SYDNEY, 2006–07
MORE TOURING FOLLOWED, more work. I was rebuilding a career that I had stripped to the ground and laid waste. Every step I took up the ladder felt like I was taking that step for the first time. Each achievement was a milestone. I was clawing my way back up to the surface where I could breathe. The venues were getting bigger and the crowds were too. I was singing better than I had ever sung and my band could tell. It was as if they were happy for me and were lifting their game to support me. I’ll never forget them for that. But the pressure was incredible. Every night I would end up in a hotel room somewhere, wondering if I could cope with all this again. I would sit on the end of the bed, where I could see the minibar, lined up next to the fridge. Waiting for me to reach out and ask for its help. But I fought the urge. I didn’t want to let everybody down again. But I was waiting to fuck up. Some nights I even reached out and picked up one of the bottles. How much could one small bottle of scotch hurt? It would help me sleep. No. I would put it back. In fact, I’d grab them all and put them in the drawer where I couldn’t see them. Then I would be safe. I still had a long way to go. I was fighting for my sanity and my life and I had too much to lose.
I DECIDED TO KEEP myself busy. I should get fit. That would help me. If I was healthier I wouldn’t want to spoil it by getting wasted. So I started trying to work out a bit. Just little things. I would do a few sit-ups and push-ups each morning. It was hard. It was like my body had forgotten what fitness was. Everything was hard to do. Maybe I should walk first. Get out and walk around the oval. In our search for a new start we had moved to Botany, a suburb full of working-class people with working-class values. I felt more at home there.
I could step across the road to the oval and walk my dogs. That was bound to help. So out I went. My lungs and chest hurt. All that smoking and snorting things into my lungs had obviously damaged me. But I pushed through. The boys, my little schnauzers, needed to walk as much as I did. But it did hurt. The more I pushed, the stronger the pain got. It was tight, my chest felt like I couldn’t take in enough air without pain. I thought I’d better go to see the doctor. Fuck, after all this, after all I’d been through, now I was going to die of lung cancer.
Early in 2007 I went to see my GP, who ordered a few tests. I was sent to do a stress test, running on a treadmill for twenty minutes or so to see how my lungs coped. I had finished and was sitting in the waiting room, gasping for air and trying to recover, when the doctor came in.
‘As far as we can see your lungs are all right, Jimmy. But we think that you should go and see a heart specialist.’
A heart specialist? It wasn’t my heart. One thing I thought that I’d inherited from my father was his ability to keep going. My dad used to say, ‘You know, son, I’ve run so much in training that my heart beats slower than a normal human. It beats so slow that it will last longer than a normal heart. I’ll live forever. Ha ha ha.’
Then he would break into a coughing fit. His heart might last forever but his lungs were going fast. We both knew he wouldn’t live forever but it was a bit of a laugh. So I was convinced that I had inherited a big, slow-beating heart from my dad. I had a heart like Phar Lap. That’s what I always said. That’s why I could keep going for so long.
‘I think it would be best if you went to see a cardiologist as soon as possible.’
What an idiot. There was nothing wrong with my heart. I wasn’t going anywhere near a cardiologist. I left.
‘What did the doctor say, Jimmy?’ Jane asked as I stepped into the car.
‘Oh, nothing really. My lungs are fine. It might be something else.’
Jane knew me well enough to know when I wasn’t telling her something. ‘What did he say?’
I had to tell her, even though I knew he was wrong. ‘Look, I think he’s completely wrong but he said I should see a heart specialist.’
There was silence in the car for a second.
‘We’d better make an appointment now.’ Jane didn’t want to wait even though I assured her I was better.
I had a series of tests at St Vincent’s Hospital. I was wired up to machines and blood was taken. The doctor listened to my heart and then got someone else to listen. I sat waiting for the all clear.
‘Yes, Jimmy, come in. Sit down.’
I didn’t feel like sitting. ‘No, I’m all right. So how did we go? Can I go home now?’
The doctor and Jane insisted I sit down and listen.
‘You have a congenital defect in your aorta. Most people have a tricuspid aortic valve. You have a bicuspid valve. We are going to have to operate.’
I could feel the blood drain from my face. Jane looked at me with tears welling in her eyes.
‘What sort of surgery are we talking here, doctor?’ I asked. Surely this would not be invasive. Minor surgery. I had a lot to do.
‘I’m sorry to tell you it will mean open heart surgery.’ It was like he said this in slow motion: ‘II’mmmm sssooorrryyy bbuuuttt iiiiittt wwwiiilll meeeaan oopppeenn hhheeeaaarrrttt suuuurrrrggggeeeerrry.’
