PARRY Meal Tickets by Metro and Screen Education magazines

CRITICAL VIEWS

LONG WAY TO THE TOP Meal Tickets, Authenticity and Rock’n’roll

WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO ATTAIN ROCK SUCCESS? IS CULTIVATING A ‘STAR PERSONA’ AT ODDS WITH HOLDING ONTO ONE’S ARTISTIC VALUES IN THE SEARCH FOR FAME? WITH REFERENCE TO THE EXPLOITS AND ASSERTIONS PRESENTED IN MAT DE KONING’S MUSIC DOCUMENTARY MEAL TICKETS, GRETA PARRY WADES INTO THE TINSELLED WORLD OF BANDS, GIGS AND RECORD LABELS TO UNCOVER THE REALITY OF ROCKSTAR LIFE AND TO ASCERTAIN THE PLACE OF INTEGRITY AMID THE IMPERATIVE TO MAKE IT BIG.

www.metromagazine.com.au | © ATOM | Metro Magazine 192 • 91

The film’s position … is clear: the Screwtop Detonators missed out because they didn’t make sacrifices and follow Kavanagh’s advice; Ferrier has a better chance because he is willing to do whatever it takes.

Being a rockstar has always ranked highly among the dreams of kids who grow up idolising pop culture’s wild heroes. Fantasies of sold-out stadiums, millions of dollars, global fame, and unlimited sex and drugs loom large. The reality for the vast majority of those who pursue a career in music, however, is wildly different. A study of professional artists in Australia showed that, despite 70 per cent of musicians having formal training, 57 per cent of them earned less than A$10,000 from music in the 2007/08 financial year, with only 16 per cent making more than A$50,000 from music.1 To put that in perspective, the average full-time earnings for Australians at that time was almost A$60,000 per annum.2 So what is life really like for most rock musicians? Mat de Koning’s 2016 documentary Meal Tickets offers some answers to this question as it follows an Australian band with rockstar ambitions over the course of ten years. Things kick off in 2004, when smooth-talking Londoner Dave Kavanagh takes young Perth outfit the Screwtop Detonators – comprising Ben Ward, Lee French, Mitch Long and Charlie Austen – under his wing, convinced they will be the next big thing in rock. We also meet their young roadie, Will Ferrier, who early on announces that he, too, wants a career in the spotlight. The film charts the Screwtop Detonators’ successes, struggles and eventual demise, while also following Ferrier’s journey with his band Will Stoker & the Embers.

Bound for glory From the get-go, Meal Tickets insists that the Screwtop Detonators are a band that should be famous. Within the film’s first minute, Kavanagh offers this grandiose statement: I’ve seen two bands ever that I’ve had the opportunity to be involved with that I just thought, Fuck, they’ve got it all. The first was The Libertines, and the second was Screwtop Detonators. They got youth, they got looks, they got attitude, they’re a gang: all the things that are important in rock’n’roll.

Previous spread: Will Ferrier performing as Will Stoker This spread, clockwise from top left: The Screwtop Detonators performing; filmmaker Mat de Koning with Pip McMullan, Mitch Long, Ben Ward and Lee French; de Koning filming Ferrier; de Koning, McMullan, Dave Kavanagh, Charlie Austen, French, Ward and Long posing in front of their US tour van

92 • Metro Magazine 192 | © ATOM

De Koning echoes this, describing the band as ‘super talented’ in the film’s press kit3 and as ‘true contenders for success in the music industry’ in voiceover. Presumably, this is why he started following them around with a camera all those years ago: he thought that he might capture a fairytale ascent to stardom. For the first third of the film, the narrative looks set to adhere to this trajectory. After seeing the Screwtop Detonators play live, punk legend Tommy Ramone ‘return[s] to New York singing the band’s praises’. Kavanagh then hires a US record producer with some big-name experience to work on the Screwtop Detonators’ first album. On the back of the new recordings, American label Gig Records is interested in signing the band if they commit to touring the US. We see the band play a US fundraiser gig in Perth, where punters enthusiastically watch them perform and, indeed, pay for the privilege, before the four bandmates excitedly traipse across the States while Kavanagh barks orders at them, determined to get them on the path to fame. After the tour, though, the band decides to fire Kavanagh because all members feel he ‘was trying to turn them into something they didn’t want to be’, as de Koning’s voiceover

explains. It’s a tension that had been building, with Ward, Long and Austen at various points explicitly voicing dissatisfaction with Kavanagh’s direction. The film frames the decision to fire him as a terrible one. Immediately after de Koning tells us about the firing, he points out the severe consequences: ‘without Dave as their manager, Gig Records pulled the record deal, and their album never saw the light of day’. The director explicitly chastises the move, stating that ‘[s]ome of us thought that this was career suicide on the Screwtops’ behalf’. Matt Doust, a friend of the band and an acclaimed visual artist, also blames the boys for throwing away their chance at the big time: ‘They really fucked up,’ he states bluntly, citing their refusal to prioritise the band over their girlfriends and regular Perth lives as their downfall. ‘[A]rt is about sacrifice.’ Though its primary focus remains the Screwtop Detonators’ path post-Kavanagh, Meal Tickets here starts developing its other narrative strand – seemingly a second attempt at the fairytale-ascent arc – by checking in with failed roadie Ferrier as he launches a music career under Kavanagh’s guidance. ‘All I wanna do is go as far as I can [with] music,’ Ferrier proclaims,

