Josh Radner (14:08)

Hey, everyone, I'm Josh Radner, and I am so excited to tell you about How We Made your Mother a Rewatch podcast. Looking back at How I Met yout Mother. And I'm here with Craig Tony Thomas, who co created the show along with Carter Bayes. Hi, Craig.

Craig Tony Thomas (14:21)

Hey, Josh. Somehow, it has been 20 years since the show premiered. That's. I'm gonna check the math on that. Ten years since it went off the air. And we thought that made this a perfect time to look back, see what the hell we did and why the show still seems to resonate with fans around the world today.

Josh Radner (14:35)

Follow and listen to How We Made youe Mother wherever you get your podcasts.

Jake Brennan (14:43)

11:50am the maid tried to open the door to room 524, but it wouldn't budge. Something was blocking it from behind. She pushed harder and with a bit of force was finally able to work her way in There, slumped on the floor directly behind the door, was the naked body of the room's guest, Murray River, AKA Michael Hutchins. His snakeskin belt, that fine accoutrement befitting a good golden God, a rock star's rock star, no longer around his waist. Instead, it was around his neck. Sydney detectives found some vodka and champagne bottles in the room, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was a scene they'd witnessed many times over. Cut and dry, black and white. It was determined that Michael had tied the other end of his belt around the mechanism behind the door to hang himself. At some point after he was gone, the belt snapped from the weight and broke, dropping him down. This physical evidence, along with the phone records, painted a simple picture. What was not part of that picture was any evidence or even a suggestion that Michael Hutchins died as a result of autoerotic asphyxiation. That idea entered the public consciousness when Michael's partner, Paula Yates, suggested it to the media. Paula Yates, distraught, grieving, and at this point addicted to heroin, was unable to accept the truth and thus created a scenario in her mind in which Michael's death was accidental. In reality, Michael Hutchins died not from kinky sex gone horribly wrong, but because he was terrified that he'd lost everything. By the time he checked into the Ritz Carlton, Michael Hutchins had lost more than the ability to see the people he loved. He'd lost his cool. Both cools, actually. First, he lost his cool, as in that currency flaunted by a true blue rock and roll icon. Noel Gallagher of Oasis stuck the knife in deep and twisted it on live television, saying, has beens shouldn't present fucking awards to gonna be. Noel said that when Michael handed him a Brit Award, right then stare in front of everyone, the entire audience and everyone at home on their couches as well, Michael just laughed it off. But inside, Knowles dig hurt like hell. Michael was all too familiar with that pain. After INXS conquered the world with Kick and his follow up album X, which boasted a killer lead single, Suicide Blonde, written about Kylie Minogue, Michael's girlfriend at the time, they returned to Australia and were returning perceived not as heroes, but as sellouts. Aussies love an underdog, and so it was only natural that INXS got knocked down a peg so that their fellow Countrymen could enjoy watching them struggle to the top again. It's kind of like that thing when your favorite band blows up. And suddenly everyone loves this thing that used to belong just to you. And it kind of pisses you off in this weird way. Only in this case, it's not you who's pissed. It's an entire continent. And that was enough to make a guy lose his other cool. As in the ability to remain calm and in control of yourself. But Michael had already lost that, too. Something was very wrong with Michael Hudgens. Had been for years. His bandmates knew it, and the autopsy proved it. The biggest discovery from the autopsy wasn't the cocaine, Prozac, Valium or benzos in Michael's blood and urine. It was the plum sized lesions on his frontal lobe. Degenerative damage. Damage that he'd been carrying around for years. Ever since that incident in Denmark. 