Though his greetings grew warmer over the years, we were never friends. Michael was too professional for that. Chance encounters at gigs were gruff, aggressive, one-way pitches for the artist at hand; shoulder-slapping encouragement to write that. In his Albert Park empire, journalists were welcome by invitation only. I relished being summoned, though I dreaded transcribing the conversation. “An attention span the size of a bee’s dick,†as The Sports’ Stephen Cummings once noted about him.
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“I am a sentimental guy,†Michael confessed one time as I admired the smattering of memorabilia framing the panoramic view of the Melbourne skyline behind his desk. “I get emotional talking about Skyhooks . . . I get emotional with everything I see about Kylie.†When he showed me the homemade St Kilda jersey Barry Breen wore when he kicked the winning goal in the 1966 grand final, I think he actually shed a tear.
Another time, after his umpteenth award as the number one power player in Australian music, he snapped, “If you want to talk about the past, you should move on. The past is the past. Bob Dylan had that great film, Don’t Look Back. Giving awards, giving titles, all that is the past. I’m excited about the future.â€
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I think that’s what impressed me most about Michael as the years flew by. I was in his office, examining a guitar autographed by the Eagles one time when he barked at a passing aide to get me the new Rubens CD, pronto. In the next breath he was vibing about the Jezabels, Husky, Gotye, Havana Brown and Gypsy & the Cat.
“We’re in the middle of the best crop of Australian artists we’ve ever seen,†he said. “And I’m not just talking about mine.†This was maybe 10 years ago, but I have the feeling he’d have said the same thing last week. And though it’s been a while since one of our shoulder-slapping desk encounters, I always assumed that was more to do with my gig stamina than his.
“I don’t go on the road as much ’cause it’s no good for my health. You just end up in the zone and it’s… well, it depends on the artist,†he told me the last time I saw him. For a man in his 60s, it struck me as a classic line. I’ll be glad to tell my grandkids that he once shook my hand.
