Jimmy Barnes shares real-life anecdotes in his latest title Highways And Byways

Rock legend Jimmy Barnes has been telling stories all his life. His latest book debuts his skills as a fiction writer. Now, you can read his exclusive new extract.

The Singer And The Superstar

The singer walked up the winding driveway, past the limousines and their chauffeurs, and climbed the steps to the sumptuous restaurant overlooking the bay.

He found his table and sat in his designated seat. It was no accident that he’d been placed directly across from the international superstar – he was here for a reason, after all.

As a favour. Certainly not by choice.

The superstar was gaunt and pale, not in a healthy way but in a tortured, painful way. His concave cheeks looked like oyster shells that had been shucked and emptied, and his face seemed to be caving in as a result of years of denying himself anything that contained the slightest traces of sugar or, heaven forbid, animal fat. His eyes were cold and his hair stood straight up as if trying to flee from the rest of his body. His limbs were long and lean – too long and lean for his own good. They would have been at home on the body of a Russian ballet dancer, but on him they looked ridiculous. Stretching out from his scrawny British body that, no matter how much exercise he did, would never change, they appeared gangly and awkward, as if God had taken them out of the wrong box.

The front cover of Jimmy Barnes’ Highways and Byways book.

Aussie rock icon Jimmy Barnes debuts his skills as a writer. Picture: Sam Ruttyn

His clothes, though, were immaculate, and had been chosen no doubt by the outrageously expensive stylist who dressed him as he travelled the world: linen trousers, stylishly too short and perfect for showing off the Om tattoo on his ankle; Italian slip-on calf-leather shoes that probably cost more than the singer’s car; and a white silk shirt that hung from his shoulders and clung to his suntanned arms. He’d never really worked a day in his life – he was a natural-born superstar after all. In fact the last real ‘job’ he’d had was as a school prefect back at the sprawling country school that occupied half of the county where he grew up in rural England. His childhood had been perfect and now his career was too.

The singer, deafened by years of working in factories and relentless blaring guitar solos in overcrowded clubs, struggled to hear the conversations across the table. He could only pick up the odd word here and there. Most of what was being said meant nothing to him, but he caught enough of it to know he wasn’t really interested anyway.

‘Blah blah blah … I like playing the Macedonian bouzouki … Yabba yabba yabba … I adore my German Tantric pilates classes. I have them every day in my private jet. It’s ever so satisfying. I can do it for hours on end now – the bouzouki playing, that is.’ He broke out in a low, lecherous laugh.

‘What am I doing here?’ wondered the singer, still dusty from the previous night’s revelries. His mind drifted off as the first course, lobster smothered in sea urchin sauce, was served. He searched the flowers that decorated the table for somewhere to hide his slimy, untouched plateful. It was going to be a long afternoon.

He was only there because the previous day his dear friend, a beautiful, self-made millionaire, shameless self-promoting music mogul and part-time female Svengali, had begged him to attend the lunch. They had been partners in crime for years, been through good times and bad together, and had always had each other’s backs.

She knew all too well that the singer would do anything for her.

‘You’ll love it,’ she’d told him. ‘The best in the business will be at the table. And you know what to say to these people. You’re practically one of them.’

Cold Chisel with frontman Jimmy Barnes as the band played a secret show for their historic 50th anniversary tour. Picture Paul Field

The singer knew she mainly wanted him there as support: she had plans for the evening that would most certainly mean she would be way too hungover on the following day to look after anyone at the lunch but herself.

‘Besides, it’ll be good for your career.’

The singer had cringed uncomfortably when he heard this. He knew she believed he was no longer at the top of his game but didn’t have the heart to tell him. Clearly she thought she might as well get some use out of him while she still could.

Now here he was, feeling like a fish out of water – which, unsurprisingly, turned out to be the next course in this lunch, the most torturous experience he’d had since he’d last eaten at that same Melbourne restaurant.

All at once, the superstar, obviously being ever so entertained by a glamorously dressed older woman to the left of him – the partner of the music mogul – threw his head back and emitted a booming laugh that carried down the table, bounced off the perfectly polished glass doors that opened out onto Port Phillip Bay, and rattled the cutlery. It was as if he wanted the world, or at least the rest of the table, to know how deeply connected with his

host and her partner he really was. He was a man of the people after all.

Despite his fine upbringing, he’d cut his teeth in the music industry wearing torn clothes held together by safety pins and playing in a punk band that bridged the class barrier and made it possible for middle-class music lovers to feel that they too were part of the angry working-class music revolution. Even though, if the truth be known, the revolution had already come and gone while the superstar was busy spending his daddy’s money on the French Riviera on yet another gap year – five years after leaving school.

