Look inside The Wonder Years book

II
III

X
We opened our own Danceland at the old Coronet
picture theatre. We had a thousand people in
there on opening night. It was an eerie sight on
the first night with a packed dance floor, where a
cloud of dust rose waist-high.
Glen Mooney
We started talking one afternoon – we’d never met before. We both loved music. Louis was
playing guitar and I’d studied fiddle since I was a boy. Then we saw the film Blackboard
Jungle at The Strand, probably about 15 times. We came away saying, ‘That’s what we want to
do!’ It started right there!
Sel Walton joined us on drums, and Bobbie Hull on rhythm guitar. He was a Country & Western player
but he wanted to jump on the bandwagon too. And Tommy Murray was on piano. He was a fully trained
concert pianist.
My first bass guitar was handmade by Bobby Hull. There was no such thing as an electric bass guitar,
you couldn’t get one. Then Arch Kerr rang me one day and said, ‘Grab Louis and come down to the
shop, I’ve got something to show you.’ He had an American magazine, with four glossy pages of
Fender guitars and a Fender
Precision bass. Louis ordered
a Stratocaster, and I ordered a
Precision bass. It took us about
six months to get them. I maintain
that I had the very first Precision
bass in Australia.
Our first booking was a Christmas
party for Bernie Leahy and all
the water-skiers. We knew eight
songs, all instrumentals, because
none of us knew we could sing
then. We played for four hours, the
same eight songs. One set we’d
play them as they were and then
we’d play them a bit faster. Then
the next set we’d play them a bit
slower, then we’d play them with a
Latin beat, and on, and on, and on.
Everyone had a ball, because that
sort of music was all brand new.
We used to book the Memorial Hall
and run our dances there, and were
pulling really good crowds. Until
they said, ‘We’re not gonna rent you
the hall anymore, because we’re
going to run the dances and you’re
going to play for us.’
So we ran our own dances at the old
Coronet Theatre, which we originally
called the Coronet Danceland. They
were good nights, most of the time it was
packed. About 18 months later it went to
Teen City.
We went to Rockhampton. Sel had left the
band and Terry ‘Boots’ Butler came in on
drums, with me on bass, and Johnny Mann
on guitar and keyboards. Janelle Steinmuller
also played keyboards.
At the
Trades Hall
XI

G’day Viewers
Photo: Rhys Morris. DDQ10 Archives
The new baby, TV, was in its infancy
but already had created the biggest
change to domestic entertainment in
half a century.
Paul Wicks
On TV
Until August 16, 1959, Queenslanders were
limited to the radio and reading matter. To
see talking pictures you had to head out to the
movies – in our case, the Strand and the Empire,
and then the Coronet and the Drive-In.
No longer, with the arrival of QTQ9 in Brisbane
and ABQ2 and BTQ7 some ten weeks later.
Channel 0 TVQ was the late starter, in 1965.
Toowoomba didn’t get its own TV station,
DDQ10, until July 1962 (Friday the 13th, would
you believe), but given its proximity to Brisbane
we could pick up the signal (very high aerials
started appearing), and see the new fangled
product from night one when a fresh-faced
Hugh Cornish, later to become a Nine Brisbane
programming guru, welcomed us on board.
TV’s arrival was an entertainment game changer
akin to giant modern day developments such as
the internet and mobile phone.
But not all of us, for one reason or another,
could share in the at-home excitement. For
example my family didn’t buy a set until the
day after I had completed matriculation exams
at Toowoomba State High almost a decade after
TV began here. I smelled a rat; obviously they
were worried I would get even worse results
with TV as a distraction!
But like Blackadder’s Baldrick I had many
‘cunning plans’ to get around this. One was
to nag my parents to drive our 1953 black
Hillman Minx sedan downtown to join the
crowds outside Rowes store in Russell Street
where TVs were kept on at night; a bit of a
problem though as there was no sound on the
footpath, a case of seen but not heard or as Barry
Humphries’ mum used to say, ‘At least you can
say you had seen it’.
Another was to find outlets with TVs. So it was
off to Picnic Point kiosk on some Sundays to
sit and gawk at the likes of Fury and My Friend
Flicka, and possibly Leave it to Beaver.
Who cared about the stunning view outside
when you could see the new toy inside – a bit
like that wonderful Leunig cartoon of the couple
looking at the sun on the TV when the real thing
was visible outside their window.
Another cunning plan was to become even
better friends of neighbours. The Sterlings
around the comer at Mt Lofty were one of the
first to get one, and theirs was not just one of
those rickety looking things on legs (the Pye
brand, I think). Theirs was a seriously goodlooking
Kreisler unit with speakers in a meshed
cabinet. And it was big (for that time) and had
a remote, admittedly, connected by cable to the
TV. Trouble was it was so slow it was quicker to
walk over to the set and change it manually, but
we didn’t care, it was all a novelty. These were
simply great entertainment times for all ages.
Initially US dramas and comedies dominated,
but then came local news and variety and games
shows – programs such as Brisbane’s Theatre
Royal and of course, the cutting national satire
Mavis Bramston.
Photo: Owen Studio
Photo: Owen Studio
XVI
XVII

