Tim Minchin: 'I'd choose this career over a billion dollars 100 times over'

Tim Minchin was born in Perth, Australia, in 1975. He is a songwriter, singer, pianist, comedian, actor and writer. In addition to his sell-out music and stand-up tours, he is the writer of Matilda the Musical and Groundhog Day, both of which won the Olivier Award for Best New Musical, and the co-creator of the award-winning TV comedy Upright. He has also written four books: Storm, When I Grow Up, Sometimes You Have to Be a Little Naughty and You Don’t Have to Have a Dream.

Speaking to Big Issue for his Letter to My Younger Self, Tim Minchin looks back on coming of age before digital media changed everything, his natural musical ability and gardening.

At 16, I wouldn’t say I liked myself. I don’t think many 16-year-olds do. I was a bit of a class clown. I did the school plays, but I didn’t really get the main roles. I had a really beautiful girlfriend that year for a couple of months, but I was a reasonably beige kid I think.  

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I was pretty harsh on myself. I had bad skin and I definitely didn’t like myself to look at. It’s interesting you ask this because I just recently got sent a photo, I would have been 17, me at a party, sitting next to a really handsome guy. I had a bit of acne on my face and I know how I would have been feeling, I know I would have been feeling really unattractive. And I was gorgeous. I think that every time I look back, with a few exceptions where I let myself get out of shape, mate, you were fine.  

I wasn’t one of the cool kids but I wasn’t a massive nerd. I hung out with a quirky crowd, mostly kids who lived around the corner because that’s who you hung out with, and went to the beach a bit. It was a good time and place to grow up, especially in hindsight. Even at the time, I think I knew how lucky I was growing up in Perth on the coast. Looking back now and realising that we came of age in the last decade before digital media changed everything, the last decade before everyone was taking photos all the fucking time, the last decade before we became self-obsessed, before music became stealable, it’s pretty hard not to be nostalgic, or at least to look at the 90s and think we had some things right that we maybe didn’t realise at the time.  

I’ve never been a massive music fan. I just listened to what my friend Winston and my brother listened to. I never felt like I was someone with my own identity. I really do owe my career to my brother. He was the one who kept going, come on, let’s play this, showing me chords and pushing me to use my ears. He didn’t do it consciously. He wanted me to learn the introduction to “Light My Fire” by The Doors. So I did. I found out that I could do that by ear. By 16-17 I was playing fast blues scales at parties with my eyes closed to show off to the girls.  

I went to a boys’ school, but I had a very strong mum and all these female cousins. Just boobs and opinions all around me all the time. I loved the women in my life. You want to tell your teenage self, just be yourself. Don’t try and game it. Don’t try and be what you think they want you to be. I intuitively understood that making people laugh was fantastic and I want to be made to laugh. But I didn’t have too many girlfriends. I would say, ‘Don’t worry mate, you just make them laugh and keep up your fingering.‘ I’ve been making fingering jokes for 20 years.  

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If I had known that I’d get to act on stage and screen and write TV shows… If you had offered that kid a billion dollars or my career, with all the struggle and everything, I would take this career 100 times over. It’s so far beyond my wildest dreams. If I could walk 16-year-old me into Seven Dials on the West End [where Matilda the Musical plays] and say, Look at that poster. That’s your name and it’s been here for 13 years. I’m pretty proud of Matilda.  

It’s good I didn’t think I was very smart. I got Bs without studying too hard but I didn’t think I was very smart. I don’t suppose I’m the smartest guy in the world now, but I’m reasonably bright. My capacity to take in ideas and articulate them was there but not valued. And I think that’s fine. The reason I’ve worked so fucking hard, tried to do so many different things, is because I didn’t think I was all that. So I just thought, well, I better work, work, work.  

Cut forward to 2005, I come to Edinburgh and suddenly things take off. I had all these skills because my lack of self-worth had made me really go at things, you know? So I wouldn’t say to my younger self, dude, you’re smarter than you think and you’re not as ugly as you think, you’re good man, you’re talented. I wouldn’t want him to know that. I wouldn’t want him to be ahead of himself. When I hear a young person go: I’m going to have my name in lights, I’m like, Oh dude. Firstly, don’t get ahead of yourself. Secondly, that’s not a goal. Your goal should be to get good at something, not to be rewarded for it. Come on.  

My upbringing engendered in me a conservatism in the broader sense of the word. When the opportunities that come with a bit of money and attention, like, well, I could take those drugs but tomorrow I’ll feel like shit and I don’t want to feel like shit tomorrow, the opportunity to fuck up your marriage if you’re so inclined, or I could bunk off on this job and just phone it in… It’s just not my nature. A neurotype. I’m just super boring. I still fuck shit up but I really value what I got as a kid and I’d love to give my kids that. I fucked my kids already by being known – that’s not good for kids – but I can certainly model for them the sort of values that were modelled for me. 

My mum died quite recently and it definitely crept up on her. For all my stability and loving family, there wasn’t like, “You’re special” or “I love you.” And I think my poor mum, who was the most loving person – and we all adore each other, there was never any doubt – I think she thought she would have a chance to say a bit more, to be a bit more explicit. I think she would have liked to have a moment with each of us, but it just came too quickly. In the end, she got caught by surprise.

But probably the death that made me like, ‘Ah, man, I really miss him,’ is André Ptaszynski, who was a business partner and the producer of Matilda and Groundhog Day as well. Just a dear friend. And died very, very suddenly. I recently had a real moment of like, ‘Oh, I really want to have another dinner with André.’ I was on holiday with my wife, and it was just us. I found myself at dinner suddenly really upset – it was at a resort, you know, André knew how to have a good time. I was like, ‘Oh this is the sort of place André would go.’ What would I say? I don’t know. I wouldn’t say anything. It’s not really how my brain works. I’m not wired for regret. Being a determinist I think things just go the way they fucking go. But I would love to have another wine with André.

If I had my time again… I think about some of the most amazing days in my life, having a kid or winning Olivier Awards. But most days are complicated, especially those big days. They’re roller coasters. The days that are pure joy are ones where you are in the country and you’ve got a simple job to do. I’ve got this plot down south I have to work to keep from becoming too overgrown. You get up early and it’s beautiful. You work at something repetitive then you have lunch. Then you work at something else, have a beer and light a fire. At no point during the day were you anxious and at the end of the day you’ve achieved something. Oh look, that was a patch of weeds, it’s not a patch of weeds any more. I mean, those are the fucking days.  

Probably my least attractive attribute is that I can be quite righteous. I’ve managed to leverage it into arguably fun and educational stuff. I was very strict on myself that I was going to make it entertaining and correct. That’s good advice in this era. There is a difference between activism and a tweet, having a big feeling and being furious, marching and shouting because you heard someone else march and shout. That’s not activism, it’s certainly not art, and it’s unlikely to change anything. Often it’s just reflex rage. Have some tact, try to calm your rage enough to consider other people’s positions and then find some utility for your rage. I wrote a lyric once I never used: rage is the fuel, not the action. That might be a good phrase for our time. I might put it on a t-shirt.  

Tim Minchin’s Songs the World Will Never Hear UK tour begins in June. His new album Time Machine is released on 25 July.

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