From boys to men
Grant Smithies.
No teddy bears for reformed Take That
There’s his famous, awardwinning bum to talk about, of course. His haircut. Those limpid green-blue eyes and cheeky dimples, which inspired their share of bad teenage poetry.
We might even talk about a few of the songs Mark Owen has sung with UK soft-pop crooners, Take That. But first there’s the little matter of putting his 5-year-old daughter, Fox, to bed.
‘‘I’m sorry, mate… she’s wide awake!’’ he wails in mock distress, his Manchester accent more working class than expected. ‘‘Fox just heard me say we were coming to New Zealand, and now she thinks she’s coming too. I’m sorry, darling. Daddy’s going to New Zealand for work…’’
It’s about time, too. Take That always gave Aotearoa the swerve during their 90s heyday, playing Australia several times but never leaping the ditch. The upcoming twodate tour will be their first time playing here since their formation in Manchester in 1990.
We missed seeing them when they were still a boy band, and now here they are, showing up as a man band, albeit with original members Robbie Williams and Jason Orange no longer in the fold.
‘‘We never got there, that’s true, though Gaz has been on his own, I think. We’re looking forward to it. What do you know about New Zealand, Fox?’’ There’s a sound of rummaging amongst the covers as his daughter sits up and proclaims: ‘‘They have zebras!’’ Owen starts to chuckle, and asks if this is true.
Nope. Only in zoos.
‘‘But they have elephants!’’ pipes up Fox. ‘‘And tarantulas!’’ No, and no. There’s lots of forest though, and no poisonous critters to worry about. We have heaps of native birds, if that’s any use to you.
‘‘They have lots of beautiful birds flyin’ around down there, love,’’ says Owen. ‘‘And no snakes. But you really need to go to sleep.’’ Does Fox have a teddy? I imagine so. Take That probably have a warehouse full of them. In the band’s early days, they were routinely bombarded with teddies by overheated teenage fans.
‘‘Yes! It was very strange. They would throw hundreds of them up on stage. We used to joke that if music ever turned bad on us, we could open a shop selling teddies!’’
It’s safe to say that music never ‘‘turned bad’’. A few years ago, Take That were fifth highest-earning music stars on the Forbes rich list, just behind U2 and Elton John but comfortably ahead of Rihanna, Paul McCartney, Jay-Z, Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga.
Their annual earnings for 2012? A cool US$69 million. They probably don’t need to start selling second-hand teddies.
‘‘Our fans are a bit older now, of course. We don’t get things thrown on stage nowadays, but back then, it happened all the time. With some people, it was knickers. We never got that many knickers. With us, it was teddies!’’ First World boy-band problem, ahoy. Insufficient underwear pelting you on stage, but a surfeit of soft toys.
‘‘Oh, they used to throw other things, too!’’ protests Owen. ‘‘Like chocolate. We once said we like Toblerones in an interview. Next thing you know, people were launching Toblerones on stage too, and the occasional Terry’s Chocolate Orange, because Gaz really liked them. If you didn’t get out of the way, a Toblerone could take your eye out.’’
I imagine the stage shows are a lot more sedate now, with many of the original fans now in their mid-40s with kids of their own, just like the band members themselves.
But when Take That first hit the big time, there was hysteria wherever they went. Fans used to camp outside their houses, singing their songs, and lob love letters into their backyards. Like most boy bands, Take That had been carefully stitched together by management – in this case, by Nigel Martin-Smith, an ambitious entertainment manager inspired by the success of New Kids On The Block – to ensure every young female fan’s tastes were catered for.
You had Gary Barlow as the central singer-songwriter frontman. There was Robbie Williams, the body-popping bad boy from Stoke-On-Trent. Jason Orange got the nod because he was a tidy little mover, having previously been a break-dancer. Former car painter Howard Donald was tall, a little craggy, a part-time model, drummer and DJ.
And Mark Owen was the pretty boy. He looked cute, sweet, vulnerable. Two thirds of the fan mail was for him.
‘‘I have no idea why. I was talking to my brother about this the other day, and he was as amazed as I was. He said to me, ‘How did this happen? You weren’t even that good-looking! There were no girls chasing you around at school’.’’ Owen laughs, and his wee daughter giggles along in the background.
‘‘But, you know, life is weird. I wasn’t even that popular at school, but after the band took off, you’re suddenly travelling around the world like you’ve been swept up on some crazy spaceship, then you’re on a stage somewhere, with teddy bears getting thrown at you. It was all very surreal.’’
I imagine so. And it must be strange now, at 45 years old, to look back 20-something years to a time when