Was he fucking serious? I wasn’t ready for this. I was going to have to put it off.
‘So when do you think we’ll have to do it?’ I was expecting him to say in a year or two.
‘You need to do this right now. The sooner the better. Your valve sounds like it’s shot. If it stops working you’ll drop dead.’
I was stunned. Jane sat panicking. I could tell she was worried.
‘All right. I’m ready when you are.’
The doctor told me that most people needed to get this replaced a lot sooner than me. It was a miracle I hadn’t collapsed before now. I guess I hadn’t had time to fall over. I was too busy trying to kill myself to die of natural causes.
I knew I needed to have the operation immediately. I had to just charge at it. If I thought about it I would want to run away. The date was set. I would be having open heart surgery within a week.
The night before I went into hospital, I sat with my dogs in the lounge room. ‘Oh, my little boys. I’m so worried. I need to come back and see you. You guys need me to look after you. Don’t worry. I’m coming back.’
The dogs looked at me. It was as if they knew I was scared. They snuggled closer into me. It helped a lot. I walked around the house alone, taking it all in just in case it was for the last time.
EVERYTHING SMELLED OF BLEACH and disinfectant. The walls were white, the nurses’ clothes were white and the lights were white. Bright white neon lights. I was being wheeled down a hallway to theatre where my heart would stop beating and then be taken out of my chest and repaired. I might not be coming back. My eyes darted nervously around as if trying to see everything for the last time. The world. My Jane. Jane walked beside me holding my hand. Trying to stay calm so she wouldn’t upset me. But I had already been given something by the nurses to calm me down. Maybe they should have given something to Jane too. She looked so beautiful, even with those red eyes. I watched her just in case I never got to see her again. I didn’t want to leave. I needed to be with my Jane. The anaesthetist and a few other doctors started milling around.
‘Jane, we’re sorry, but this is as far as you can go.’
I gripped her hand. ‘I’ll be all right. I’ll be back before you know it. Kiss me, baby.’
I was trying not to cry. I just wanted to be home with my Jane. Safe and sound. The nurse started pushing me away.
‘Oh. Wait a minute. Jane, have you got the camera? Take a photo. It might be my last with you.’ It was a joke but it wasn’t funny. ‘Give the camera to them. Can someone take a few snaps in the theatre?’
Jane handed over the camera, squeezed my hand one last time and I was gone. I was taken into another room for some sort of pre-op. I thought about my children, my Jane and my little puppies. I thought about all the things I had done wrong. Everything went black.
I CAME TO IN intensive care. I felt like I had been hit by a freight train. Not the trains that had hit me before. This was not self-inflicted. I knew I needed to be in the ICU because I have never felt so lost or in so much pain in my life. I had made it through. But I didn’t feel like I was going to make it for long. Something had to have gone wrong. I couldn’t feel this bad and be on the mend at the same time. I passed out again. I drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, I don’t remember how long. Every time I came to, even for a second, there was my Jane. Holding my hand and smiling at me. She looked like an angel.
‘How did it go?’ My throat was stuck together. I could hardly speak.
‘You’re going to be all right, baby. Now just sleep.’
Jane touched my face and I slipped away. Eventually they moved me to a ward. Every bump or corner of the trip felt like I was going to die. The pain was excruciating.
‘Where’s Jane? I need to see her,’ I asked.
‘Jane has gone home to have a shower but she’ll be right back,’ the nurse assured me.
When I woke next it was dark outside the window. The room was quiet. I lay on the bed and reflected on the last few days. I had technically died while my heart was being repaired. I didn’t see any light. Not even theatre lights, thank God. It was a complete blank. The drugs had worked well. The door opened. I could hardly turn my head. There was Jane dressed in a long overcoat. Our friend Annabelle was with her.
Jane removed her coat to reveal what was underneath. ‘I wore this to cheer you up.’
Jane was wearing a rubber nurse’s outfit under the coat. Annabelle and Jane thought it was very funny. I couldn’t laugh, even though I wanted to. I was in pain just breathing; laughing would have killed me. The girls hugged me and lay next to me taking photos and laughing before they kissed me and headed out into the night. I hoped Jane was going home. The rubber nurse’s outfit was for my eyes only. But she didn’t go home. Jane was also wearing the nurse’s outfit to cheer up a dear friend of ours who was very sick. Richard Bailey had an advanced cancer and was fighting tooth and nail for his life. We loved Richard and his beautiful family, and Jane thought she could bring a smile to his face too. Make me laugh and cheer up Richard at the same time. So that’s what she did.