We couldn’t
believe the
ride we were
havin’– these
simple country
boys from
Toowoomba.
Ray Moore
KERRY WRIGHT
The sound of the electric guitar
is what got me into it. The
Shadows, Ventures, Chet Atkins.
I just loved it. I wanted to play
the guitar and I wanted to make
those sounds.
I went to school with a fellow
named Bert Tudor. His father had
a furniture factory. Bert had a kit of
drums and the fellow next door was
teaching him drums, and we used
to muck around a bit with drums
and guitars. We did a few jobs at
the YCW; not jobs even, you know, we’d just go and show off a few
songs. That’s where Col Zeller ran into me, and it went from there.
RAY MOORE
I came from Miles (Queensland). I got a job at
Falconer Motors and I went off and bought a guitar
and had some lessons.
My first gig was with Terry Butler. We did one job, Carnival of
Flowers. Terry and I moved onto a band with Peter Wright called The
Vikings. Peter went to Sydney and I tried to sell my Fender. In those
days you had to wait three months to get a Fender.
THE DEFENDERS
& CHAPTER III
The ‘Chapter III story’ has been admirably told in
words and pictures in various media.
We have sought the essence of this group of guys
who pursued their dream. They quickly established
themselves as Terry Herbert’s predominant
Nucleus, which in turn gave him the foundation
for attracting the cream of national acts, to our
unparalleled pleasure.
XXVI
XXVII

