For 15 years, John Collins and his former Powderfinger bandmates have faced unrelenting demand from adoring fans for a fully fledged on-stage reunion. There have been glimmers of hope here and there - a one-off virtual concert in 2020 and all five members, including Bernard Fanning, Ian Haug, Darren Middleton and Jon Coghill, coming together for an award as recently as last year.

But, speaking over a pint at Walter’s Steakhouse in Brisbane, the former bass player for the Aussie rock legends finally entertains the hypothetical: could the Brisbane 2032 Olympics opening ceremony be the right moment for a comeback?

“You just asked me if I’d be open to it, and I’m being honest with you, personally I would because I love that band,” J.C. said, his voice relaxed but deliberate.

“But I’d only do it if everyone was on the same page and no one felt like they were forced to do it.

“That might be a good enough reason to think about it.”

He pauses, then adds, “It can’t be about money, it can’t be about ego. You’d have to be wanting that fun again.”

Cracking into a bottle of pinot noir and a dry-aged porterhouse flanked by servings of brussels sprouts and fries, J.C. declares: “You’ve got to celebrate life” and promises to be “an open book”.

J.C., who last year stepped into the role of Queensland’s first night-life commissioner, can see where the story is heading, and there is a subtle push-back to his tone.

“But I don’t want to talk about the band getting back together, because it’s not happening,” he said.

It’s lunchtime in the Brisbane CBD on a weekday and J.C. is dressed in Chelsea boots, smart-casual jeans, and a dark jacket - you’d be hard-pressed to pick him as a former rock star.

Despite admitting he was nervous, he still radiates quiet cool, muso energy.

The conversation soon turns to why Powderfinger never returned after their 2010 Riverstage farewell.

He’s quick to dismiss years of swirling rumours about a fallout or creative friction.

“We still love each other, we’re still great mates,” he says.

They shared creative control. They kept a clean image. They still chat on WhatsApp - it’s how he knows Bernard Fanning is visiting Spain.

By the end of the 2000s, after 20 years and seven albums, the band instinctively felt it was time for their final bow - better to leave while crowds still roared than play to indifference and lukewarm applause.

J.C. denies crying during that last performance but admits it was emotional - he sensed the door shutting on a golden era.

He moved on, establishing The Triffid and Fortitude Music Hall, and is now in the midst of collaborating on another music hall in Perth alongside entertainment giant Live Nation.

But it was during the pandemic, when he spoke out to protect the music industry, that he stepped - perhaps accidentally - into the political realm, leading to his appointment as Queensland’s first night-life commissioner.

With the Olympics just seven years away, J.C. believes a cultural shift is needed to prepare the nation’s music and hospitality sectors for a world-class moment - especially in Queensland where it’s hard to find a restaurant open on a Monday night.

He put his hand up because those industries had long been ignored, taken for granted, and smashed by pandemic lockdowns — and still hadn’t fully recovered.

So how is he going to fix it all?

With only six months until his report to Youth Minister Sam O’Connor is due, he gives “listening to the industry” as his response.

Concrete solutions remain elusive - especially when competing with a culture increasingly content with streaming services and Uber Eats.

But he’s convinced something must be done.

He backs his gut and believes the voices he represents won’t be lost among the agendas of Queensland’s political elite.

“It’s a cultural thing in Brisbane and Queensland where we’re sort of first to bed and first up in the morning, where it’s not a restaurant culture,” he said.

“Just by saying you’re allowed to stay open doesn’t unlock it.

“Wages go up after 9 o’clock - that’s a national problem about wages, and it’s hard for me to address.”

Since taking on a government role, J.C. has noticed a shift.

“Those people I’ve been given access to for years - their tone changed with me,” he said.

“I’m now fair game. I get it, and I understand why.”

He doesn’t think his younger self, playing sweaty gigs in speak-easies, would see him as a sellout.

“I wasn’t one of those ‘f--k the suits’ sort of people,” he said.

“Nineties J.C. will go, ‘What were you doing in William St really? Probably go a bit crazy - but anyway, good luck to you.’ That’s probably what I’d say to myself.”

Still, he’s bemused that his upbringing in Beaudesert somehow led to him being “in the tent” with premiers and cabinet ministers.

He initially followed in the footsteps of his Wondai-raised father, a pharmacist, and boarded at Brisbane Grammar.

He picked up the guitar there, later switching to bass to fill a gap in a new band.

Unlike his older brothers, J.C. didn’t go to university. After school, he unsuccessfully applied for a Medibank job and a course in interior design in Noosa.

“At that stage I didn’t really know what I wanted to do … if I got one of those jobs I might have said, ‘Hey guys, I’ve got to go to work,’” he said.

“I could have had a job - sliding doors.”

When Bernard Fanning and Darren Middleton joined the band, and original drummer Steven Bishop stepped away, J.C.’s friends challenged his lifestyle.

“There were lots of doubts, especially when you’re not selling records,” he said.

“You’re sitting in a sh--ty van … no airconditioning, driving to Adelaide from Cairns.

“I started thinking to myself, ‘I’m 24, have I made the right decision?’

“But then you go and play a show and it sort of reminds you - there’s an instinct, this is something worth trying.

“We weren’t the best five musicians in the world, but that’s not the issue.”

Later, as the albums and awards piled up, and after meeting his wife Tara at a gig, J.C. said the band remained grounded.

Friends made sure they didn’t come back from tour acting like “wankers.”

And while they had their fun, J.C. says the band kept their heads down.

“The perception about rock stars that we’re all out doing cocaine - you can’t do that,” he said.

“You’ve got to play gigs. I think that’s where bands get lost.

“Most of us had partners … it wasn’t about strip clubs and stuff like that. It just wasn’t the people we were.”

He tried pot once before a gig in the Valley - and swore never again.

“I had the worst f--king experience. It just made me so paranoid,” he said.

Cocaine scared him more because of the fear of losing self-control.

“My personal fear is if I did cocaine for a show and that was an amazing show, that would be my new normal,” he said.

“And I think it’s a really dangerous route to go down.

“If it was amazing, I’d chase that every night - and I think that’s a mistake some musicians and artists make.”

J.C. offers the last slice of porterhouse without hesitation as he begins to delve into his regrets about the band.

Despite Powderfinger’s success and work ethic, he admits they may have never been taken as seriously internationally in comparison to Cold Chisel.

“It sort of felt unresolved to me,” he said, recalling their early 2000s U.S. tour, when they landed a Letterman slot to promote Odyssey Number Five.

He feels the band was collateral damage in the merger between Polygram and Universal, which saw their Internationalist album overlooked for U.S. release.

“My Happiness was the first time American people heard us. To me, you need to build up to that,” he said.

“We were getting radio play across the country, and we were about to tour in October - and September 11 happened.

“They (the U.S.) shut down a little bit.

“If I’m being honest, which I always am, I think the opportunity was missed with Internationalist.”

As an afterthought, he wondered whether the band should have moved to Canada to build a West Coast fanbase.

“We did Europe, we did Japan, we did a lot of markets because they were open to us … living in Vancouver would have been great for a year. We all had partners but not a lot of kids around.”

Asked whether leaving Brisbane - his grounding force - could have led him into the darker side of the music world, the kind that swallowed talents like Kurt Cobain, Amy Winehouse, and Jim Morrison - J.C. doesn’t rule it out.

As he picks up his leather satchel and prepares to melt back into Alice Street foot traffic, J.C. considers the alternate Powderfinger timeline.

“It could have been the worst thing - who knows?,” he said.

“At least we would have been dark together.”