‘Seppeltsfield was magnificent aesthetically, but she had no engine, no fuel, no soul. She was dead’
HE’S a larrikin who loves wine, taking risks, and making money – traits which have driven Adelaide’s Warren Randall to become the nation’s biggest individual vineyard owner, with beautiful Seppeltsfield the jewel in his crown. And he can thank a nagging sister for his success.
WARREN Randall doesn’t like sitting still. The only possible exception is when there is a bottle of wine, or preferably two, in front of him. Even then, his phone is a constant symphony to our conversation. Buzzing and beeping. Ringing and being answered.
Instructions are issued. “Yep, that loan is getting approved. It’s all on track.’’ “I want to know the yield and quality over five years.’’ When the phone stops ringing, people are approaching Randall at our perch in the East End Cellars, just off Rundle St, to talk wine, business, ask advice or just to say hello.
Getting even this time with Randall is something of an achievement. Our first interview took place in July. The second, well, that was eight months later.
Not that Randall was being evasive, or even rude. It’s just that he’s a hard man to pin down. He is either in China, or Europe, or interstate, or flying from one meeting to the next. By his own count he has made 34 trips to China in the last six years.
Randall also happens to be the largest private vineyard owner in Australia, with massive holdings in the prime Barossa and McLaren Vale wine regions, as well as thousands of other hectares spread around Australia and a share in a chateau in China.
Warren “Wazza” Randall – the perpetual motion machine.
Randall’s current claim to fame is that he owns the Seppeltsfield winery in the Barossa Valley. He took it over in 2009, a time when the once grand icon of the Barossa was a shell of its former glory. Or, to use a typically colourful Randall analogy, Seppeltsfield was a super car, but one with a fatal flaw.
“I often likened it to a McLaren,’’ he says, referring to a ridiculously expensive car which sells for more than $1 million.
“Every man, every woman wants to walk around this magnificent exotic car and touch it, just feel its curves,’’ he says. “And then someone says ‘can I have a look under the bonnet?’ Open up the bonnet. No engine. That was Seppeltsfield. She was magnificent aesthetically and to look at. No engine, no fuel, no soul. She was dead.’’
There’s something of the larrikin in the 60-year-old Randall. He is known to barrack loudly at Crows’ games, swears often and impressively and doesn’t care too much about mundane items such as fashion.
Not for him the businessman’s uniform of suit and tie. There’s the story of how he came to work one day sporting a T-shirt with the word Gryffindor plastered across it. People started calling him “Harry” because Gryffindor is one of houses in the Harry Potter series. Turns out Randall hadn’t a clue. He wasn’t a Harry Potter fan. It was just that he’d been to Mexico and picked up the T-shirts because they were cheap – two for $5.
Randall has a talent for painting colourful word pictures and dispensing life advice through aphorism.
Here’s one: “Success is passion multiplied by work ethic.’’
And another: “Man makes profit when he buys not sells.’’
And one more: “There is only one person stopping you being the best you can be and that is yourself.’’
Whatever the theory he relied on when it came to buying Seppeltsfield, it worked. Last year Seppeltsfield was named the best cellar door in the world. Not that it was a journey without its complications. Three poor vintages in a row had his bank screaming and almost sent him to the wall.
We’ll come back to that.
The story of how Randall moved from being “only” a winemaker, albeit a highly successful one, to become one of the most significant players in the Australian wine industry needs some telling.
He grew up in Beulah St, Norwood. Father Cyril served in WWII and worked as a wholesale confectioner on his return. Mum Fay also her had own business, running a garden shop in Glenelg.
The Randall side of the family arrived in Australia in 1926 when Tom Randall, illiterate and unemployed moved his family from England. Grandfather Tom was also a soldier, fighting in World War I, surviving through the slaughter of the Somme.
The war experiences of his father and grandfather still influence the Randall world view.
“Whenever I get down I think about that and I think ‘it can’t be that bad Warren’,’’ he says. “It actually can’t be as bad as Tom or Cyril put up with. So just smile, grin, get on with it and think how good your life is.’’
