Whether through natural attrition or otherwise, there’ll come a time when a band is forced to stare into the eyeballs of its own demise.
The circumstances vary; often it’s an expected end. The band has played out to its potential – every note has been exhausted, every key change fleshed out. The party had to end some time, all you can do is find the nearest sink, throw down water after water, and hope the hangover doesn’t smack too hard.
Other times can be more controversial. Management has been on the take; the sophomore’s flopped. The drummer’s slept with the bass player’s mistress. Again.
Either way, it leaves the band’s frontman/woman – usually the face and voice of a band and the group’s most recognisable contributor – in a predicament; rest on the laurels of past glories or step outside of a band they’ve led since Year 11 assembly?
History is littered with examples.
If Van Morrison had not left Them we wouldn’t have, well, Van Morrison. ‘In The Air Tonight’’ may not have existed if Phil Collins hung around with Genesis. And would Rod Stewart ever have been that sexy had he stuck with The Faces?
Michael Jackson and The Jackson 5. Michael McDonald and The Doobie Brothers. Linda Ronstadt and The Stone Poneys. Beyonce and Destiny’s Child. Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham of Fleetwood Mac. Paul McCartney and Wings (plus some other band – we forget who). Need we go on?
Less obvious are those who’ve ventured into isolation and struggled to replicate such success. An example from the late ‘60s/early ‘70s is often cited as one of music’s most tragic arcs.
When most think of The Supremes, a dozen different images of Diana Ross and her swinging backing singers appear. Ironically, one of those backing singers, Florence Ballard, shared lead duties with Ross during the hit-makers’ formative years.
When several of The Supremes’ singles with Ballard on lead vocals flopped, Motown founder Berry Gordy placed all his eggs with Ross. It leaves the band’s frontman with a predicament; rest on the laurels of past glories or step outside of a band they’ve led since Year 11 assembly?
In the process of Ross rising to stardom, Ballard quit and tried launching a solo career with little to no success. She compensated by becoming dependant on alcohol, drugs and drifting between commission flats. She died of a heart attack at 32 years old.
While Ballard’s is an extreme example, it does highlight the potential for loss of reputation and livelihood. It also brings into question the motivations for going it alone. For some, it’s about peddling a style of music that couldn’t have been executed with old bandmates. Others prefer to capitalise on the bankability of a proven formula.
Perhaps the most curious of local examples of the solo turn is ex-Powderfinger frontman Bernard Fanning; he fits snugly into the former of motivations.
When Fanning took a sabbatical from the ‘Finger to write Tea & Sympathy, he was in the midst of transition. His marriage had broken down, a new flame entered his life. He was in limbo.
The relationship with his bandmates also seemed on the strain, even though Vulture Street – the group’s release prior to Fanning’s hiatus – was being deservedly well-received. So, Fanning took the plunge into the unpredictable tides of solo singer-songwriter.
The end result was as confessional as it gets – “We sit so high on the city walls / our tears wash clean the cobblestones / it’s not so much that the thrill is gone / just a cleaner, sweeter, brighter thrill has come along” yelped the Queenslander from ‘Thrill Is Gone’, the opening tune from his first solo LP.
It was Fanning’s Blue, his Sweet Baby James. His lyrics were agonising, angry, articulate, to-the-bone.
When Fanning released his second solo album, Departures, times had indeed changed. His focus had shifted. He no longer had a reservoir of pain to draw inspiration from. There was also no more Powderfinger, which, whether fans want to admit or not, provided a tinge of relief for all concerned. Fanning knew there’d be no more ‘These Days’, ‘My Happiness’, or ‘The Metre’.
During a recent interview with Tone Deaf, Fanning put the process of going solo into perspective: “In the end, it’s still my voice that’s kind of sitting on top of it all and I think that’s what happens with most bands,” he admits. “It doesn’t really matter the kind of style or genre. There’s a certain familiarity with the voice that tends to get it to hang together.”
The situation was vastly different for Fanning’s Across The Great Divide touring cohort Daniel Johns. The dissolution of Silverchair did the reverse – it lured the Newcastle native into his natural introverted state. In his hibernation, Johns found solace in penning tunes for others (even whacking out a few ditties for incest-curious duo The Veronicas).
That said, it is rumoured Johns is getting his old band back together, despite a misfire a few years back while road testing new material during 2010’s regional shindig Groovin’ The Moo. Whatever the impetus – money, the challenge, the glory or otherwise – most would agree there’s a large degree of fumbling in the dark
There’s also been confirmation of Johns producing new music with Luke Steele – another example of an artist who’s had success outside his stable.
Along with Nick Littlemore, Steele grasped a worldwide reach with Empire Of The Sun, a name that initially confused the hell out of Year 9 students studying the Spielberg film of the same name. Though Ice On The Dune – the electronic duo’s second stab – is yet to reach the heights of their debut, there’s little misreading the success they spawned by taking a chance outside of their respective bands, the experimental-folk of The Sleepy Jackson and the dance-inflected PNAU.
It’s a blazing contrast compared to the ongoing – and let’s face it, a touch pathetic – soap opera that is Wolfmother. On-again, off-again, never-again frontman Andrew Stockdale did himself no favours by lambasting the hand that fed him – Triple J. More recently, Stockdale commenced a solo tour only to cut it short. He then announced Wolfmother was reforming. Kind of. Only for band members to begin deserting the boy who cried Wolfmother.
The latest is that he and his newish members are apparently back doing a round of shows in California. Most fans in the southern hemisphere might have a tip for the unpredictable rocker – stay there.
A parallel example that was handled very differently is that of John Butler. The barefooted dreadlock-lover lost both of his old members, only to replace them and come up with his finest album yet in 2010’s April Uprising. We’re still waiting for a follow-up, however (hurry along now John).
Heading back a decade or two, the arc of Stevie Wright is agonisingly tragic. Having fronted what is considered Australia’s greatest band – amongst a few others – he stormed into an incredible though relatively short-lived solo career, peaking with ‘Evie (Parts 1, 2 & 3)’.
The rest of the story is on display for all and sundry. He delved into the darkest of holes with drug and alcohol abuse. To his credit, he recovered, albeit as a skeleton of his former self.
You could run through a thousand different examples and come across a thousand different resolutions. Regardless of the end-result, there is something admirable in the frontperson’s decision to head out alone (Stockdale discounted).
Whatever the impetus – money, the challenge, the glory or otherwise – most would agree there’s a large degree of fumbling in the dark. Artists run the risk of tarnishing their reputation and solely (and forever) being associated to the band from which they came.
Conversely – and as history proves – the payoff is substantial; creative independence, critical applause, and an appreciation that would’ve otherwise never eventuated had they nut struck out to go solo.
