‘I’VE SURVIVED IT ALL’
Rocker Jimmy Barnes reflects on his searing second memoir.
When ARIA Hall of Famer Jimmy Barnes set out in January to write the eagerly anticipated follow-up to his award-winning 2016 memoir, Working Class Boy, he knew fans would want him to pick up where he left off, as a 17-year-old singer escaping a troubled life in Adelaide in the back of a crowded truck with Cold Chisel, going on a rock and roll journey filled with tales of fame of glory.
But six months in, Barnes had an epiphany. The demons he unleashed when he looked back at his formative years in Scotland and South Australia—poverty, domestic abuse, alcoholism and promiscuity—could not be easily dismissed. “What I wanted to write was a book that showed the impact of all that stuff,” he says. “I realised it wasn’t important to tell rock stories.”
So the singer turned inwards to produce Working Class Man, a chronicle of his colourful yet often confronting past as a musician, a husband and a father, and wrestled with those demons once more. “Like my childhood, if you keep it locked away, it’s just going to fester,” an upbeat Barnes, 61, tells WHO’S Cynthia Wang. “It’s like a wound, so you’ve got to get air on it. Some of it’s really difficult to talk about, and some? Well, it’s better out than in.”
You begin your second memoir in an Auckland hotel room in 2012, hazy from a bender and suddenly remembering you had attempted suicide. Why start there? I was sitting, thinking, “What am I going to write about?” And this was where I had gone to. That was obviously a major, major thing in my life. Even now I don’t know how it happened, but it was a lot of chemistry
“I have everything and I still fell apart and nearly died”
and not dealing with stuff. I thought that was going to be the hardest thing to write about and I had to get it out of the way first. You even note that at the time you thought, “I don’t want to remember this.” I realise more and more how much people have in common and not how different we are. I mean, I’m a rock singer, but I could be a plumber and going through the same life story. Poverty puts so much pressure on families. Even good people buckle and do bad things. I mean, I have everything in the world, I could do anything I wanted, and I still fell apart and nearly died. Did it make it easier for you to analyse your life? Well, I’ve been seeing a therapist for five years, every week, sometimes twice or three times a week. I’ve been in a few rehabs and done intensive therapy. I’ve spent years talking to Buddhist monks and meditating in a cave. I’ve got friends and family who have reached out to help me, whether it’s Deepak Chopra or my wife, Jane. Clarity was a big thing. I never wanted to be sober enough to feel any of it, but once I actually had some clarity, I’d much rather deal with it. If I’d left it, it would have killed me. Was writing a part of that therapy? This wasn’t about trying to impress anybody. It was about, “OK, let’s go in and delve into yourself,” and I found through the first book and this book that I really enjoyed the process. Do you have a writing routine? I’m one of those people who can do nearly anything I want to, you know, I’m pretty good at things. But I have the attention span of a small soap dish! Writing, I found I’d wake up in the morning, have a cup of coffee, go into my study, get on my computer, and I’d sit and write for eight hours, and I’d have to pull myself away to go and eat or mix with the family because I just enjoyed the process so much. I think a lot of that was that sense of release from all the toxins that were in me. I could feel the weight getting lifted off
my shoulders. But I was also enjoying the process. I was using my mind rather than losing it. Was it helpful for Jane, too? I think it was traumatic for her. I’d write stuff and then I’d lose sleep for two days. I’d be lying in bed and tossing and turning. I’m a hyper and nervous sort of person anyway, and she’d see that until I processed something, I wouldn’t settle down again. She’d see if I was going through pain. A lot of your book is about your relationship with her. It’s a love story and it’s about trying to get through life. I think we brought something to each other. Jane had a very lucky family, a well-to-do Thai family and she didn’t know anything about poverty. I remember talking to Jane about a woman who was hassling us about $14 in a bill or something. And Jane’s going, “It’s only $14. Who cares?” And I had to explain, “You know, when I was a kid, my dad would gamble and drink all the money, and my mum would be waiting for her child endowment cheque and that was the only money that my father couldn’t get a hold of, and it was $14 a fortnight. And the $14 meant the difference between us eating or not eating,” and she had to go, “Oh, I didn’t realise that could mean so much to someone.” So I enlightened Jane as much as she enlightened me. We’re like the yin and yang thing. We make each other complete. She’s an amazing girl. You do share the joy of certain parts of your life, like the craziness around the birth of Mahalia. Yeah, I laugh about it. I remember driving [to hospital] thinking, “I’ve got to get something to eat!” And Jane going, “OK, we’ll go to Kentucky Fried Chicken.” A lot of the book seems like a horror story, but it wasn’t. It was me struggling internally. There were so many great things that happened to me, like being surrounded by great people and a great family. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. What a roller-coaster of a life! One minute, I’d be suicidal and the next, I’d be sitting on a hill in Tuscany eating food with my beautiful wife. I’m really lucky I’ve survived it all, long enough to get through it. Got to be thankful to my parents for some good, tough Scottish genes, but also good help. Jane loved me so much and was there and prodded and pushed and pulled at the right times. I mean, having a beautiful family to support you, I’ve had a blessed life.