His mum and dad split up when he was still at school and he was unsure what to do after leaving Norwood High. In the end he went to Adelaide University because that’s where his friends were headed.
He decided on agricultural science, probably because of his mum’s line of work in the garden trade. But he didn’t last long. Midway through first year, he had enough and decided to go and work with his mum.
He could see a future for himself selling plants to old folk down at Glenelg and even now thinks back and marvels at the sliding door moments that define a life.
“It’s amazing,’’ he says. “I would be running a little retail outlet on Jetty Rd, Glenelg, buying it from my mum and who knows … ’’.
But his sister Bev was having none of it, constantly in his ear telling him to go back and finish his degree. Eventually he relented and returned. Along the way he studied horticulture, then wine science. He wrote a paper on how shiraz roots grew which was published in a trade journal.
In 1977, the Australian wine industry was a far different place from the behemoth it is today. Randall says back then it was a “cottage industry’’.
“What I learned fairly quickly was that there was probably 10 to 20 significant winemakers in the country,’’ he says. “Now there are probably 200.’’ The shiraz article brought him to the attention of the industry. Wynns asked him to apply for a job. He didn’t get it. Then Wynns asked him to apply for another. He didn’t get that one either.
Finally, they found a spot for him as a cellar hand at the Glenloth winery at Reynella. It was the bottom rung on the totem pole. Crushing grapes. Pressing grapes. Chilling grapes. Filtering juice. Adding juice.
He learnt how a winery works from the bottom up.
The following year he was offered a $13,000 a year job at Glenloth as assistant winemaker. He was away.
What followed was rapid progression. Four years later he was champagne maker at Great Western, which was part of the Seppelt empire. He was there for eight years and won trophies and medals all over the country. He decided he needed a change and moved to Andrew Garrett Wines. His pay was now $180,000 a year.
“That was a lot of money in 1989 for a little old winemaker,’’ he says.
He wanted to go smaller to find a new challenge, but the Garrett business was a struggling outfit, and even though he lifted output substantially in his five years there, again, it was time for a new challenge and a new goal.
At 37, he also felt life was passing him by a little. “I enjoyed working for the businesses as an employee but always had this burning ambition to be a millionaire by the time I was 40,’’ he says.
“I thought if I haven’t made it by 40 I am rooted. I am done.’’
The opportunity came from an unexpected direction. Well-known wine figure Doug Collett, a WWII fighter pilot and founder of Woodstock wines, walked into his office one day and asked an unexpected question: “Do you want to buy a winery?’’
The winery in question was called Tinlins in the McLaren Vale.
The question was aimed at Andrew Garrett Wines, rather than directly at Randall, but the timing was fortuitous. Garrett and his major shareholder, the Japanese company Suntory, were having troubles and not in the market to buy a new business.
Randall’s problem was that he didn’t have the $2 million he needed. He persuaded another Garrett employee Warren Ward and Garrett director and future Defence SA boss Andrew Fletcher to get on board.
“That 200 grand I put in was everything I had,’’ he says. “That was my entire equity. I sold my Porsche. I moved house, rented it out. I just had to find 200 grand.’’
Randall and Ward chipped in $200,000 each. Fletcher contributed $600,000 and $1 million was borrowed from the bank. But in effect Fletcher was subsidising the other two. It was to be a three-way equal partnership, but such was the immediate success of the business that within a year, Randall and Ward had paid Fletcher back the $133,000 they had borrowed.
This was 1993. All these years later, Fletcher, who describes himself as the “silent partner” in the business which was run by Randall and Ward, still talks with a sense of wonder about how well the Tinlins business turned out.
“It was the best business relationship I ever had, we made a lot of money,’’ he says. “I have never experienced anything like it.’’
Fletcher is one of the state’s most-experienced businessmen but says Randall is “one of the best deal-makers I have ever met’’.
“He is just gifted,’’ he says. “He understands the essence of the deal, he understands, and takes into consideration, what the other party wants and he works solutions to make it come together.’’ Fletcher sold out to his two business partners in 2014 and earlier this year Randall took 100 per cent of the business when he purchased Ward’s share as well.