Alvin was a couple of years behind
me in school. His father Cliff had
the music store and Alvin was quite
the muso. He played saxophone in the school
orchestra, and Nev Twidale played guitar
in the school orchestra. We teamed up with
Ray Carroll on drums, and the first time we
played publicly was in the new assembly hall
in Toowoomba State High. It was a school
concert in 1964. We played a couple of
numbers. It must have been a bit of a shock for
us to play electric guitars at a school function,
but they let us do it.
The first time I saw The Easybeats was at St Stephen’s Hall, they were really up close. I was learning
guitar and I used to go and watch these guys, watchin’ the guys’ fingers, watching Harry Vanda up so
close and I’d go, ‘Yeah, I’m playin’ it right’.
Stevie Wright announced: ‘Last night someone said, “Are you gonna play My Generation?” so
we learned it last night’. And they launched into it and did an incredible version, right down to
Harry Vanda flicking the pick-up switch to get the whole effect.
Ian Herbertson
Russell McDiarmid was one of Terry Herbert’s drivers, chauffeuring the acts who came to town. One
Sunday night Russell called his folks with an innocent query: ‘Can I bring someone home to dinner?’
The McDiarmid household was a hospitable one, and Russell duly arrived with his guest in tow.
It was Johnny Farnham. Russell’s siblings were beside themselves.
We buzzed around a few names and eventually
came up with The Templars. I was never really
that happy with it, but the bands were called
The Knights or The Defenders, there were big
rah-rah type names. I came up with it because
the idea was that we would become famous
and then corrupt. The Knights Templars did it
and so we were always looking down the road
but we never got to either one.
I think it was Alvin who encouraged me to
play bass, and I bought a second-hand
bass – I think through Arch Kerr.
My brother Geoff, being an electronics tech,
picked up an amp for me from Sydney. The box
buzzed, it wasn’t put together properly, so he
repackaged it into the piggyback style. Once we
were established, I bought a Fender Precision
bass from Cliff Tutin and a Vase amp from
Nundah Music in Brisbane. It had four twelves
in it, so I had some decent equipment then. I
sold that equipment to go to Canada in ’67. It
financed my fare. I sold the bass guitar through
Cliff Tutin, but I think it might have gone to
Ronnie & The Ramblers.
Ray Carroll said,
‘I mightn’t be the greatest drummer but at
least
I’m loud!’
Col Zeller was an established drummer
and had the credibility to get us more
gigs. We were pretty busy over the two
years we were a band. We played in
Stanthorpe, and had the odd trip to Roma
and places like that. I don’t think we
turned down a gig if we could play it.
If there was a party somewhere, we’d play it.
A lot of the time, it was just a spot, a set, as
opposed to playing all night.
We wanted to play Rock & Roll but there was a
limited amount of money in it at that time. The guys
who were making the dough were those who were
doing all the country dances, playing 60/40.
The Templars remembered by others
I used to love
it, see we were
living practically
opposite the high
school. The kids
used to come in
for afternoon tea,
and I’d make them
tea and biscuits
and things. They
were real good
company. And on
the weekends
they’d practise
there. A neighbour
asked them to turn
down the volume
once or twice.
Marj Chipperfield
I remember those
days of John
Chipperfield
(who became my
brother-in-law)
and Alvin Tutin
(who was also a
good friend of my
brother, Marlow
Tobin) hanging
around our house
playing guitar.
They would all
hang out at
Chip’s house
where there was
always laughter
and music!
Linda Tobin Graham
Alvin Tutin was a
hell of a player…
saw these guys at
the Carnival of
Flowers.
Bob Adams
Alvin Tutin, my
all time favourite
guitarist.
Glen Knox
XXVIII
XXIX

A Rich
Seam Runs
Through It
All generations are indebted to those
who instigate, nurture and sustain the
culture, music and celebration of life
that performance and musical theatre
bring to our city.
Godspell 1974
L to R: Suzanne Roylance, Stephen Thomas, Terry Brady
The Repertory Theatre
The Toowoomba Repertory Theatre Society was formed
at a public meeting in August 1930. In November
Repertory staged A.A. Milne’s The Drover’s Road over
a two-night season at the Town Hall.
With a loan secured in 1946 and paid out in 1951, the
Society discussed the possibility of building a 200 seat
theatre.
In 1964 a former private residence at 94 Margaret Street
was purchased and converted into a 124-seat theatre.
The new theatre was officially opened on 1 August 1964.
The inaugural production of Watch It, Sailor, opened on
5 August.
Each year six major productions have a two-week run. 28
28. Toowoomba Repertory Theatre, Repertory History, http://www.toowoombarepertorytheatre.
com.au/html/repertory_history.html
Terry Brady as ‘the Turkish officer’ in Ross,
directed by Valerie Wilson.
My ’60s Rep days – my ‘wonder years’
– fired me with ambition, leading to me
fulfilling an ambition to be an actor and
director, drama teacher, theatre set designer
and whatever else has cropped up since
I left Repertory and Toowoomba to begin
three years as a student at NIDA.
Terry Brady
XXXIV
XXXV

IT JUST GOT WORSE FOR
OLD PEOPLE AS THE
SIXTIES PROGRESSED,
OF COURSE. SUDDENLY
THERE WERE THE
STONES, AND THEN
EVEN THE RELATIVELY
NICE BOYS THE BEATLES
WERE TAKING DRUGS.
Coming
of Age
in the
Garden
City
Peter Cooke
I
spent three years as a
cadet journalist with The
Chronicle and then in 1969
in Brisbane, on some enchanted
evening, across a room, I saw a
stranger. Six months later the
stranger, Jan Deagon of Nundah,
and I were married in Brisbane.
A Toowoomba boy marrying a
Brisbane girl could be regarded as
a mixed marriage. 31
I guess those who were born in
Toowoomba and raised from birth
there were most likely to bond
with their ‘country’, in a somewhat
similar sense to the way Aboriginal
people have an affinity with their
traditional country as the country
of their ancestors.
I had grown up rurally, firstly
on farms in northern New South
Wales and then on stations out
west and north as far as Julia Creek
where my adoptive parents worked.
In most of these places there were
no other children and most of my
social bonding was with horses
and sheep and sheepdogs.
I arrived in Toowomba aged
about eight, where I had some
trouble fitting in with town kids,
not helped by arriving at school
wearing jodhpurs, riding boots and
a country style hat. In an effort to
win friends and influence people I
demonstrated my capacity to eat a
small skink live. That didn’t work
all that well.
XXXVIII
Photo: Gangjump by Peter Cooke
XXXIX

