Before Melbourne’s entertainment landscape was adorned with its present constellation of concert venues, the promoters of visiting international acts had to choose between two halls – Festival or Dallas Brooks. The former was erected to host gymnastics and wrestling for the 1956 Olympic games, accommodates over 5,000 in only moderate discomfort and has the sort of ambience in which hard rock thrives. Dallas Brooks Hall, now demolished in the pursuit of Property Development, was smaller, seating 2,000, but somewhat more comfortable for patron and performer alike. There was also of course the Palais Theatre, but in those days it was occupied for weeks on end by the Australian Ballet.
These venues flourished in the days before touring acts travelled with a hundred tons of lighting, staging and audio equipment, instead picking up local hires or using in-house equipment. Dallas Brooks was equipped with enough lighting and sound gear to support most acts—remember, this was long before moving lights and LED screens, when colour washes and followspots covered pretty much everything anyone wanted.
The Hall also had an inimitable resource in the person of Ted Murley.
Ted was one of the industry’s special characters. He owned the Hall’s lighting equipment, and had a bulletproof contract requiring every presenter either to use it (at a price) or ask Ted to take it away and store it (at a similar price). Ted’s day job was as a senior salesman in a lighting equipment business, so all his equipment was latest-model and in showroom condition. Literally.
Ted was, as I said, a special character. He wore silk shirts, tailored trousers and hand-made snakeskin shoes. His hair and beard were too black, and his tan too permanent to be natural. His conversation, peppered with double-entendre and innuendo was, in his imagination, of irresistible charm to the opposite sex but in reality was probable cause for counselling.
A major Australian political party had a booking at Dallas Brooks for a fund-raiser event—one of those five-hundred-dollar-a-plate affairs where the punters rub elbows with shadow cabinet-ministers. Entertainment was provided and Ted booked me to help with the lighting rig and to point a follow-spot at the talent.
It wasn’t until the day of the event that Ted told the crew who was providing the entertainment.
It was only Diana Ross.
She was appearing solo, sans Supremes, backed by a pick-up band of local musicians.
The day of the performance was spent lugging, rigging and focussing in preparation. The local crew, were on a break in the green room when the Tour Manager arrived, half an hour before the sound check. He was a gigantic Texan, cowboy-hatted, cowboy-booted and cowboy-belted, and seemed to be constantly feeling at his hip for a six-shooter that wasn’t there.
“Y’all listen up, ya hear?” Nods and grunts from around the room – we were all eating Asian takeaway from tinfoil boxes.
“Miss Ross will arrive shortly. No-bahdy is to speak dye-reckly to Miss Ross, ya hear, ‘less Miss Ross speaks to any-bahdy dye-reckly, ya hear?” More nods and grunts.
“No-bahdy is to make eye-contack with Miss Ross. No-bahdy is to approach Miss Ross. No-bahdy is under any circumstance to make physical contack with Miss Ross. Ya hear?” By now, no-bahdy was still eating.
“No-bahdy is to refer to Miss Ross as Diana, she is to be referred to only and at all times as Miss Ross. Ya’all hear?”
We-all nodded.
“Thangs ver’much evabahy. Now let’s all have a great show.” With that, he left. I happened to be nearest the door, so closed it behind him.
“Odd bloke,” I said, hoping everyone would start breathing again. A minute or two later, the door popped open and through it came a tiny black woman in baggy sweatpants and a top with MOTOWN printed on it in faded pink letters. Grinning like a searchlight, she stuck out a hand, and said, “Hi there, I’m Diana, what’s your name?”
