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John Phillips (Image: Archi Banal)
John Phillips (Image: Archi Banal)

Pop CultureFebruary 19, 2023

Meet the Nelson man behind TikTok’s viral ‘Bad Hair Day’ song

John Phillips (Image: Archi Banal)
John Phillips (Image: Archi Banal)

John Phillips has been writing beloved children’s songs for over 25 years, but he’s never had an audience quite like this.

A few weeks ago, John Phillips received an excited text from his daughter in Christchurch. “Dad, did you realise that ‘Bad Hair Day’ is going off on TikTok?” she asked. “Wow, that’s awesome,” the Nelson primary school teacher replied. “What’s TikTok?”

As of writing, the #badhairdaysong hashtag has over 27 million views on TikTok, providing an endless scroll of people all over the world dancing and lip syncing to the same catchy lyrics: “mousse ain’t stickin’ / water ain’t slickin’ / it looks like a feather from the back end of a chicken.” Most of the comments are from people pleading to know the song’s provenance. “WHAT IS THIS FROM” demands one. “Is this from a movie tell meee,” pleads another.

But look hard enough, and you’ll find Kiwi battlers all over TikTok setting the record straight. “THIS IS AN NZ CHILDHOOD ASSEMBLY SONG” bellows one local. “A song I sang every morning in every assembly when I was 7 has gone viral,” reflected a fellow New Zealander. It appears to have led to worldwide envy. “New Zealand kids got to sing this in the morning and I had to sing Hail Mary?” reads one caption, as its poster pensively gyrates to the sound.

The man responsible for the song that has wormed its way into millions of ears around the world is John Phillips from Nelson, who has been teaching music for 34 years and writing children’s songs for over two decades. Frustrated by the old 1960s love songs that were provided for school assemblies – “great melodies but not the best subject matter” – he began to pen his own songs in the early 2000s. “It was really just trying to find your own style, but also find stuff that kids are actually interested in, and package it in a cool way,” he says.

Phillips recorded his first album of kids’ songs in his workshed at home, timing his recording with the barking of neighbouring dogs and chickens. “It was so expensive to record things back then,” he says. “I had all the egg cartons on the wall which was more because they looked cool than any kind of acoustic value.” His breakthrough hit ‘My Dad Loves Rugby’ (“you’d think we were the All Blacks / the way he struts about”) was accepted onto the iconic Kiwi Kidsongs compilation CD, distributed free to schools across Aotearoa and the South Pacific.

Other examples of Phillips’ tracks that turned heads included the jazzy ‘The Lost Property Box’ (“this ain’t no place for a trendy top like me / back on my coathanger is where I want to be”) and the country-inspired ‘Wobbly Tooth’ (“the tooth fairy came and he pulled up in his truck / he hopped inside my mouth and he said to me ‘it’s stuck’”). He would go on to be nominated for multiple NZ Music Awards, including children’s album of the year for The Lost Property Box and children’s song of the year for ‘Kia Kaha Tuatara O Takapourewa’.

Ed Sheeran who? John Phillips performs to an adoring crowd. (Photo: Supplied)

But nothing comes close to the success of ‘Bad Hair Day’, which Phillips remembers writing “really quickly” one morning. “My son had really curly hair, like shockingly curly, and one morning it just looked like this big mess – a big fuzznut, which is where that lyric comes from.” He sat down and started writing – he had the bad hair day concept, he landed on a hook “and away I went”, he recalls. When it came to recording, Phillips says it was important to keep the song “funky and fun”, adding in some “nice little guitar licks” played by a friend.

He sent the song to Kiwi Kidsongs for consideration, who came back with their own take on it. “It had sort of a swing feel,” says Phillips. “That was neat, but it just was not the feel that I had in my head, and so I really had to stand up for myself.” They agreed to something closer to his original vision, and enlisted the help of Palmerston North boy Theo Va’a to rerecord the vocals (now the voice all over TikTok). “Theo did such an amazingly ‘sassy’ job of the vocals,” says Phillips. “I have no doubt that this has added to the huge popularity of the song.”

Another part of the song that has captivated TikTok users is the subtle “quack” sound effect that follows the “back end of a chicken” lyric. Phillips clarifies that it was never meant to be a quack at all, but a chicken “pop off” to add some “humour and randomness” to the track. “That was 20 years ago mind you,” he adds. “I am way better at making chicken fart noises now.”

‘Bad Hair Day’ was a hit at the time. “You know pretty quickly because kids are pretty brutal,” laughs Philips. “You can tell within 30 seconds – they’ll giggle, they’ll laugh, they’ll get up, they’ll boogie. When that happened with ‘Bad Hair Day’ I knew it was going to work.” It began to spread from school to school courtesy of Kiwi Kidsongs, and Phillips recalls being “humbled” by the response. “It’s very exciting when what you put in front of these kids has a a big impact, it’s a really big way of how we sell music to them and get them involved in music.”