The success of Tinlins, according to Randall, was that, apart from making high quality wine, it subverted the traditional winemaking model.
Winemaking is an expensive business. The planting, the picking, the crushing, the delicate balancing act of creating a fine wine, then the cellaring and storing of the finished product, and all the care and careful temperature control that comes with it.
“Then you have to put in a bottle and package it, then you sell it two years, two and a half years later, you get your money back,’’ he says.
Randall didn’t want to have to wait that long to see his money so adopted what he calls the “beer model’’.
“I mean beer is a magnificent beverage,’’ he says with an unbridled enthusiasm. “You put in some water and some bloody hops and some malt and some yeast and you sell it in seven days.’’ And get paid.
So Tinlins became a purveyor of bulk wine. But good stuff. The rumours include selling right to the top of the market, including the Penfolds Grange.
Asking Randall if the rumours are true, brings an uncharacteristic lull to the conversation.
“That’s a bit sensitive,’’ he says, before listing all the companies he did sell too.
“Rosemount, Southcorp, Brown Bros, Orlando. All of them. All the big dogs. Penfolds, Lindemans.’’
And did he make that million by the time he was 40?
“Yes I did, yes I did,’’ he exclaims before aiming a high five at me, which is always an unusual point in any interview.
Such was his faith in the model he duplicated it by creating Fleurieu Vintners, which started in the then unfashionable Currency Creek region, which turned out to be similarly successful.
But of course by then it was time to triplicate the model. Randall’s life is defined by continual forward momentum. Now he wanted to have a crack at the state’s most high-profile region, the Barossa Valley.
His partners Ward and Fletcher had played no part in the Fleurieu business and decided to stay out of the Barossa as well. At the time Randall was disappointed.
“They clipped my wings basically,’’ he says.
But by 2008, the once-booming wine industry had fallen into a decline that seemed never-ending. Over-planting, falling prices, a high dollar had made the industry a hard grind for many.
Randall though was determined to forge ahead.
“I am a serious risk taker,’’ he says. “I think I am an adventure junkie. I love new challenges. I love someone saying ‘that can’t be done’ or ‘you can’t do that’ or ‘that has been done before and it failed’.
“I love looking at that and thinking ‘pig’s arse’.’’
There was also an ego thing at work. The chance to be a big deal in the Barossa.
“What did I see? The top of the totem pole.’’
As with Tinlins, the chance to buy Seppeltsfield came out of the blue. Seppeltsfield had been started in 1851 by Prussian immigrants Joseph and Johanna Seppelt, and it evolved into one of Australia’s finest wine estates and remained under family control until 1985.
But by the time Randall took a phone call from a bloke called Nathan Waks in 2009, the grandeur had faded, Seppeltsfield was on a long downward spiral and its history was the only thing that kept it in the public eye.
It was that phone call from Waks, who is one of Australia’s finest cellists, as well as a director and shareholder in Seppeltsfield, that started the ball rolling. Another shareholder was the wealthy businesswoman Janet Holmes a Court. He was being offered a 50 per cent stake in Seppeltsfield, which would cost him around $3 million. But he had done so well out of his other businesses by then he “paid cash’’. It took seven months to make up his mind, his resolution changing frequently.
“I saw the opportunity to resurrect Australia’s greatest wine estate as a huge challenge. Without doubt the greatest challenge in my career.’’
His mother Fay also died the day after he became the half owner of Seppeltsfield and he has dedicated the rebuilding of the estate to her memory.
Randall’s first step was to turn Seppeltsfield from a museum to an A-grade winery. He reopened the historic gravity flow winery, which was built in 1888, which can crush 5000 tonnes a year and ended up spending even more than he paid for his shareholding, putting some sparkle back in the joint.
The only drawback with Seppeltsfield was that, it didn’t bring enough vineyards with it, just the 100 hectares and a collection of growers, to mimic the Tinlins model. And the ones that it did have were mainly grenache.
It was a problem solved by buying Barossa Vines, a trust that owned 13 vineyards and 1050 hectares of vines. In a stroke, Randall became the largest vineyard owner in the Barossa. And it all started well. In a year he had repaid $3 million he had borrowed from senior managers and had sold one of the 13 vineyards for enough to settle much of the bank’s debt.