1992, Copenhagen. Michael Hutchins was doing what the locals did. Traveling by bicycle. Riding home from a night out with his girlfriend at the time, not the suicide blonde, but the one after that. A drop dead Danish brunette supermodel, Helena Christensen. You ever seen the music video for Chris Isaac's Wicked Game? The one on the beach with the. Yeah, that's the one. That's her. Anyway, it was late, but they were hungry, so they stopped to get a couple slices of pizza. It being late, the roads were fairly deserted. So Michael figured no harm, no foul if he simply straddled his bicycle in the middle of the road to use both hands to eat. That's when the taxicab appeared. It came screaming out of the night. And then it came to a screeching halt right in front of where Michael was blocking the road. The cabbie leaned out of his window, screaming like his taxi had just been screaming. But instead of the roar of a small engine, it was now the roar of a big mouth. Get the fuck out of the road, you fucking idiot. Then the cabbie was out of his car. Walking. An impatient, flustered stride. One foot in front of the other, cursing, furious. A beeline straight to where Michael was standing. There was no time to react, no time to move. The cabbie was on him now, right in front of him. It happened fast. The brisk walk, the sudden halt. And there he was, balling his fist and cocking back his arm. Then the cabbie's bald fist caught Michael Hudgins in the head. It came in fast and hard. The punch sent him flying. Michael wobbled backward, stunned, his entire body in shock. And then he dropped straight down, his body sprawled out on the pavement, blood oozing from his mouth and his ear. Helena rushed to his side. He wasn't moving, was he? Was Michael dead? The cabbie was back in his taxi, peeling off into the Copenhagen night. Gone, just like Michael now seemed to be. Helena panicked. Michael finally came to at the hospital, but he did so in a rage as impulsive and hostile as the taxi driver who had raged at him minutes earlier. For the next month he stayed in bed at Helena's apartment, throwing out, not eating. Not that eating would have given him any pleasure. He could no longer taste food, could no longer smell his girlfriend when she brushed up against him. It was like Michael Hudgens had gone unconscious and someone else woke up in his place. At the recording sessions for the next INXS album, the guys in the band were all asking the same question. What's happening to Michael? They had no clue. Michael swore Helena to secrecy, but it was clear something was wrong. As it was, the band was already outside their comfort zone. Sure, the Isle of Capri was a picturesque place to make an album, but it was a haul to get there. 20 hour flight. Flight to Rome, bus to Naples, ferry to the island and then a long walk to the studio, only to arrive and find Michael throwing tantrums, spraying champagne on the mixing board, tossing equipment off the breathtaking cliffs, surrounded by his band, his friends, but seemingly alone in his own mind. An island far from shore, just sitting there in the middle of the studio, staring into nothing, dropping a knife into the hardwood floor over and over. Thunk. Pull it out. Hold it in midair. Let it fall. Thunk. The tip of the blade sinking into the wood once again. Michael pulled it out, extracted it. Gary Beers, an excessive bassist and Michael's longtime friend, was confused and worried. Michael, he asked, why are you destroying that nice floor? Michael yanked the knife from the wood again, but this time it turned to Gary and thrust the blade in his direction. I'll fucking stab you instead. This wasn't Michael. This wasn't the guy they'd all grown up with, the one they met at high school in Sydney, born in Aussie, who'd gone away for years, living in Hong Kong with his family, educated in British schools, an outsider looking for a way back in, a dipshit from fuck off. Nowhere. That guy wasn't anywhere to be seen. That guy was in their memories, in their minds. The Michael Hutchins they all knew was in the past. We'll be right back after this. Word, word, word.

