I defy anyone to label the following two truisms my subjective opinions: 1. John Farnham is deeply cheesy. 2. John Farnham has a beautiful voice.
Recently I was invited by an old school friend to a George Michael tribute night at Chasers nightclub in Melbourne. I said Yes straight away – I was fascinated by the prospect of returning to one of the dingy pick up lairs where I first gyrated my way into young adulthood.
One of my strongest memories is the pure joy we got out of making each other laugh. Belly laughs that happened while you hung upside down on the monkey bars were even more hilarious.
I felt I had discovered the greatest song of all time, and for a little while it felt like a glorious secret that only I knew about.
With the murmurings of chatter from other tables around us, our own conversation flowed smoothly, a stream without pebbles to impede the course.
We hit the road. I press play on the album Baby Caught The Bus by Clairy Browne and the Bangin' Rackettes. I lose count of how many times I replay Love Letter.
The crooning chant you hear in the background pings and pangs as you slump on the floor, hands in your head.
I wish I could tell you that it was our differences that eventually tore us apart. Her love of big hair and the power ballad, my love of The Residents and holding my mohawk in place with airplane glue.
Though you'll never admit it to anyone and always bemoan the fact that the song is being played in your club, you somehow enjoyed it.
As mom and my older sister played The Carpenters on the car stereo I listened to MxPx, Face to Face, Suicide Machines, or Bouncing Souls on my discman.