‘and I’m just cutting everything down that’s in my way.’ The film’s position at this point is clear: the Screwtop Detonators missed out because they didn’t make sacrifices and follow Kavanagh’s advice; Ferrier has a better chance because he is willing to do whatever it takes. It’s a flawed stance, and one that threatens to erode the audience’s confidence in the filmmaker. This is largely because the film’s unwavering belief in Kavanagh’s ability to make the band huge is obviously misguided. There are certainly times when we see that his advice is warranted and helpful; after the band botch a US radio interview, struggling to describe their sound and making a confusing reference to satanic music, Kavanagh rightly reprimands them for being vague and unfocused. But what this fumble also reveals is that, contrary to Kavanagh’s earlier assertion that they are equipped with a rockstar-ready attitude, the boys don’t have a clear idea of who they are, or even who they want to be. Their manager’s constant attempts to construct an image for them are increasingly laughable, as it becomes evident that his vision is riddled with outdated clichés. He wants them to

www.metromagazine.com.au | © ATOM | Metro Magazine 192 • 93

wear leather jackets and sunglasses, and to act aloof (read: ‘cool’) in front of crowds. Ward voices what many viewers are no doubt thinking when he objects: ‘If I’m not comfortable, why would I do it and jeopardise a good fucking show ’cos I feel like a twat?’ Kavanagh justifies his advice by uttering such cringeworthy lines as, ‘It’s a fucking rockstar thing to do.’ During a band meeting, he laments their refusal to conform to a stereotypical image: ‘You’re all very self-conscious. You didn’t want to wear your leather jackets and you didn’t want to quiff your hair.’ For some time after seeing the film, I struggled to justify my disdain for Kavanagh and his approach. Who’s to say the public don’t buy into such by-the-numbers personas? Isn’t that what some of the most successful pop groups in recent history, such as the Spice Girls and One Direction, are built on – five different identities specifically manufactured to appeal to the broadest audience possible? Is it so hard to believe that some ultra-famous rock groups might also be similarly constructed? Ultimately, it is. Rock music is fundamentally tied to notions of rawness and authenticity – a defiance of the very rules and order that the maintenance of a constructed identity requires. It is for this reason that the rock artists whose legacy endures are trailblazers in some way; copying someone else’s identity rarely leads to a spot in the history books. Elvis, Chuck Berry, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Nirvana and, yes, Kavanagh’s beloved Ramones – these artists have been subject to countless imitators, but none will reach the heights of the originals, simply because they are not them. The same is true of internationally successful rock bands that have come out of Australia: with their distinctive sound that has lasted over four decades, AC/DC have no obvious comparison; few can even come close to the irresistible je ne sais quoi of INXS’s Michael Hutchence; more recently, Courtney Barnett has emerged as a distinct Australian voice, the likes of which the world hasn’t heard before. These artists don’t deal in imitation – they express authentic versions of themselves, and this has translated into significant, widespread connection, engagement and adoration. By trying to turn the Screwtop Detonators into something completely at odds with what they wanted to be, Kavanagh was failing the band. Though it’s possible that, had they followed his advice and given up on exploring and presenting an authentic identity, they may have made some minor splashes, it is clear throughout the film that the band only ever wanted fame if it was a result of being themselves. Their failure to make the big time, then, isn’t because they fired Kavanagh – indeed, in their quest to find success as true versions of themselves, firing Kavanagh was a smart move – but rather, at least initially, because they were yet to fully identify and realise who they were. That Meal Tickets so clearly attributes their failure to their rejection of Kavanagh places viewers who disagree offside; the film’s integrity is further threatened by the revelation, during the end credits, that Kavanagh acted as co-producer.

