indeed. </p>
<p>Millions of us, of late, have settled into a Sunday evening to be reminded of the deeds, both glorious and inglorious, of INXS and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PUc6eJbBKdA">Molly Meldrum</a>, Bob Hawke and Cliff Young, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2358586/">Nene King and Dulcie Boling</a>. Magazine wars, it seems, are of more absorbing interest than world wars.</p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=1068&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=1068&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=1068&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1342&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1342&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122782/original/image-20160517-15899-ncz3hz.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1342&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Michael Hutchence.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Wikimedia commons</span></span>
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<p>There presumably has to be a simple passage of time before the messiness of lived experience can be set aside in favour of nostalgia. It’s hard to know how long; we are already entering a period of 90s nostalgia, so 25 years is probably about right. </p>
<p>And there is surely a generational economics of nostalgia, too; the teenagers of one era are the forty-somethings of 25 years later; those who make the decisions about what will appear on our screens, in our museums and between our book covers. They also, generally, have sufficient disposable income to indulge their nostalgia for a commodified past.</p>
<p>All of this was true of the 1980s themselves, which contained a powerful (and lucrative) strain of nostalgia. The British historian of the Thatcher years, <a href="http://tcbh.oxfordjournals.org/content/21/1/121.short">Richard Vinen</a>, argues that all those young chaps who went from Oxbridge into the City in the 1980s “acquired a fascination with wealth by watching the television series … Brideshead Revisited”. </p>
<p>Recall, as well, all those new wave boy bands and the neo-Edwardian hair-cuts. And the seemingly endless procession of Merchant Ivory films in which Helena Bonham Carter’s hair seemed to grow bigger with each passing E.M. Forster novel.</p>
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<p>Nostalgia for a later era, the 1960s, found expression in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0094582/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">The Wonder Years</a>, a TV series set in 60s America but told from the point of view of the 80s present; and in the intergenerational argy-bargy of the sitcom <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083413/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1">Family Ties</a>, where laughs were mainly squeezed out of the knowing mutual incomprehension of ex-hippie parents and their three conservative, consumerist and pragmatic Reagan era children.</p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=630&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=630&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=630&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=791&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=791&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122781/original/image-20160517-5414-1k19rii.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=791&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Nancy Reagan and Margaret Thatcher in 1988.</span>
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<p>Similarly, in Australia during the actual 1980s, there was a powerful nostalgic strain in a country experiencing the anxieties of globalisation and deregulation during an era of explosive capitalism, policy reform and social change. </p>
<p>It was a great age for modern, colonial-style houses and expensive old bits of Australiana, like silver-mounted emu eggs. The historical mini-series was also in full flight; there were dozens of them during the 1980s, a wave of creativity helped along by the 10BA tax concession, network interest and the public’s engagement with matters historical in the lead-up to the 1988 Bicentenary.</p>
<p>The nostalgic interest in the 1980s today extends to the political class. Gareth Evans, a minister in the Hawke and Keating Labor governments, has commented that these governments are now treated <a href="https://books.google.com.au/books?id=Rz9bBAAAQBAJ&pg=PP1&dq=Gareth+Evans+Hawke-Keating&hl=en&sa=X&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q=Gareth%20Evans%20Hawke-Keating&f=false%E2%80%8B">“as the Australian gold standard”</a>; yet as he points out, “it did not always feel that way on the inside”. </p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=915&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=915&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=915&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1149&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1149&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122780/original/image-20160517-15906-cn3a5p.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1149&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Paul Keating: ‘80s icon.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Alan Porritt/AAP</span></span>
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<p>Again, the passage of time cleans up a messy past. Those who celebrate recall the achievements but forget, politely overlook or find extenuation for the failures, such as the corporate greed, growing inequality and recession that Paul Keating told us we had to have. </p>
<p>From the immediate vantage point of the early 1990s, the decade that had just finished look like one of excess and even some policy failure. More recently, it has been acclaimed as the cause of our subsequent prosperity.</p>
<p>But there are signs – small ones still, at this stage – that we might be falling out of love with the 1980s, at least as a political era. </p>
<p>George Megalogenis’s recent <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/29585140-qe61">Quarterly Essay, Balancing Act: Australia Between Recession and Renewal</a>, makes the case that the 1980s fetish for small government, tax cuts, balanced budgets and low debt are hampering the ability of the political class to imagine what a post-1980s and post-GFC model of the relationship between market and state might look like. </p>
<p>He believes it should involve a greater role for governments than became fashionable in the 1980s era of economic rationalism.</p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=413&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=413&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=413&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=520&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=520&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/122784/original/image-20160517-15920-94dcgd.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=520&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">Betsy Russell in Murder She Wrote, displaying some quinesstential ‘80s hair.</span>
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<p>If we are finding it hard to get over the 1980s, it’s probably in the end because they are still with us, still embedded so securely in our economy, our politics and our culture. </p>
<p>The generation who were teenagers in the 1980s are now increasingly our political masters. At the same time, the solutions of the 1980s are unravelling before their very eyes; plans to secure the car and steel industries were among the earliest actions of the Hawke Government.</p>
<p>To the extent that we recall the 1980s as a golden age, we are likely to find ourselves their captive. </p>
<p>If we can face them more squarely as a historical episode at least as untidy and complicated as any other, we might find in them something of more enduring value and importance than big hair and synthesised pop.</p>
<p><em>Frank Bongiorno will deliver a ‘Curiosity Lecture’ on this topic at the Sydney Writers Festival on Thursday 19 May 4:30 PM - 5:10 PM
Pier 2/3 Curiosity Stage, Pier 2/3, Hickson Road, Walsh Bay.
Free, no bookings</em></p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/59445/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Frank Bongiorno does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>Eighties culture is big, from nostalgic TV dramas to tours by ageing pop stars. But it’s time for a clear-eyed assessment of the decade, which prized excess and economic rationalism along with synth pop and big hair.Frank Bongiorno, Associate Professor of History, ANU College of Arts and Social Sciences, Australian National UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.