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Jake Brennan (23:26)

INXS knew they had a hit on their hands. Numerous hits, that is. The new album had just finished recording was loaded with them. Need you Tonight, Devil Inside, New sensation. The grooves were incredible. The low end was deep and there was something about it that just, you know, made you sweat. I had to say it. And that ballad, never Tear us Apart, forget about it. Michael Hutchins sang the shit out of that song. Kick was the band's sixth studio album, but the first one that felt like they tapped into something, something wholly unique. They leveled up and found another gear, working once again with producer Chris Thomas, whose resume stretched from the Beatles to the Sex Pistols. In excess, that's Michael Hutchins, Gary Beers, Kirk Pengilly and the Ferris brothers. Andrew, John and Tim were confident that 1987 was going to be their year. The endless touring, the minor hits, the videos on mtv, it all led to this. A breakthrough. They all knew it. Their manager, Chris Murphy, he knew it too. But now, standing in front of Atlantic Records sales and marketing teams, Chris Murphy couldn't help but wonder, was he crazy? Was 1987 not their year? Were they fucked? The Atlantic suits were just sitting there, as if they hadn't just listened to Need U Tonight, the song Chris and the band were proposing as the records for a single. A killer single song. One part James Brown, one part chic, one part talking heads and 100% Michael Hutchins and his golden God charisma in full effect. But the room didn't get it. It was too dancy for rock radio, they said, and too rock and roll for the R B market, they said. It didn't fit the mold, they said. Any mold, they said. And if the sales team didn't get it, if the sales team couldn't put it neatly in a box, then the sales team couldn't sell. Sell it. Chris felt his heart lodge inside his throat. This take out of left field, that need you tonight in the entirety of the INXS album, Kick was a colossal dud. Went straight up the chain of command all the way to Atlantic's president, who hated the record so much that he offered Chris and the band $1 million to erase the tapes and star all over again. That's a lot of dough, Ringo. If you made something that you were really proud of, the best thing you'd ever made in your life, and someone offered you a mil to get rid of it, would you do it? INXS did not do it, which maybe that was crazy, because who knows? Again, when you make something, do you really know how good it is? I like to think I do, but I don't. But in excess they knew, because the record was that good. Crazy good. The record company, on the other hand, was crazy. Crazy. Though to be fair, INXS had no idea that their manager, Chris Murphy, was doing something crazy on his own, going behind Atlantic's backs and without the blessing of Michael Hutchins and the band, with all of INXS existing money and using it to drum up buzz and thus demand for Kick, before Atlantic even agreed to release it. It was a risk, a huge risk, a ballsy risk. When Chris Murphy contacted college radio stations in the US and played them the album, though, the risk began to pay off. Colleges loved it. So he bought ads on those college radio stations and then he booked shows at those colleges. The shows sold out. The kids went nuts. They wanted to own a physical copy of the songs they were hearing at the shows and on the radio. The tables were turned. Atlantic would now be crazy not to release Kick, which in October of 1987 they did. And the record wound up making In Excess, extremely rich and extremely famous. Not to mention all that money for Atlantic, part and parcel of the rich and famous life was getting fucked up. It came with the territory. It was territory that Michael Hutchinson in Excess had been exploring for years. All the way back to those smoky, overcrowded Australian pubs where surfers smuggled hash inside their longboards. And a five hour psychedelic trip in just a pile of cow shit away. Michael and the boys were a pack, a gang. Six guys sharing a collective experience. By now the stakes were raised. The crowds were bigger. The girls were hotter, much hotter. The drugs were more plentiful In Rio, the cocaine fell from the sky for real, there was so much of it. What didn't go up their noses got tossed off their hotel balcony. Same thing on the bus in Canada headed for the US border. Doing blow became a game that passed the time. Toss a handful up in the air and try to snort it as it falls down all over your face. Why? Because it's what rock bands do, right? That's why. It's right there in this particular band's Name in excess. In Excess. So corny, yet so fucking perfect. Michael Hudgens learned excess from the best. He learned long before kick made him a rock and roll icon. Back when INXS were opening shows for Adam Anne, for the Stray Cats, for Men at work. He learned from the king of debauchery himself, Mr. Freddie Mercury. In the penthouse of a London hotel where the party wasn't just coke, but also flamingos and mimes, little people walking around with trays of cocaine balanced on their heads and circus acrobats demonstrating wildly flexible new ways to fuck. Michael took notes. The Freddie Mercury school of debauchery was in session in the inside that Parisian hotel room. And again at a show in Phoenix, where Michael ran his hand up the short skirt of a ready and willing female fan. Like steel to a magnet, Michael sang about being lonely. But with fans and friends like these, he didn't have to worry about actually being lonely. July 91, Wembley Stadium. Capacity crowd 72,000. No less than five opening bands. Debbie Harry, Pothouse Flowers, Roachford Jellyfish