“Sarah, Jimmy Barnes is on the phone for you?!”
It was the late nineties. Shopping centre tours were the way that pop recording artists would connect with fans and sell CDs. My local, Robina Town Centre, was just a five minute walk from home. I must’ve walked that path thousands of times. I spent a lot of time there with my walkman on, thumbing through every CD at SANITY MUSIC and memorising lyrics from the inserts, or else drooling over the plaid miniskirts at Supre. Shopping centres, despite their propensity for crowds and bright lights, still bring me a weird comfort. (Although after the 2024 Westfield Sydney attack on women I do now worry about misogynist knife-wielding men).
I loved CDs. I devoured the artwork and lyric sheets and dedications. The closest relationship I had then was with my pink CD player: it felt like my whole world. I’d buy my five dollar three-track singles and stand in line next to the dutch pancake wagon to get them signed. One of the first shows I went to was Leah Haywood, an Australian Pop artist, who happened to have babysat me in Perth (church things). Because of this connection I got access to the side stage to chat with her. I felt so special, standing behind the silver barrier as I got my CD sleeve signed. Her song ‘We think it’s love’ still slaps.
At the next appearance (probably Anthony Callea or S2S) I watched the milling crowd and thought about how boring the pre-show time was. I marched to the side stage area and asked to speak to whomever was in charge. A man named Mark strode up. He was over 6 feet tall, dressed in all black with a clipboard and walkie talkie.
“Hi Mark” (I shook his hand, weird) “I’m Sarah, can I please warm up the crowd for you?”. He stared in shock at the audacious eleven year old in front of him.
“What would you do?” he asked. I told him I’d sing acapella and get them excited for the show. I have no idea why, but he said yes! He handed me a mic and I jumped on stage. I had no fear whatsoever: I felt like everything was moving along as it should.
“Hey Mark, what’ve we got today?”. For the next two years I walked the five minutes from my house to every show, ready to do my thing. Awkward hand claps from somewhat confused patrons were the only backing track I needed. I opened for pop star girl group Bardot and Mark told me they were pressing their ears to the green room door to hear me sing. Mandy Moore and I talked about music together on stage and her team interviewed me for The Mandy Moore Show. I met Nikki Webster, Scandal Us, S Club 7 and more. I was given some cool stuff too; plaques, makeup, CD’s, flowers. Little girls would hug me as I walked away from the stage. I even wrangled a few friends as my back up dancers when the crowds were huge, like the thousands of people that came out for The Vengaboys (yes, I did publicly sing ‘boom boom boom boom’ at 12 years old).
I remember them all being lovely people. None of them were more generous with their time than Jimmy Barnes. Backstage whilst he connected with anyone who was waiting, he got his assistant to ask for my phone number. She said Jimmy would be in touch. I didn’t think much of it, and when he called the next day I took it in my stride. ‘Hey Jimmy’ I said casually after a shocked bio-mum had passed me the cordless landline. He spoke to me about my love of music and singing. Jimmy said that if I felt the passion for it, I needed to just go for it and not look back. ‘Never give up’, he said.
I had been singing since I could talk. I loved big voices like Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Whitney Houston and Christina Aguilera, and later jazz, soul and neosoul. I wrote my first proper song at around 8 years old titled ‘Follow that dream’. It’s the cutest thing and if you see me in person and ask to hear it I will absolutely sing it for you. Writing a song still helps me figure out my feelings and gives life a satisfying sense of purpose. This was a rare feeling for my young self. Performing felt weirdly safe to me. I was on a stage and on display, but it felt like disappearing. I’d float away from the confusion of my life and into the song, into that presence and purpose.
When I was nine, famous Gospel singer Olivia McClurkin and her massive choir and band came out from America to visit our church and make a live record. As prominent church members, my parents were tasked with boarding two of the choir members. The two women must have heard me singing around the house (probably to Celine Dion’s ‘Let’s Talk About Love’ as it was 1998), and they’d asked if I would like to sing at the final show. They’d asked my sister Emma too (despite her not being a good singer), probably so as not to leave her out of the fun.
On the night of the show I was dressed in my best long blue sundress, with a denim headband and nerves up the wazoo. This felt bigger than anything I’d yet done. People from churches all over the country packed the room, more chairs and standing room tickets were added and the whole night was being made into a CD. I was nervous because I cared deeply. The performances over the past two weeks had moved me more than anything had before, and that’s saying something because Hillsong really had some bangers (i.e. Shout to the Lord, wow). There was something about gospel music that felt intuitive. I felt the changes coming, and I could hear runs and harmonies in my head. It gave me goosebumps.
I waited in the front row ready and determined to shine, barely able to enjoy the concert through my nerves. After what seemed like hours I finally heard Olivia say ‘Where’s Emma?’ ‘Where’s Sarah?’. I marched up the carpeted deep purple stairs, Emma right behind me.
‘Follow me now honey’ said Olivia. Emma sang the lines off-key, handed me the mic and walked off the stage. Finally it was my turn. I went line for line, echoing Olivia.
‘late in the midnight hour’
‘god’s gonna turn it around’
‘he’s gonna work in your favour’
I had added a little vocal jump on ‘work’ and the crowd bloody loved it. So did Olivia. ‘Chiiiild you should be up here with us!’ she laughed, giving me a one armed hug as I smiled big. I had done something well. When the CD came out they’d made a bunch of cuts and edits so we heard Olivia say “where’s Emma?” followed by my verse, making it sound like Emma sung my parts. That was a bummer.
I also used to win big on the radio. If you were born in the eighties, you get how big a deal radio shows were. They’d tease the new Britney single for an hour and you’d ready yourself to press record after every ad, making cassettes that you could rewind and repeat until you got every lyric written down and the whole song memorised. Radio was a huge part of daily life, and competitions helped keep you listening. Especially when you won. I once sang Beyonce’s ‘Baby Boy’ and won myself a trip to Sydney and tickets to the first ever Australian Idol Grand Final at the Opera House. It was Guy Sebastian versus Shannon Noll, and I think it’s clear who my preference was. I was only thirteen so I had to go with bio-mum. I wore Supre light denim pedal pushers with silver buckles and a gold shinny cowl neck top. The tickets seated bio-mum and I apart, and I spent most of my time trying to get the boys behind me to look at me. The radio station left irritated voicemails about not being able to reach me during the show, but I had taken the ‘phones off’ rule seriously. As we stood outside watching the fireworks after Guy had won, we were approached by a couple who didn’t want their after party lanyards. I spent the night sneaking drinks under tables and chatting to whoever would talk to me. Marsha Hines was there and held both my hands tight when I told her I wanted to be a singer. With the kindest voice and warmest eyes, she said what Jimmy Barnes had said; to keep with it, to not give up. She gave me a big squeeze and wished me all the luck in the world.
All of these experiences made me feel destined for a singing career. At home if I sang even a single note there would be screams of ‘shut up, you can’t even sing!’ and ‘STOP SINGING!’. Pretty standard sibling behaviour I think. So, I would shut myself in the garage and sing and write the hours away. It was my favourite thing to do, especially when my dollhouse was no longer of interest. The feeling that singing made me special ran as high as my self worth ran low. When I was singing I felt both distracted and validated. I would go on to chase this feeling for a long time, often landing in uncomfortable conditions where I couldn’t possibly perform at my best.
CONT. in next blog.