What almost brought him undone was the scourge of many an Australian agriculturist – drought. The 2012 vintage was 40 per cent down on long-term averages, 2013 was 35 per cent down, then 2014 was 50 per cent lower.
The economics hurt. “The budget at Seppeltsfield is $10 million to run the vineyards. You have to spend that before you get anything back. If you get half crop or double crop you have still spent the same amount of money.’’
“I had no right to survive. I had made the biggest vineyard acquisition in Barossa Valley history and I had three of the worst vintages in succession.’’
At the same time he decided “f... it’’ he was spending $3 million on the cellar door redevelopment. “There is that almost recklessness,’’ he says of that decision. “I don’t like to think of it as recklessness. I think it was a considered decision.’’
By the end of 2014 the NAB was warning him their patience was wearing thin.
“After the ’14 vintage the NAB were strong in their criticism of me for that decision (to spend the $3 million), strong in their criticism and made it very clear that I cannot have another bad year.’’
So, Randall says he “didn’t have a lot of choice going into ’15’’. It was down to a roll of the dice. “I was banking we wouldn’t have four bad vintages in a row’’.
Luckily, the 2015 weather gods smiled on him. He was able to haul himself back from the brink and, unlike many Australians, is eternally grateful to his bank.
“They could have closed me down, I could have lost the farm,’’ he says. “Without the NAB’s support I think I would be a bit of a broken down winemaker looking to make some sparkling wine again.’’
The scare made him think of ways to droughtproof the business. Seppeltsfield became a partner in the $22 million Gawler water pipeline which will bring 1.2 gigalitres to the Barossa. The project was funded by the Light Regional Council and the federal government, with Seppeltsfield buying all the water. “No other vineyard in the Barossa Valley is drought proof; I am,’’ he says with a mixture of pride and relief.
His relentless nature has seen him keep pushing for new deals. He has spent more millions building a new deck on the iconic Bridgewater Mill, bought the Ryecroft Winery in the McLaren Vale, finally after many years of frustration he has bought back the Seppeltsfield trademark and along with the Adelaide-based American agribusiness financier Ed Peter bought Chalmers Vineyards near Mildura from Macquarie Bank, who were willing to take a substantial loss on a business they had bought for about $40 million in 2008.
Peter, a multi-millionaire businessman, who is the money behind the 2KW bar, the refurbishments of the Crafers Inn, and the Uraidla Hotel, is an admirer of Randall.
“He has literally done more for the industry than any other individual out there in the last five years,’’ he says, before making the point that part of his success is down to the force of his personality. “Because he is so full of himself he is actually magical for the industry. He is probably the most charismatic individual I have ever met, he is absolutely charming.’’ The “charismatic’’ description is also used by Fiona Donald, the chief winemaker at Seppeltsfield, who has known Randall for 20 years. She bought his wine from Tinlins when she worked at Penfolds.
Donald has been with him since the early days at Seppeltsfield and says Randall is a “very much glass half full’’ person. “Everything is an opportunity.’’
“He infects people with enthusiasm,” she says. “He has this real fire in the belly to make the most of his lot in life.’’
Not even a recent full knee replacement will slow Randall down. But he says this constant need for forward movement is no longer about the money – he says he has no idea how much he is worth – it’s about the satisfaction. “The wealth, if there is wealth, is a reward, it’s not the driving force not at all. The driving force is to be the best you can be and enjoy what you are doing and that enjoyment is really important.’’
But he does want to leave a legacy for his four children, aged between 19 and 32 from his first marriage, three of which work in the business. He has recently split from second wife Nicky.
So Randall is still chasing that next deal. And the one after that.
And what comes through over a long chat, and a few glasses of wine, is just how much he enjoys this mad life he has created. The travel, the buying, the selling, the desire to chase whatever is beyond the next horizon. “Ninety-five per cent of the time I absolutely love it, I love it, it fuels me,” he says. “Five per cent of the time it’s a pain in the f...ing arse. Its only 3 minutes out of every hour.’’