Years passed and ‘Bad Hair Day’ gently slipped out of rotation, until Phillips got an inkling that it was entering the zeitgeist once more. “Last year there was a little bit of a flurry around New Zealand school songs,” he recalls. “Somebody texted me and said, ‘did you know that people are rating their favourite school songs?’ ‘Bad Hair Day’ was in there, ‘Fish and Chips’, ‘Sausages and Custard’, all of those.” From here, ‘Bad Hair Day’ began to weave its tendrils around the TikTok world – now it’s a more popular hashtag in Ireland and Denmark than it is in New Zealand.

Phillips downloaded TikTok with “trepidation” upon hearing of the song’s viral success. “It didn’t make much sense to me at the start, I thought it was really random, all these short little videos of things.” But then he started to recognise that same enthusiasm from his young students in people all over the world. “All I want is for want kids to enjoy music, get passionate about it, and just get lost in the moment with it,” he says. “And that’s what I sort of see happening with this TikTok trend, people of all ages singing and dancing and asking ‘why don’t we get this at our school?’”

Another iconic Kiwi Kidsongs album

The answer to that question lies in the success of the government-backed Kiwi Kidsongs compilation CD, which encouraged musicians just like Phillips to write songs for kids in Aotearoa for nearly 20 years. Despite the Ministry of Education referring to them as “part of the cultural fabric of New Zealand primary schools”, funding was cut to Kiwi Kidsongs in 2010. “’I do hope that government-funded resources such as the Kiwi Kidsongs series can be reimplemented,” says Phillips. “It was such a valuable resource on so many levels.”

While he freely admits to having no knowledge about the inner workings of TikTok, Phillips is still hoping to make the most of this viral opportunity. He’s already been contacted by a publisher in the UK about a potential Bad Hair Day book, and is hard at work uploading all his old songs to his YouTube channel. “I do hope that other children’s song writers locally can jump on this wave while the spotlight is momentarily on us,” he says, “because each one of them is having such a huge impact on our tamariki.”

For now, he’s particularly enjoying sharing his newfound viral TikTok fame with the other musical folks in his family – especially his niece and nephew Georgia and Caleb, who also happen to be hitmaking pop duo Broods. “They actually just performed over the weekend at the Wine and Food festival in Blenheim and they did a great job, but I just thought ‘oh, we missed an opportunity here to do, you know, a ‘Bad Hair Day’ club mix or something,’” he laughs. “I rub it in their faces and they just think it’s funny.

“Here I am, old Uncle Johnny with the hit TikTok song.”

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Anna Rawhiti-Connell
— Senior writer
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Shihad Pacifier
Shihad during their Pacifier phase, circa 2002. (Photo: Supplied)

Pop CultureFebruary 18, 2023

Twenty-one years ago, Shihad changed their name. Then all hell broke loose

Shihad Pacifier
Shihad during their Pacifier phase, circa 2002. (Photo: Supplied)

Shihad, or Pacifier? Two decades on, the debate over whether or not New Zealand’s biggest rock band should have changed their name still rages. 

When four Wellington lads needed a name for their new band, they turned to Dune. Jon Toogood, Karl Kippenberger, Tom Larkin and Phil Knight had become huge fans of David Lynch’s 1984 sci-fi film, which incorporates many Arabic phrases and ends with a “Jihad”. Calling themselves “Shihad” was a mistake. “We couldn’t even spell it,” Larkin, the band’s drummer, has been reported as saying. Toogood, the frontman, confirms it. “It was a name that we came up with as a bunch of stoned bogan metal fans,” he says. “We were … 16- or 17-year-old kids. It was, ‘Far, that’s a cool name for a speed metal band’ … I stole the Motorhead font and wrote ‘S.H.I.H.A.D’. I misspelled it because I didn’t know what the fuck it was from.”

Formed in 1988, Toogood, Larkin, bassist Kippenberger and guitarist Knight released their first four albums under the name Shihad. It’s the word that adorns the covers of their debut Churn, then Killjoy, 1996’s self-titled “Fish Album” and 1999’s No. 1 hit The General Electric. It’s also the name their growing fan base were chanting before and after Shihad’s pulsating live shows. “It was the name,” says Toogood. “That was our name. And we’d made that name what it was.” It wasn’t until Toogood was a little older that he began thinking about the word’s real meaning. “I’d be waking up in hotel rooms when I was 26 going, ‘My God, I’m in a band called ‘Holy War’.”

