If you were to believe the montage of Australian life depicted in numerous 1980s music videos, you would walk away convinced that ours is a land of five-foot weeds, deserted dusty roads and road trains, populated by lost, lonesome damsels in floral dresses and randy guitar-players with restless leg syndrome. For this reason, the prize chest of '80s videos are something of a gold strike for sociological study: the below clips are a catastrophically insightful window on how the musicians viewed themselves and their country.
Things of Stone and Wood's hit "Happy Birthday Helen" is a celebration of all the Melbourne landmarks and harmonica riffs that could fit into one music video. The four band members don their flannel and hit the four-part harmonies in front of a shoe repair shop before ripping out a tambourine and turning up the heat. Helen, I hope shoulder length hair was what you wanted from your boyfriend on your birthday.
Currently anchoring several pantomimes and musical revivals, Craig McLachlan of "Neighbours" fame branched out from playing a wooden, denim-clad soapie character to taking his denim out into the wilderness of Top 40 contention. The resulting "Mona" remains one of the least musical songs ever constructed (note the questionable close ups on the frets early in song), and one I am convinced he dreamed up while drumming on his coaster down the pub. The setting for this ode is inevitably reached via a ride in the back of a ute. Upon arrival to the rural extremities of pop music, McLachlan pops his shirt buttons open and lets his chest do the singing.
When you arrive in Australia, you can of course expect your ride from the airport in a ute to be chased by a herd of small, semi-clad children. Unlike the offspring of other developing countries who cry out for soccer balls, Australian mites are after nothing more than a spirited, unironic power ballad, and Darryl Braithwaite is the man to deliver.
The seminal classic, "Land downunder" has perpetuated the greatest assault on Australia's legitimacy in modern years. Not only do the lyrics make no sense, but you've got six fellows out in the desert banging beer bottles and kicking up dust like there's no tomorrow. For Men at Work, there really wasn't.
Lastly, a personal favorite is Ian Moss's "Telephone Booth," which contains the open road, lost girl and lonely guitar serenading tropes so cardinal to Australian '80s pop. Not only is it catchy, but there's big hair to be had, and an ode to Telecom's long-lost public telephones dotted, apparently, across the outback.
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