and Jesus Jones. And then in Excess, leaving the backstage spread of sushi and champagne behind to take the main stage for two and a half hours. Michael in his shiny black leather jacket and those killer black and white pants with stripes on one leg and stars on the other, already primed with booze and pills. Three songs in, he found the other three pills in his pocket. Three doses of ecstasy. One for him, Kirk and Tim, right there in the middle of the set. It came with the territory. Business and pleasure. All for one and one for all. And although the stage, both literally and figuratively, was now bigger, that shared experience of a rock and roll band, that brotherhood of in excess, kept them grounded even as their egos began to take flight. Not that they were ever truly grounded. They were Aussies, after all. Wildlings from down under. Feral and rebellious, just like any truly great rock star is wild and feral and rebellious. But in Excess were tougher than most. Hardened by years on the pub Circuit. Down Under. Three shows a night. First one at midnight, next at 3am, and a final one at 6am Each show at a different venue. They worked day and night. Tough work that made them the toughest. So tough that you could never imagine that anything could crack the exterior. Nothing could ever tear it apart. Their connection, their strength, their bond. From this vantage point on stage at Wembley, in front of 72,000, rolling on E, in love with everything, the people, the music, your mates, you couldn't even fathom a scenario where it all went wrong. But that one random accident, just one punch, could send it all spiraling out of control. 1977. No Elvis, Beatles or the Rolling Stones. New York and London were calling. 10,000 miles from either New York or London, in Sydney, New South Wales, the call came through loud and clear. The Beatles were done. The Stones were on their way out. And Elvis, Well, Elvis was dead. The day the King left the building for the final time was the day the band known as the Ferris Brothers, played their first show at a house in Whale beach, just north of Sydney. Fresh out of high school, the Ferris Brothers, along with their lead singer, Michael Hutchins, were compelled by punk rock. Galvanized by the DIY movement. It was in the air. The same air breathed by Nick Cave and the Birthday Party, who were busy releasing the Bats and making an unholy racket. The Saints, obsessed with the Ramones and the Heartbreakers, Johnny Thunders, that is not Tom Petty at Midnight Oil. Fiercely political, musically aggressive, another tough as leather Aussie unit made tougher by the rejection of traditional rock radio. Midnight Oil tore their asses off, built up their fan base and boom, Bob's your uncle. Fuck radio. They worked for it and they were rewarded. The Ferris brothers, in turn, were inspired by this work ethic, just like they were inspired when Midnight Oil suggested they changed their name to something more. More compelling. Something like that English band xtc. You know, Ecstasy, but it's spelled out with three capital letters in excess. Picked up where the Ferris brothers left off. They gigged hard, year in, year out. 300 shows in 1981 alone. Pubs and clubs packed the rafters. A hodgepodge of patrons, Stone surfers and the industrial working class, all sweating because the air conditioning had been turned off. And all drinking way more beer than they'd planned. Which was precisely why the AC had turned off in the first place. Rock music was rebellious, but it was also a money maker. The money came from everywhere, even from fuck off nowhere. Way out in the desert, on the edge of the world, where the boys made a cool five grand for a week's hot work. The house banned for workers at a strip mine. The miners all covered in blood, blood red dirt. Some of them ex cons, some of them soon to be cons. Honest to God, Mad Max come to life. But it was a good life. A life Michael Hutchins had stumbled into just a few years earlier when he returned to Australia as a teenager after living in Hong Kong for eight years. He knew no one. He made his way sheepishly into Killarney Heights High School, all eyes watching his every move. The girls, of course, were instantly attracted, as they always were and always would be. And so the boys wanted to beat the piss out of him. Look at this dipshit. He may have been an Aussie on paper, but as far as they were concerned, he was from away, far away. Eight years of British schools, eight years of British customs. He had that colonial bastard stink all over him. The group of boys circled around him and began to close in. What the fuck was he looking at? And who the hell did he think he was? And then a voice from the back. Leave him alone. The bullies spun around. Another boy, not a bully, but another new classmate, stood on the outskirts of the impending beatdown with his own crew. He repeated himself and his crew backed him up. Leave him alone. The bullies decided they'd mess with the new kids some other time. They backed down and fucked off. Then Michael Hudgens shook the hand of Andrew Ferris, the kid who just saved him from an ass kicking. He gained a new friend, a bandmate even. And with that simple fact came the most important thing. The reassurance that he'd never be alone again. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Discovery Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Gracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.

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Jake Brennan (37:00)

relax and let go of whatever you're carrying today?

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Jake Brennan (37:13)

And breathe.

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