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The Bull sisters, Vika and Linda, have been singing together since they were little girls, playing very different parts to a very special harmony.
VIKA: I was only 17 months old when Linda was born so, as far as I can remember, she was always there. We rode bikes together and played in the street. We grew up near the Botanic Gardens [in Melbourne] and were always climbing the pine trees. She was a chubby kid, so she got teased a bit and, in kindy, there was a teacher who picked on her. It made her determined to succeed. She thought: “I’ll show you.”
Our parents drummed into us that we had to stick together so, at primary school, I became Linda’s protector. One day, in year 1, a boy pulled down the zip on her dress. She came running to me in tears, so I went and found this kid in the corridor and socked him.
Singing is a big part of being Tongan. Mum sang in church, and we listened to 3XY on the radio, and to Dad’s favourites, such as Linda Ronstadt and Willy Nelson. Linda and I would sit in our room and sing: she’d do the low parts and I’d sing the high parts. We were practising, but we didn’t know it at the time.
We shared a room until high school, but we were very different. I never made my bed; hers was always neat. She was so considered, especially with her clothes. She and Mum would go shopping for material and buy matching bags and shoes while I hung out in the garden with Dad. It was the same at high school. Linda became school captain, but I just wanted to join a band.
I left after year 11 and did a secretarial course while Linda studied at uni to become an art teacher. But, after a while, I could see she was unhappy, so I said, “Come join my band!”
I was in a group called Sophisticated Boom Boom. The first time she sang with us was in a nightclub on Swanston Street. We covered Frank and Nancy Sinatra’s Somethin’ Stupid. I said, “Whatever you do, don’t drink before you go on.” But she was so nervous, she skolled half a bottle of scotch, then got up and sang the whole song in the wrong key. I was so angry, but we kept singing together in bands.
I was more confident on stage than Linda: she’d stand beside me and watch. I was in charge when we performed but, in everything else, I felt she was the mature one. I was jealous of her, of how good she was at everything. I became the black sheep, drinking too much, upsetting the family. They were always like, “What’s Vika done now?”
Some years back, Linda and I had a big fight during dinner at our parents’ house. I said, “You’re f—ed and your husband’s an arsehole.” After that, Linda didn’t talk to me for three months. I apologised, and we came back together, and the relationship became stronger. Today, we’re together almost every day. When we’re not in the studio, we’re caring for our parents: we tell each other if one of us isn’t pulling our weight. That’s Linda: she’s always had the guts to tell me the truth. But she’s patient and understanding, too. Without that, we would’ve gone our separate ways, but we’re still together, years later, just doing what we love.
‘When the lights went out, Vika would stamp on my feet and I’d elbow her. She’d say, “You’re singing out of tune.” ’
Linda Bull
LINDA: My earliest memories are of us in the garden: Vika, tiny, her little legs in black gumboots. As the eldest, she called the shots. But she always looked out for me. Once, we lost a cricket ball in the creek behind our house. When it came to getting it back, there was no question she’d be the one going into the creek to look for it:
At kindy, I had a teacher who separated me and this Chinese boy from the rest of the kids. She’d serve us lunch last and make me stand in the corner facing the wall. It made me feel there was something wrong with me. So I ended up wanting to be the best at everything. I worked hard and did well, but Vik wasn’t like that: I got praised and she didn’t.
Mum was religious and sang in church. Linda and I sang, too, at home, practising to Abba in the lounge room and singing all the theme songs to TV shows. Mum would listen while she cooked and yell out if we were off or if someone held a note too long.
We were sent to a private school, but Vik rebelled: she got a mohawk and smoked in her room. I said, “Mum and Dad will smell it!” I became head prefect, but she left after year 11. It upset Mum and I was angry at Vik for that, but she wanted to live life her way. I studied art at Melbourne Uni, and Vik trained to be a secretary. She topped her class, but the emphasis was always on my degree. Relatives would ask, “How’s university going?” but they wouldn’t ask, “How’s secretarial college going?”
In 1987, she convinced me to sing with her band, but I was so nervous I sat in my Datsun 120Y drinking whisky, then got up and sang out of key. Later, we formed our own band. We started getting shows, but we’d fight on stage. When the lights went out, she’d stamp on my feet and I’d elbow her. She’d say, “You’re singing out of tune,” and I’d be like, “You’re not the boss of me!” It’s still like that! If I do something wrong on stage, she’ll tell me, which is good. You need praise and criticism.
Vik was fierce. She began drinking, to the point where I’d think, “Will she turn up for the show?” I was always saying, “You should go to bed, we have a show tomorrow.” And she’d say, “Don’t tell me how to lead my life!” She’d turn up to the studio hungover or walk on stage with two minutes to go, then sing like a bird. She never let the side down, but she always did it the hard way.
Then, in 2006, we had a blow-up at our parents’ place. Vik had had a few too many. She yelled, “You and your perfect little family! You think you’ve got it all figured out!” I didn’t talk to her for months. Mum held an intervention, and we made up. But the only reason it worked was because Vik genuinely apologised. And it changed everything. We became way closer.
And she’s sober now. She swims every day and tells me what foods to eat. I love her and admire her courage. I’m so proud to have her as my sister.
The sisters’ ninth studio album, Where Do You Come From?, is out now.
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