Malcolm Bell
I
hadn’t any choice in where I was placed. I happened to
be a senior student at the College, and the senior student
was always sent to Toowoomba because it was one of the
Parishes that had money.
There were three clergymen there – Austin Parry, John
McDonald and myself. I was the youngest. They used to
call us Assistant Curates.
You go there, and you know that it’s a conservative place,
and the question is, ‘How are you going to survive in a
conservative place?’ And you think, ‘Oh well, I just will.’
You get to know how the conservative thing works, and
one of the things that occurred to me was – and the reason
you know this is because you see it in The Bible – the
power of Elders in the Church is always the power that
operates. It was the elders who put Jesus on the cross.
And in Toowoomba it was very strong amongst various
religious groups, which weren’t necessarily Anglican.
They were usually people in business, they had families;
they were worried about their own children and the
influences upon them in a changing world. They were
protective and felt almost as if they had a religious duty
to protect people from those who might be leading them
astray. When you’ve got that within the church structures,
that’s when it really starts to weld for those people.
It was my duty to go and give religious instruction at the
Toowoomba Grammar School. There were kids there who were
interested in music, particularly rock music. They couldn’t
play their stuff in the school, but they might be able to play in
another environment. They could get out on weekends; I could
take them out if necessary.
XL
Reverend Malcolm Bell
the long haired Curate
It wasn’t every day that an Australian city grabbed the national
headlines when someone got thrown out of their church.
It was a different matter when the incalcitrants also happened to be
earnest officiating men of the cloth.
Church of England clergymen Malcolm Bell and Austin Parry invoked
the ire of enough in their organisation, to have them suspended from
active duty – because of the way they looked and what they said.
I talked to kids in religious instruction about what was going
on in the world, and quite often they would come and sit
in the classroom and they’d be dressed in Army uniforms,
because they were in the Cadets. We’d talk about the
Vietnam War.
You’d ask questions, ‘Is this a legitimate war?’ ‘What are the
reasons we are there?’ And before I knew it, I was being told that
I couldn’t go to that school anymore. Either the Principal or one
of the head teachers had come in to observe what I was saying.
We had a Rock Mass in St Luke’s in ’68. We had a lot of good
musical equipment there, there was jazz dancing, and the
incumbent of the parish, Arthur Lupton, came in at one point
towards the end, and there were all these people there he’d
never seen in church before. He looked at me, and I don’t know
why he said it, but he said, ‘Get these people out of here’.
XLI