and gets a film clip played on hallowed Australian music show rage, however, success eludes Ferrier. His story, too, seems to come to an underwhelming end. Like his frenemies in the Screwtop Detonators, and like so many people in their early to mid twenties, Ferrier seems unsure of who he is. Throughout the film, he comes across as cripplingly selfconscious and insecure. Unlike Ward and co., however, there is an almost sinister, spiteful side to Ferrier. We see this early on, when he is acting as roadie on the Screwtop Detonators’ US tour, during which he desperately clings to his vision of himself as a tortured artist in the face of peer ridicule. Much later, when his performance gets a strong reception at the band competition (after the Screwtop Detonators have hit their first career wall), Ferrier snidely remarks to-camera, ‘Suck on that, Screwtops!’ His construction of an alter ego as a way to escape his ridiculed former self, along with his desire to take some kind of revenge on his tormentors, certainly makes sense. But it also reveals a startling lack of authenticity that is fascinating to consider in the context of the film overall. Doust, who becomes a close friend and creative collaborator of Ferrier’s, tellingly discusses the Will Stoker persona as a kind of ideal version of the man – and the key to potential stardom. ‘He needs to be more consistent with that persona because, if he’s not, then he’ll fail,’ Doust asserts. ‘He could be a superstar, absolutely […] he’s fascinating, and everything everybody wants in a star. But he just can’t maintain that.’ Again, the film seems to push the idea that a constructed (inauthentic) image is what will lead to true success. Though Kavanagh seems to be well and truly out of the picture by this point, the position remains flawed because the Will Stoker identity comes across in the film as uncomfortably contrived – and this is no doubt partly because Meal Tickets has shown us its genesis. Watching Ferrier perform, on stage and in life, it’s impossible not to see the angry, insecure man just beneath the mask. The illusion fails; we don’t believe it. Even though he is clearly talented, it’s hard to imagine him ever reaching the heights of success when he’s not offering any true part of himself for his audience to connect with. To de Koning’s credit, towards the end of Meal Tickets, he momentarily relaxes this problematic stance on where the acts went wrong and allows for questions regarding authenticity and success to linger in viewers’ minds. In one of the film’s most thoughtful sequences, various key subjects reflect on what it means, and what it takes, to be a star. ‘To be an artist in any realm, you gotta be self-centred,’ Ferrier insists. ‘You gotta put yourself up there on a pedestal and go, “I am a star” […] that’s business […] that’s anyone who’s successful.’ Ward, speaking after his band’s demise, reinforces the perceived connection between success and image construction, acknowledging that they stayed true to themselves throughout their career: ‘We were honest and that’s probably the price we’ve paid, through not thinking that we’re superstars.’ Pip McMullan, the Screwtops’ tour manager who pops up throughout the film with various insights, responds to Ward’s statement:

Rock music is fundamentally tied to notions of rawness and authenticity – a defiance of the very rules and order that the maintenance of a constructed identity requires. It is for this reason that the rock artists whose legacy endures are trailblazers in some way.

The real thing Kavanagh’s fallibility is somewhat proven within the film itself, as Ferrier’s career trajectory doesn’t lead to superstardom despite him being more than happy to adopt the kind of marketable persona that Kavanagh endorses. As ‘Will Stoker’, Ferrier also sees early signs of success, winning a state-level band competition, attracting a reputable management team and gaining a spot on a festival lineup. Though he receives funding to record and release an album,

It’s all very well for Ben to say, ‘We’re just playing good, honest rock’n’roll,’ but it’s like, people don’t want to see that. They want to see a show […] A rockstar is a person you’re not. Though these comments all seem to reinforce the film’s earlier thrust regarding the necessity of creating a persona to win over audiences, the sequence finishes with a powerful rebuttal. Screwtop Detonators

guitarist French, the only performer in the documentary who even comes close to having the raw, natural star power that everyone else is trying to manufacture, expresses intense distaste for the Kavanagh and Ferrier approach to fame: ‘I think everyone’s fuckin’ faking it and wants to be something they’re not. I mean, rock’n’roll’s gone, man; rock’n’roll’s, fuckin’, in the fifties.’ With this one statement, the core arguments put forward by the documentary regarding what it takes to be successful are called into question. Somewhat paradoxically, it also represents the moment when Meal Tickets comes closest to explicitly articulating what it inadvertently demonstrates: if it’s not authentic, all the leather jackets and tortured-artist film clips in the world aren’t going to make you a superstar.