Next day when I saw Jane she told me what had happened. After her bedside visits she had headed home to get an early night. Now I knew this, but Jane obviously didn’t. Apparently you need help to take off a rubber dress. They are not to be tackled alone. Jane got home and started pulling the dress off and it got stuck. The more she pulled it up, the tighter it got. She ended up lying on the bed with the rubber dress ungracefully up and over her head, her arms sticking straight up in the air. It wouldn’t budge past that point. She lay herself on the bed and pulled the blankets up with her teeth. She tried to get the dogs to help her but they were scared off by the noise and hid in the corner. So there she lay, gasping for air. She was expecting to be found suffocated in the morning. She told me that she could already see the headlines. ‘Rock singer’s wife found dead in auto-erotic liaison gone wrong. Jimmy Barnes was suffering in hospital while his wife was up to no good.’ At least she had the photos to prove that she had worn it to see me in hospital. Eventually she used all her remaining strength to rip the dress up and over her head and off, tearing chunks of hair from her head along the way. She was covered in bruises from where the dress had wrapped too tightly around her. She would never wear that dress again unless I was there to help her get it off.
AFTER ABOUT A WEEK I was ready to go home. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and back to my own bed. But it all suddenly went wrong. Instead of celebrating my survival, we got some terrible news. As I was leaving the hospital, a dear friend of mine, a man who was a real hero to me, Billy Thorpe, was being admitted. Since I was a young kid, I had looked up to Billy Thorpe. Billy was the singer I wanted to be like more than anyone else. He was wild and tough and everybody loved him. He made a career doing things his own way. He was flawed and beautiful. Billy had time for young bands and singers like me. I remember when I was starting out back in Adelaide, I ended up at a party in a hotel with Billy and his band. Instead of ignoring me or having me thrown out, Billy took me under his wing and gave me my first lesson on how to survive the music business. From that day on, Billy was like a big brother to me. I really looked up to him.
Just a few months earlier I had sat with Billy, laughing and listening to him tell me how I should write a book. Now here we were. My heart was on the mend, but Billy had had a massive heart attack. He didn’t make it. Billy died. I felt like a big part of Australian rock died with him. There was only one Billy Thorpe and I would miss him terribly.
I was told to stay in bed for twelve weeks or at least stay still and calm for that long. But I had to go to Billy’s service to say goodbye to my old friend. It hurt to move – but it hurt anyway to sit and think about the loss of Billy. I got out of bed and clutched a pillow to my chest so I could move and went and cried at his funeral.
Meanwhile, my son Jackie was at university in Boston. He was sitting in a class when he spotted something on his computer, saying, ‘Australian rock legend dies of heart attack in St Vincent’s Hospital’. Jackie knew I was in that hospital and he knew why I was there. He thought it was me. For some unknown reason it took hours for Jackie to get to the bottom of it. He found out I hadn’t died, and was of course very happy, but Jackie loved Billy too and so he was sad to hear the news. It was difficult when he was so far from home.
THE DOCTORS TOLD ME I would feel good in about eight or nine weeks, but I should take it easy and not work for at least twelve weeks, just to be sure. I lay in bed and tried to keep still. Jane was my nurse and she would be up and down the stairs all day, checking to see if I needed anything. But I was miserable. I didn’t like having so much time to sit and think. As a rule, I would keep myself busy so that I couldn’t think about the bad things I had done in my life, but now here I was. I tried to remember anything from the time when my heart was stopped but I couldn’t. If there was something to learn from it, it was that your memory isn’t much good without your heart. So I slept a lot. My dogs slept on the bed with me, my constant companions. Even Jane, who was happy to look after me, could only stand so much but the dogs never moved.
After about eight weeks I felt like a new man. I had been offered a big show in Malaysia before I was taken in for surgery and I had told my agent, Frank Stivala, not to cancel it, just in case. I rang him and told him it was on.
Frank is my agent and my friend. We have worked together since just after For the Working Class Man. But long before that I used to visit his office whenever I was in Melbourne and sit and watch him work. It was fun to see him juggle the books of every big band in the country. ‘Fuck them. Cancel that show. We don’t like them anymore. This is the fucking band you want. Trust me.’
There is no one in the world like Frank. He is an old school Italian booking agent. He is tough and funny, and if he is on your side, there is a good chance you will be all right. I have seen Frank help out struggling bands and build their careers into something huge. I would trust Frank with my kids’ lives. He is like an uncle to them all and they love him as much as Jane and I do.
Frank was wary. ‘Have you asked your doctor if you can do it? I can still cancel it if I need to.’