Shihad (L-R: Karl Kippenberger, Jon Toogood, Phil Knight, Tom Larkin) (Photo: Supplied)

By 2001, Shihad were living out their wildest rock and roll dreams. The General Electric was turning them into a huge drawcard across Australasia, with constant airplay making ‘My Mind’s Sedate’ and ‘Pacifier’ their most popular songs. With a freshly-signed contract with Warner Music, they were lured to America to record their next album and attempt to crack music’s toughest territory. At Hollywood’s Pulse Recording Studios, producer Josh Abraham added a radio-ready sheen to their metallic angst. “It was just that dream we’d had,” says Toogood. “So many of our favourite bands came from America. We wanted to see what it was like.”

Looking back, Toogood describes that time as “craziness … the whole thing was madness”. It was, he says now, “the worst timing in the world”. Soon, Al-Qaeda would send New York’s Twin Towers crashing down. In response, President George W Bush went to war in Afghanistan. “Jihad” was suddenly a household word in the US, and it was clear that any band using it – or even a word that sounded like it – wasn’t going to be embraced by radio stations or television networks. With their fifth album nearly finished, Shihad faced an impossible decision: change their name and continue chasing their US dreams, or tuck their tail between their legs and head home. “Shit A or Shit B” is how Toogood described it at the time. 

The band chose Shit A, and changed their name. At the beginning of 2002, just before Shihad were due to play the Big Day Out, they announced it would now be known as “Pacifier”. It sparked a furore: band members were split about the decision, fans refused to accept it and labelled them “sellouts”, and reporters would not stop asking about it. A NZ Herald story covering the announcement put the boot in by including a dictionary definition of a pacifier as “a baby’s dummy”. At that Big Day Out, fans refused to use the new name, defiantly chanting, “Shihad! Shihad!”. “No one’s ever chanted, ‘Pacifier’ at us,” says Kippenberger.

Now, 20 years on, Shihad are finally ready to reclaim that period of their lives. On a Zoom call, Toogood and Kippenberger admit they have a fresh outlook on the outrage. Occasionally, they can even laugh about what became the toughest time of the band’s career. But it’s taken time. In the aftermath, they couldn’t play Pacifier songs live. Hearing them again brings back memories, often not good ones. “Five years ago [is when I] probably came out the other side of this album,” says Kippenberger. “You can look back more fondly on the experience. You fall back in love with songs you’ve fallen out of love with. Things start to become more nostalgic.”

Toogood puts it another way. “That album had so much baggage that it was fucking hard to listen to,” he says. “We compromised our name. We made the biggest compromise possible. That was the problem.”

In 2002, Toogood was happily wandering around Wellington city with his step-daughter when a Shihad fan approached them. This wasn’t out of the ordinary – as the frontman for New Zealand’s most popular rock act, Toogood was a familiar face around his home town. But this wasn’t to be a pleasant interaction. “This kid walked up to me going, ‘Ya fuckin’ sell out c***,’” says Toogood, shaking his head. “It was like, ‘I get it.’ But you shouldn’t be saying things like that in front of a six-year-old … It was coming from all sides, man.”

Shihad had spent months agonising over whether or not to change their name. It divided the band. Toogood and Kippenberger were firmly in the don’t-change-it camp, while Knight and Larkin felt there was no other option. “I was just hoping that one day I’d wake up and it wouldn’t be a problem,” says Kippenberger. “Like, we could just keep that name and everyone would sort of forgive and forget. But it just got worse.” Toogood: “We were between a rock and a hard place. It was a real test from the universe. It’s like, ‘You can have everything you’ve been waiting for since you signed that terrible deal when you were young, you can finally release an album in the States and give it a go. But you have to change your name.'”

They searched for historical precedent, something to base the decision on. Surely another band had gone through the same thing? There was none. “Like, ‘What would The Who have done?'” says Toogood. “Well, they never had to fucking do that.” The more they delayed it, the more opportunities went begging. A representative for Rob Zombie saw the group play at Los Angeles’ Viper Room and asked if Shihad would join his tour – with one stipulation. She told them: “I love the band – but we can’t have that name on the poster.” Radio stations said the same thing: “I love the song [but] I’m not gonna say their name on the radio.” “It really became something that just choked our opportunities,” says Kippenberger. “It became apparent that if we didn’t change our name, we were probably gonna be sent home … If we were living in New Zealand, we probably wouldn’t have given a shit. But we were over there trying to work it. It really did matter.”