Don’t dream it’s over Though the importance of image construction is prominent throughout Meal Tickets, in following the Screwtop Detonators after they move to Melbourne and try to make it without Kavanagh, the film also highlights many roadblocks that most artists in the Australian music industry come up against. The Screwtops struggle to get noteworthy gigs, particularly as they have just moved to a new city and aren’t entrenched in the local scene. When they book a show in Adelaide, their shitty van breaks down on the way there; with no money for flights, and no label backing, they are forced to cancel the show. With no real income from the band, the boys turn to the dole. Getting attention from labels and other industry bigwigs is near-impossible for them, and when they do, they encounter false promises and huge disappointment. Friendships are tested between band members – Long and Austen have a huge falling-out, leading the latter to quit – and romantic relationships are strained as a result of the band’s demands. The importance of radio play is acknowledged, as a failure to get played on national youth broadcaster Triple J is connected to the demise of both the Screwtop Detonators and Will Stoker. The emergence of social media during the documentary’s filming, and the monumental changes it ushered in for music promotion, is also touched on. Such issues are hugely relevant, and it is in illuminating them that de Koning most closely achieves his stated aim of exploring why ‘some people become more successful than others’.4 The harsh reality of being in a band in Australia is something that desperately needs more exposure, both to raise awareness that will hopefully lead to more support at the policy and cultural levels,5 and to give young people an idea of the challenges they need to prepare for if they want to enter the industry. The Screwtop Detonators and Will Stoker & the Embers are Australia’s everybands – their trajectories echo those of countless dreamers around the country – and such stories need to be told. By setting up a rise-to-fame narrative trajectory, and then attributing its derailing to something as simplistic as firing their (obviously misguided) manager, however, de Koning diminishes the relevance of the industry’s significant challenges. This points to another issue the film clearly struggles with: there is simply too much to cover in ninety-three minutes. De Koning was presumably faced with an enormous amount of content after ten years of filming – both in minutes shot and events unfolded – and his attempt to touch on all of it results in a lack of depth and direction. This is evident even in the press material, in which success, friendship and the changing music industry are variously identified as the subjects of the film.6 Clarity of focus is also jeopardised by de Koning’s dual position as filmmaker and subject. Instead of telling the story from an outsider’s perspective, he is showing us his mates and his world – along with his biased opinions. Unfortunately, none of this equates to the kind of powerful,

eye-opening experience that the most memorable documentaries offer; while the level of subjectivity and immersion on display in Meal Tickets can be advantageous, the film doesn’t meaningfully connect firsthand experience with the broader sociocultural context its subjects operate within. Why didn’t the Screwtop Detonators succeed? They certainly lacked direction to start off with. Kavanagh’s attempts to steer them towards something they didn’t want probably confused them further, setting the band’s internal growth off course. Perhaps, at times, they didn’t try hard enough. The specific challenges of the industry undoubtedly contributed to their lack of success, as did the personal challenges they faced along the way. Another possible factor, which the documentary neglects to consider, is that they simply weren’t talented enough. In truth, it was likely a combination of all these things. Ultimately, though, it’s a question that can’t really be answered, and Meal Tickets would have been better served by avoiding the attempt. Because there is important stuff here – including the lesson, hidden among the accusations and judgements, that there is no magic formula for success. That, for most artists trying to make it in the Australian music industry, it’s a tough slog, leaving you with not much to show for it. That, for all the bigtalkers and false starts, a failure to connect with your audience at a real level will leave you unsatisfied and, most likely, unnoticed. Yes, there is important stuff here, and it’s contributing to a conversation that absolutely needs to be had. But, like the aspirational bands it focuses on, Meal Tickets fails to excel.

http://www.mealtickets.tv https://clickv.ie/w/metro/meal-tickets Greta Parry is the editor of Screen Education, the subeditor of Metro, and an occasional writer and photographer. She has been actively involved in Melbourne’s music scene, as photographer and patron, for many years. m

Endnotes 1 David Throsby & Anita Zednik, Do You Really Expect to Get Paid?: An Economic Study of Professional Artists in Australia, Australia Council for the Arts, 2010, available at <http://australiacouncil.gov. au/workspace/uploads/files/research/do_you_really_expect_to_get_ pa-54325a3748d81.pdf>, accessed 22 February 2017, pp. 27, 46. 2 The average weekly full-time adult ordinary time earnings in February 2008 was A$1124.80, or A$58,489.60 per annum; see Australian Bureau of Statistics, ‘Average Weekly Earnings: Original’, February 2008 Average Weekly Earnings, 15 May 2008, <http://www.aus stats.abs.gov.au/ausstats/subscriber.nsf/0/E132E570AB4FDC2 ACA2574490016737B/$File/63020_feb 2008.pdf>, accessed 22 February 2017, p. 6. 3 Mat de Koning, ‘Director’s Statement’, in Pick Productions, Meal Tickets press kit, 2016, p. 7. 4 ibid. 5 The detrimental effect of policy on the sustainability of local music scenes is most recently evident in Sydney, where lockout laws and a challenging ‘regulatory climate’ have led to the closures of multiple live music venues. See David Marchese & Riley Stuart, ‘The Sando, a Sydney Live Music Institution, Announces It Will Shut Its Doors’, ABC News, 26 January 2017, <http://www.abc.net.au/news/ 2017-01-26/sydney-the-sando-to-shut-amid-nightlife-regulatory -climate/8214402>; and Emmy Mack, ‘Now Sydney’s Newtown Social Club Is Closing Down’, Music Feeds, 25 January 2017, <http://musicfeeds.com.au/news/now-sydneys-newtown-social -club-closing/#/slide/1>, both accessed 22 February 2017. 6 de Koning, op. cit.