I told him not to cancel. I would be fine. I rang the doctor. ‘Hi, Doctor. Listen, I feel terrific and I was wondering if it was all right to do a little show. I’ll only sing a little. I’ll have my daughter Mahalia and my son David with me.’
The doctor was very hesitant. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Jimmy. You should be in bed taking it easy.’
But I had made up my mind. ‘Look, Doctor, I’ll take it very easy and if I feel tired I’ll lay down.’ I can be very convincing when I want to be.
‘All right then, but just a few songs then back into bed.’
I hung up the phone. It was on. I had neglected to tell the doctor that the show was in Malaysia and that I was booked to play for one and a half hours. I would be fine.
We all travelled to Malaysia. Jane wasn’t happy with me. She felt I would be better in bed. But we were going anyway. I got to the show and felt fine. Unfortunately, I was so happy to be singing again that I worked too hard. I screamed and shouted my way through the set. By the time it was over I had bad pains in my chest. I had done too much. The doctor was right and I was wrong. We caught the next plane back to Sydney and I was taken directly to hospital. Fluids had collected in my chest cavity and were pressing on my heart. They would have to open me up and drain the fluids. I was in hospital for four days. The doctor wanted to keep me in but I assured him I would do nothing but rest in my bed. And that’s what I intended to do.
After another nine weeks or so I felt brand new again and once again I rang my agent. ‘Hey Frank, are there any shows I could do? I’m going fucking crazy sitting in this bed.’
I talked him into it and soon I was breaking the news to Jane and my doctor that I wanted to work again. Both thought I was crazy but I had made up my mind.
Frank gave me two shows in Queensland. I told everyone that it would be like a little holiday in the sun. It would be good for me. So on the Saturday night I played a late show in Brisbane. I was a little sore but I was all right. I didn’t tell anyone that I was in pain. The next day we had a second show. It was a mid-afternoon show in the direct Queensland sun. We played for two hours and then I collapsed. The chest pains were back. We travelled to Sydney and the doctor sent me back to hospital. This time they drained the fluids with long needles they stuck into my chest. At least they didn’t have to open me up again.
This time the doctor was adamant. He was keeping me in hospital for twelve weeks.
I begged him to let me go home. ‘Please doctor. There’ll be no shows, no singing. I promise I’ll stay in my bed.’
Jane assured the doctor that she would not let me up again. They sent me home and I was sentenced to twelve weeks in solitary confinement.
What could I do but sit and watch TV? But even I can’t watch that much TV and I can watch more than most people. Once again I was going crazy, so I grabbed an acoustic guitar and a tape machine and tried to write some songs. After a couple of weeks, I had written an album. It was a different sort of record. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even sing loud. So all the songs I wrote were soft and a little mournful. I felt sorry for myself lying in that bed and it came out in the songs. Out in the Blue was recorded as soon as I could get out of bed. I got some help from Nash Chambers and a few of his mates and I think it was a really good record considering I was dying in bed when I wrote it. The cover shot was taken by my good friend Richard Bailey, the other guy Jane visited in the rubber dress. Richard was a guitar player and a surfer, as well as one of the best fashion photographers in the world. He didn’t normally do album covers but for me he made an exception. The cover shows me lying on a marble slab – I had come close to death – with Jane’s name tattooed over my heart. It was as if Jane had been there, calling me back from death’s door. Now that I think about it, she’s been doing that for years. The album, released in November 2007, peaked at number three on the charts, but I didn’t expect it to even do that well. I had survived heart surgery and was still kicking.
THAT SAME YEAR MY father, Jim Swan, died. Dad and I had managed to work through a few of our issues before he died. I hope we had worked through enough for him to die in peace. After Dad’s visit to John and me at the Largs Pier Hotel – remember I told you about that – things got worse, but they did eventually get better. When he came back into my life, he was drinking way too much. But to his credit, after a few run-ins with Jane and me, he got his life together. My dad died sober. I was proud of him for that. My dad didn’t have to do much to make me proud. I wanted him to be great. Even at his worst, I could only see the Jim I loved.
He died of emphysema, struggling to get air into his lungs. The Dad I remembered was afraid of no one or nothing, but before he died I could see fear in his eyes. He pretended he wasn’t scared but I think that was for us. We pretended we couldn’t see that he was scared. He died thinking we thought he was brave. And I did think he was brave. He had been forced to face up to a lot of the shit he had done in his life. And he had had to face it sober.
My brothers and sisters came together for a short time to mourn, but not for long. We couldn’t be close anymore. We were shattered like broken glass, scattered every which way, and we could never be put back together. We would get together only when we had to, if someone died or to celebrate one of Mum’s birthdays.