Hindering the decision was what their new name would be. Choosing one wasn’t easy. “Every time we came up with a name, it was like, ‘Well, there’s about three bands called that,'” says Toogood. He continued struggling to make the call. “Right up to the last minute, it was, ‘Do we really have to do this?'” Pacifier was chosen because, by then, it had become Shihad’s most popular song. “Pretty average band name, but at least it’s a song that everyone knows,” says Toogood.

But there was another problem. A Brooklyn punk band also called Pacifier told them they couldn’t have their name unless they paid them. “The American record label had to pay them $40,000,” says Toogood. Pacifier’s album wasn’t able to be released until a contract was signed. “Held ransom,” is how Kippenberger describes the incident. To the band, it was another situation they didn’t want to deal with. Toogood still can’t believe the last-minute wrangle. He refused to sign the contract that would go ahead without his signature. “Who would call a fucking band ‘Pacifier’? Seriously? Unless you had to …”

Finally, Shihad bit the bullet. The album was finished. The payout was made and  their name was officially changed. Toogood wrote Pacifier’s fiery first single, ‘Comfort Me,’ about the situation they’d found themselves in. “This was about being in LA when the World Trade Center went down, the Pentagon got hit, 9/11 is happening and the whole world is fucking going crazy,” he told Rip It Up magazine. “The last place I wanted to be in the world was LA. I wanted to be home. I just wanted to get the fuck out but I couldn’t. Planes weren’t flying. I had an album to make. What the fuck was going on? I was extremely confused and extremely frightened and anxious.”

Pacifier
A press photo from Shihad’s Pacifier era. (Photo: Supplied)

Back home, the decision tanked. No one liked it. Everyone had an opinion, and not just Shihad’s very vocal fan base. Backstage at the 2002 Big Day Out, New Order’s Peter Hook told Toogood: “I can understand … but it sucks”. On the same tour, Faith No More’s Mike Patton had a more visceral point of view, telling Toogood: “Jonny, if you change your name, I’m gonna find you, and I’m gonna slit your throat.” “It was just … shitty,” says Toogood. “We were going, ‘Fuck this’.”

They channelled their anger into incendiary live shows. Fan chants for “Shihad! Shihad!” got louder, and the band responded in kind. The stage was the only place they could take out their rage. “It almost made us more determined to be an even better live band because I was like, ‘Well, fuck you,‘” says Toogood. Fans stayed after shows, continuing to chant their original name. Why so much hate? “It was symbolic because not only were we changing our name for a market, but we were also changing our name for a market that had invaded a sovereign country and was run by Republicans at that time.” In fans’ eyes, the band had, for want of a better term, caved in to the man.

But the decision allowed Shihad to live out their American fantasies. “We got to do what touring bands love to do, which is we got to see the world,” says Kippenberger. “We got to see more of America than a lot of Americans see.” But it wasn’t on their terms. The name change made them feel like frauds, and it infected their entire American experience. “We played shitloads of shows, and we played some really good shows over there,” says Kippenberger. “We played those like nothing else really mattered. There was a point on the road over there where there was nothing left to our lives but to do these shows … wake up every day and play in Fort Lauderdale, Florida …”

It didn’t last. It couldn’t. When the band’s four members returned home, recoupled and began making plans for their next album, the reality sunk in. The name couldn’t stay. When it came time to release Love is the New Hate, Shihad reversed their decision and disowned the name Pacifier. “As much as we believed in what we were doing, and the reasons for doing it at the time – the truth is we were wrong,” they said in a statement posted on their website in September, 2004. “…We are going to continue as we began – under the name Shihad.”

Shihad

Back then, their regrets were obvious. Ask them today, though, and they’ve got a different opinion. “Was it worth it? We don’t know any other alternative,” says Toogood. “It is what it is.” He lists the band’s subsequent albums – Love is the New Hate, Beautiful Machine, FVEYS and Old Gods – and says they may not exist without the Pacifier experiment. “If that hadn’t happened, maybe they those records wouldn’t have happened. Or [we wouldn’t have had] those moments of, ‘Aha, that’s why I’m in this fucking band’. So we don’t know what else would have happened.”

Many of Pacifier’s songs haven’t been played live. Music videos from that time aren’t on YouTube and are hard to find. But, from today, Shihad is reclaiming the Pacifier era. For the first time, the album is being re-released on vinyl, only this time it’s under a different name. It’s called, ‘The Pacifier Album’ and the name on the cover is the same one Toogood messed up the spelling of all those years ago: Shihad. With it comes a new attitude towards the hardest times of their 35-year career. “I love those songs. I love them being part of our history,” says Kippenberger. He pauses, thinks, then says: “It’s OK to fall in and out of love with your own stuff, you know?”

Shihad’s The Pacifier Album is available on vinyl now.