Cold Chisel can tell you everything about your parenting skills

An hour into Cold Chisel’s concert in Ballarat last weekend, there was a sweet spot. Flame Trees followed by Khe Sanh, then Bow River. Yep, I’d been on the Canadian Clubs, but that aside it still felt like more than just songs playing.

It was a vocalised piece of Australia’s psyche, bringing randoms together in a shared, spoken understanding. Every word was sung by 37,000 people, arms draped around each other, women perched on shoulders, like we were all part of an impromptu choir shouting “and it’s only other vets could understand” at each other.

Kate Halfpenny and her friends at Cold Chisel.

Anyone who’s seen Chisel before (or on this 50th anniversary tour), or just listened to the radio since the 1970s, will know what I’m on about. We all know the songs. And we know there’s something about this band and what they represent that maybe feels more Australian than any other single thing.

Six of us made the roadie to The Rat, dropped bags at a motel, stood through sets by Birds of Tokyo (are they the Wiggles for adults?) and The Cruel Sea (Tex looking banger with his Just For Men quality hair). The crowd was half oldies like us, the rest looked like the ink wasn’t dry on their tradies certificates.

And that was the fabulous part. Once Chisel kicked off – Mossy the MVP in a sleeveless puffa over an old Tarocash shirt – the younger generations were word-perfect.

Peter, a young bloke from Melbourne, latched onto our posse when his own wasn’t game to push close to the stage, his yachting cap and Tommy Hilfiger polo belied his innate Barnesy. All night, he held his fist up like a microphone to anyone he trusted not to muff the choruses.

Everywhere, there was a sense of connection, as if everyone was tuning into the same frequency of emotion with a dash of rebellion. Especially the kids.

Driving back to the motel via Dominos, that’s what we talked about: how is it that Chisel songs became a cultural shorthand, and that kids know the lyrics of a 50-year-old band?

With eight children between us, we have a permanent antenna for parenting done right. And that was it, writ large.

The multi-generational sing-along was gorgeous, roof-raising proof kids don’t just learn from what you tell them. They absorb the vibe, the values, the visuals and the music you play on repeat. Those summer barbecues with Standing on the Outside blasting, the road trips with Forever Now echoing down the highway, the quiet Sunday mornings with CDs on in the background – all those little moments add up.

Ian Moss and Jimmy Barnes have still got it.Credit: ©Martin Philbey

Through osmosis, Millennials and Zoomers have soaked up the classics. Last weekend in Ballarat, they carried on that legacy, singing along like they lived through every lyric. They were part of an unspoken tradition, passing on stories of small towns and the bittersweetness of change without even needing to explain it.

To our crew, the youngies belting out the songs that were the backdrop to our own youth was like paying homage to all the good times, all the real moments, their parents shared with them. Even if it was subconscious. It’s culture handed down without a lecture or lesson – podium finish parenting.

That Cold Chisel was the conduit is funny for me. They were always there, but I came late-ish to loving them. When I was a teenager, they seemed tough or a bit seedy (although show me a hotter man than barefoot Barnesy in the Cheap Wine video).

Thinking I was too bougie for their working-class anthems, I spurned them for Jeff Buckley and Everything But the Girl. Until I didn’t. Until I got over myself and got that Chisel’s songs of restlessness and wanderlust speak to a collective memory and nostalgia for a mutual history. Are Australian poetry.

Cold Chisel. Stitched into memories and celebrations with an authenticity that feels like a perfectly worn leather jacket, as familiar as it is resilient. There’s a reason that five decades on, Aussies of all ages know all the words.

Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media.

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