Tim Minchin

Tim Minchin: ‘I wanted to head hedonism off at the pass.’ Photograph: Damian Bennett Tim Minchin: ‘I wanted to head hedonism off at the pass.’ Photograph: Damian Bennett The Australian composer has returned to performing after a 10-year break. He writes about fame, failure and his surprise comeback In 2003, I booked a tiny venue for Melbourne fringe festival, to perform a show I had tortuously titled Navel: Cerebral Melodies With Umbilical Chords. It was a sort of dark, ridiculous cabaret, and a desperate attempt to shake off the pain of all the rejections I had been getting (agents/record companies/the dude who approves small loans at the bank), by showcasing my various “talents”, which arguably included unusually clear diction, considerable manual dexterity, and a love of cheap double entendre. (Which is to say there were some outstanding jokes about fingering.) Seven short years later, I was playing arenas. My 2010 tour involved a 55-piece symphony orchestra and dozens of crew, grand pianos and scissor lifts, massive light shows, tour buses, bouncers, booze, fans with my lyrics or my face tattooed on their legs; in my silliest dreams, I never imagined a life like it. The shows were joyous and complex and fun and challenging. The rewards were huge. I was flying. All of it basically (actually, literally) rewires your brain. “Fame” takes that internal camera we call the “self” and puts it on a massive selfie stick, so when you are in public a percentage of your brain is always occupied by observing yourself in the third person. And eventually you don’t know how to reel that camera back in, even when you’re at home with your partner and kids. You start to believe that you are an entity. You learn to like yourself as much as you are liked, which means, when the trolls come trolling, you tend to hate yourself as much as you are hated. There is a reason why famous people are often screwed up: it’s not that wankers become famous, it’s that fame makes you a wanker. But I also stopped doing comedy because I’m very ambitious. My ambition is not for wealth (although that’s another trap I can clang warning bells about), and it’s not for fame (although it is an addiction that, once tasted, most never quite shake), and it’s probably not for power (although some is useful to an artist). My ambition is immodest and obtuse: I want to be unpigeonholeable. Tim Minchin performing in Los Angeles in 2014. Photograph: Joe Scarnici/Getty Images Tim Minchin and the actors playing Matilda in his musical at Princess Theatre, Melbourne, Australia in 2016. Photograph: Michael Dodge/Getty Images Of course, with risk comes pain. I played Friar Tuck in history’s most poorly reviewed Robin Hood. Our musical, Groundhog Day, despite awards and five-star reviews, took a bit of a battering on Broadway (I promise it will be back!). I spent four years in Hollywood working on an animated film that was shut down when the studio was sold. I have done humiliating auditions, had thousands of hours’ work go to waste, taken plenty of swipes. This article comes from Saturday, the new print magazine from the Guardian which combines the best features, culture, lifestyle and travel writing in one beautiful package. Available now in the UK and ROI.