First Idiot: ‘My clapped out Ford Prefect
goes faster than your wreck of a Morris
Model E!’
Second Idiot: ‘Arrh, your mother wears
army boots!’
With both parties suitably insulted, a riotous low
speed race ensued with some slick gear changes and
attempts at sideways cornering all around the inner
city streets. After much chasing and more following
they returned to their parking spots outside Palings
in Ruthven Street. Smiles and laughter abounded,
bonhomie everywhere. All this manic behaviour in
the days of legal voting and legal drinking at age
21... we made our own fun.
Dennis Youngberry
We used to back-in park, but if you got in on that
corner at the corner of Ruthven and Margaret Streets
opposite the Wales bank, but if you got on that
corner, it was a sort of a nose, a sort of a sideways
park … there was a fella, Evan Bird, who always
had beautiful cars, EHs when they were new, and all
the hot gear on them, and that was Birdie’s spot.
Russell Hofmann
Hotting up
You could do so much yourself. My dad was an
accountant, he didn’t grow up mechanical, but
somehow you were hooked to these cars and you
learned so much by just tampering, playing with
them.
I had an old FJ that had a Repco cross-flow head on
it, but you couldn’t fit a fan on it, so I could do about
two laps in Ruthven Street and then have to give her
a run out of town to cool her off. Russell Hofmann
Barry and Terry Mann had The Speed Shop on the
corner of James and Ruthven Streets. Everybody
went there to buy their speed gear. Barry rebuilt and
drove a magnificent 1935-ish candy apple red Ford
2-door roadster.
But there was a guy called Ivan Tighe, he was a
serious engine builder. You’d buy your stuff from
him if you wanted your car to go fast and be serious
about it rather than have it just make a bit of noise.
Where did we race? On the road. We never said we
were gonna race against someone or other, it would
be ‘Whaddya doin’? Follow me’, and we’d head for
Picnic Point and see how many times we could go
around there before the cops come. Prince Henry
Drive too, but you’d probably only do it once.
Dennis Youngberry
I had an FB that I changed from a steering wheel
change to a floor change, and lowered the whole
thing. I had a great mate, Trevor Pugh, who lowered
it and put a bigger motor in, so it went like the
clappers. But one of the problems was, the brakes
were still the original, and it wasn’t all that easy to
pull up. We had the seats re-upholstered. I was quite
proud of it and had it for quite a few years.
We had a great group of mates who hung around
Pughie’s service station on Saturday afternoon, did
our own servicing, and we learnt a lot from it.
Frank Warrick
Someone who thought they had a hotter car than
everyone else would pull beside you at the lights and
rev their engines. That meant only one thing – out to
the back of the airport for a drag.
Faye Long Richardson
The doing various things to cars, that they were
so-called hotting up their car and lowering it, didn’t
seem to cause much problem, so long as it didn’t go
over what was required by law.
The Inspector of Machinery had an office at the Neil
Street Police Station. He used to come out with us
on the road when we’d do on the spot inspections for
un-roadworthy motor vehicles. He wasn’t in uniform,
he was a civilian, and he’d inspect the vehicles and
confirm their compliance. He also helped a great deal
in serious traffic accidents.
The smashed up cars were kept at the police station
mainly until a case was finalised – at the Court House
next door. Sergeant Graham Dank
Everyone had their own service station that they
hung out at. It’d be ‘Finish work, and I’ll meet
you out at Perry’s service station’. And you’d
park around the back, and lean on the car, talkin’
about what you’re doin’ to it.
Barry Mann was great, oh he was a terrible man. One
of his tricks, in the old FJ, you’d pull up at Pigott’s
crossing, so you’ve got your foot on the clutch,
she’s blab blab blab, ready to go, and Barry would
lean across and put his right foot on your left foot,
on the clutch, and you can’t go, you’re just sittin’
there, they’re all behind you, blowin’ their horns at
you. And the next thing he’d lean over and turn the
ignition key off and throw the key out the window!
Russell Hofmann
It was so quiet, I seem to remember a certain brother
drag racing up the footpath early one morning.
Noel Logan
Lapping on
Ruthven Street
The one thing that has stayed in my mind is the
number of young guys in cars doing Toowoomba city
laps on Friday and Saturday nights. That was very
impressive. Danny Gillespie
It was great to lap town at night in my mini.
Pauline Jones
I used to do laps in my ’64 Mini, then my ’74 Cortina.
Robyn Prenzler Wilson
For young people with cars the main entertainment
could be ‘doing laps’. This consisted of driving up
and down the main street endlessly. Ruthven Street
was a four lane boulevard ...and you would often
run into people you knew wandering about. The
‘lappers’ drove south, did a u-turn and drove north,
did another u-turn and dove back. People would do
this for hours. It was a good way to keep cool on a
hot summer night. Michael Hine
‘What are you doin’?’ ‘Puttin’ twin carbies on it.’
You’re doin’ this, or doin’ that. Bobs up the back,
nodding dogs, and strugglin’ rugs in the back.
You knew the car owner as soon as you heard or
saw it, ‘There goes Jimmy’ or whatever, ‘on a
drag up Mount Kynoch’.
But entertainment was just up and down
Ruthven Street. Parking. Looking at the girls.
Scoring the girls as they walked past!
XLIV
And how many times would you nearly run into the
bloke in front of you, because you’d be admiring
everything in the mirror behind you.
XLV