Barney Dawson: Rock Star, Raconteur, and Rugby League Sage
It was a crisp Friday night in suburban Sydney when I rolled up to the dingy pub where Barney Dawson and his band of aging rockers were set to take the stage. As an American music journo on assignment to cover the local scene, I’d been tipped off that this particular act was not to be missed – after all, how many 60-year-old Aussie musos could still summon the unruly spirit of rock ‘n’ roll?
I squeezed through the smoke-hazed room, batting away a cloud of mullets and withering stares, until I reached the bar. That’s where I found Barney himself, belly up and already stuck into a tinnie.
‘Oi! Seppo!’ He squawked, baring a mouthful of stained teeth. ‘You here to review the has-beens?’
Clearing my throat, I raised my notepad with as much professionalism as I could muster. ‘Something like that, yeah. They tell me you guys are bloody legends.’
Barney let out a wheezing cackle. ‘Aw, you’re havin’ a go, ain’tcha? We’re just a buncha oldies going through the motions at this point. Although…’ He raised a grimy finger and fixed me with a surprisingly intense stare. ‘Don’t let that fool ya, mate. We may be cooked meatpies on the outside, but we’re still red-hot on the inside when it counts.’
My interest officially piqued, I waved my hand for him to go on. That’s when Barney launched into a profanity-laced but surprisingly profound riff on the unique power of sport – rugby league, in particular – to unite disparate groups of people.
‘See, here’s the thing about footy, right?’ He wheezed, snot rockets punctuating certain syllables. ‘Doesn’t matter if you’re a mug tradesman or a high-zoned silver-tail, we all go troppo over that sheepshagger’s game. Few too many tins on grand final night and win or lose, the whole neighbourhood’s out throwin’ olly-ups and chasin’ each other up the guts like schoolkids.’
I must’ve looked skeptical, because Barney slammed his fist on the bar in a surprising burst of intensity. ‘Nah, nah, hear me out! It’s only for one night a year, but it’s like the whole city gets whacked over the head with a magic wand that blinds us to all the other crap driving us Aussies apart.’
He belched and took another swig. ‘Politics, moolah, even that bloody endless suburb-hopping grudge between Westies and Shories – all gets chucked by the wayside when we all start barracking for the same fellas in the blue or maroon. Rich man, poor man, bogan or greenie, it’s like we all just…I dunno, get it in that moment, y’know?’
I had to admit, the man had a point – and an oddly poetic way of expressing it, too. Sensing I needed a more tangible example, Barney topped up his tinnie and squared his shoulders.
‘Like that one year, remember? 2005, it was. Queensland had taken a few too many dings to the silo and NSW finally looked a chance at breaking the drought. Place was like a powder keg all series, but by the time Freddy’s little grubbers sealed the deal in that decider, the whole joint went feral. Housewives doin’ burnouts in the streets, postie’s shinners wrapped around lamp poles – hadn’t seen carnage like that since the Ramones shut down the Rat.’
He shook his head slowly, a distant smile playing across his creased face. ‘Thing is, it didn’t matter what side you backed or even if you cared two weets about the game…For one night, we were all just mates. Sharin’ frothies, singin’ dumb footy songs, watchin’ each other’s kids while dad duck-walked down Parramatta Road in his underwear. That sort of unbridled shenanigans can’t happen unless you’ve got every man and his dog united for the same dumb reason.’
I had to hand it to him – Barney’s warts-and-all storytelling really did paint a surprisingly heartwarming picture of how something as simple as a football game could bring an entire community together. Even if that community bonding looked more like the Fall of Rome at times.
Chuckling to himself, Barney drained his beer and slid off the stool. ‘Anyways, ya drongo. That’s just how I see it – sport as the dumb cure to all our dumb little divisions. Now if you’ll ‘scuse me, I gotta go mentally prepare the young’uns for supporting a bunch of old farts tonight. Hopefully I can still hit a power chord without shittin’ myself.’
And with that parting wisdom, he sauntered off towards the stage – living proof that the spirit of Aussie rock (and rugby league) would never truly die.
As Barney’s bandmates took their positions amid a blur of air kicks and headbanging, the snarling opening riff of ‘Fran’s Working Boxer Brew’ shook the sticky walls of the pub. United in appreciation for unapologetically ocker rock anthems, the moths converged in a heaving mosh that had more than few swing’n’missuses in need of the front courtesy bucket.
Dodging a loose fur mug, I staked out a spot near the back with a clear view of Barney himself. Wrinkled neck veins bulging, he guzzled from a can between verses, occasionally drooling lukewarm XXXX down his stained singlet as he barked the gritty, unintelligible lyrics.
‘That’s our Barno! Giving it a fair nudge up ’em!’ A wizened punk roared cheerfully, sloshing his pint over my notepad as he windmilled past.
Indeed, for all his cantankerous grousing, Barney Dawson clearly still lived for these sweat-soaked moments in the rancid spotlight. With a cheeky glint in his bloodshot eyes, he lined up a nasally snort and let’er rip:
‘OI! YOU MUGS KNOW HOW THIS ONE STARTS, AYE?’
The faithful erupted in an ecstatic roar, bellowing along with every crude, gloriously dated couplet as Barney thrashed his way through the band’s deep catalogue. From the graphic oversharing of ‘Janine Put The Loo Seat Down’ to the immortal footy anthem ‘Blue Bagies, Blue Bagies’ – no lyrical low was too low when it came to giving the people what they craved.
As chunderous as it was charming, watching Barney’s swaggering stage presence immediately reminded me of his earlier sentiments about sport’s magic ability to unite. Because there was no way a bunch of wildly different people would collectively let their ids run this rampant without some sort of unconscious bonding agent at play.
For that spittle-flecked, sweltering couple of hours, the same drunken social alchemy that saw entire neighbourhoods becoming one delirious footy tribe was at work, bringing all walks of life together to joyfully slob out in the name of sticky-carpeted Aussie rock.
Whether bonded by burnt sausages and piss-warm Victoria Bitters or the existential drive to bellow along with ‘SHE SLAPPED ME WITH A FROZEN CHOOK!’, we were all Barney’s people that night.
When the final, messy encore drew to a close, I found my sweat-drenched self swept along by the ebbing human tide toward the ale-streaked idiot himself. A sweaty grin split his bloated features as he cradled an orderly line of perspiring admirers against his protruding gut and growled hoarsely into every upturned ear:
‘TOLD YA WE’D GET YA’LL HOT N’ BOTHERED, DIDN’TAAAI?! LIKE ONE BIG FAMILY REUNION…BUTOHMYGODWADDALOADACUNTS!’
With that, he doubled over and geysered vomit across the first few rows, earning himself a rowdy ovation of respect from the very people he’d just showered in lukewarm regurgitant.
Stumbling outside to catch my breath, I found I couldn’t quite put my finger on the unique energy that had coalesced in that dingy little club. But maybe that was the point – magic like that can never be too overanalysed. Sometimes you’ve just got to crack a tinnie, stop worrying about the brain fart, and bathe in the pure unbridled essence of whatever dumb obsession or hairy musical act brings you together.
As my head finally started to stop spinning from the reeking cacophony of it all, one sound cut through the night – a familiar, guttural chant rippling out from deep within the dingy confines of the pub.
‘BARRRR-NO! BARRRR-NO! BARRRR-NO!’
The kind of impassioned call usually reserved only for those whose talents on the sporting field transcended mortal frames, channeled through generations of delirious fans.
Pocketing my notes, I raised a weary fist and joined in with my own hoarse bellow of appreciation.
‘BAARRRR-NOOOOOO!’