Jimmy Barnes’ Highways And Byways debuts his skills as a fiction writer, with short stories – some based on his real-life experiences. Picture: Sam Ruttyn

The singer sensed a lull in the conversation and prepared to tackle the job he had been given: strike up a conversation that would break the ice with the superstar, who, at all costs, according to the millionaire music mogul, had to be made to feel comfortable and loved. His

chance came as the superstar’s eyes alighted on the singer’s for a fleeting second. But before the humble singer could open his mouth, those piercing eyes moved on, looking for someone more important and more deserving of his precious time.

To the right of the superstar sat a man who was obviously a film director. It was obvious because he had announced it many times to the table. Now he was saying to the middle-aged woman next to him, ‘You know I am a vegan, right. On my movie sets we don’t serve any animal products like these.’ He scoffed at the ridiculously expensive seafood

that now covered the table. ‘There are no animals allowed on my set but me, darling. That’s why I’m on a carefully selected diet today, you see. Everyone knows that I am strictly vegan. Actually, that would be a good name for my next film, Strictly Vegan.’ He turned to the young buffed boy with bulging biceps crouching behind him – who looked like he had an IQ not much higher than his age and was no doubt paid a pittance to follow him around and write down all the wonderful things that oozed from his mouth – and said, ‘Write that down.’

Clearly desperate to establish some sort of connection with someone, anyone, he spoke way too loudly. It seemed everyone at the table did. It was as if they were used to people never standing close enough to them to use a normal conversational tone. Everything they said sounded like an order, barked out in the manner of a sergeant major, requiring someone to jump or, at the very least, gush with enthusiasm.

‘Maybe you could help me with some music for my next little film,’ the director hissed as he slid closer to the touring superstar.

The room began to buzz. Everyone at the table seemed excited by the prospect of a collaboration being arranged right then and there, in front of their very eyes.

Jimmy Barnes and Ian Moss. Picture: Bill Donohoe/Facebook

‘Someone should be filming this!’ shouted an overexcited personal assistant from the end of the table, far from where the real guests were seated – so far that no one who mattered paid him any attention anyway.

The singer noticed a slight taste of vomit had just risen from his turning stomach to his mouth. He picked up his glass of mineral water – it came from a glacier on the South Island of New Zealand and had been imported by their host especially for the occasion – and gargled loudly.

All the guests fell silent for a moment, then, as quickly as they’d stopped, went back to their gossip and continued to ignore him all over again.

The superstar’s eyes once again met the singer’s. Maybe it was out of curiosity, or perhaps sheer disgust. Whatever the reason, his glance lingered just long enough for the singer to initiate a conversation.

‘So, how are you enjoying our beautiful country then?’

The superstar looked at him thoughtfully for a second and tilted his head slightly as if he was thinking of a deep and meaningful answer to the challenging question the singer had just posed him. Then he turned and continued talking to the film director, completely ignoring the singer.

‘Well,’ thought the singer, ‘I guess my work here is done. Either that or he doesn’t speak English.’ He picked up his phone and car keys and dropped them into his jacket pocket. ‘Maybe one day I’ll be famous enough to ignore normal people, and pay someone to gather my things for me.’

Without anyone noticing, he stepped away from the table, then walked around to where the superstar was seated. He leaned down and spoke into his ear. ‘Not sure anyone has told you this lately, but you really are a pompous, pretentious, poncy prick of a person. And, by the way, your fly has been undone since you walked into the room. Love your work!’

Jimmy Barnes has expressed many of his stories in song, film and books. Picture: Jesse Lizotte

He turned and headed towards the music mogul, who sat a few seats down from the superstar, nervously sipping her champagne and repeatedly scanning the room to check every detail of the goings-on. She was oblivious to the spanner the singer had just thrown in the works.

He kissed her gently on the cheek and smiled. ‘I think we have that all sorted out now, so I’m off. Any problems, just give me a call.

As he walked slowly down the winding driveway towards his car parked under a tree out on the street, he experienced a strange sense of achievement. Reaching his vehicle, he looked at the white marks splashed across the windscreen, courtesy of the hundreds of well-fed birds that lived in the trees of this leafy, up-market, ridiculously expensive part of the city, and laughed.

Climbing into his wreck of a car, which he had paid for with his own hard-earned money, he felt he was back where he belonged, and as he turned on the windscreen wipers, he allowed himself another little chuckle of satisfaction. Despite all he had just experienced, he could still see through the shit.

He loved the rock ’n’ roll business.

This is an extract from Highways and Byways by Jimmy Barnes: out now, published by HarperCollins.

Originally published as Jimmy Barnes shares real-life anecdotes in his latest title Highways And Byways