Daniel Johns In Conversation: What If The Future Never Happened?

By a hopelessly devoted Silverchair disciple disguised as a music critic.

Review by Jason King Event Date: 7th November 2025

Let me begin with full disclosure: I am utterly and irrevocably obsessed with Daniel Johns. Always have been. Silverchair isn’t just my favourite band - they’re my everything. Daniel isn’t just my favourite musician - he’s the creative pulse I measure all others against. My Silverchair collection is borderline museum-worthy: multiple framed prints (including the one that hung right behind him on stage), a Silverchair surfboard, their stamps, and yes, even the Frogstomp cover tattooed on my hand. You get the idea - my devotion runs deep. So when I heard Daniel was returning to the stage, I didn’t hesitate. None of my friends would come (their loss), so I made a solo pilgrimage to his hometown to witness this moment among his people - the ones who grew up alongside the myth and the man. By the end, between merch, accommodation, and food, I’d spent nearly $700 I definitely did not have, but it felt like a sacred investment.

The show itself was billed as:

“Johns is taking to the stage in celebration of the worldwide premiere of his highly anticipated short film, What If The Future Never Happened? With each screening framed by an hour-long onstage conversation. In these rare live talk appearances, Daniel will discuss his early life and creative process, sharing never-before-seen photos, moving archival footage, and unreleased recordings straight from his personal collection. He’ll reveal previously unheard demos - from embryonic Neon Ballroom bedroom tapes to the original songwriting session of ‘Straight Lines’ from Silverchair’s final album Young Modern - even sketches for a sixth album that never came to be. He’ll also play new music from his solo and collaborative projects, each night promising something singular and unrepeatable.”

“In these four shows - his first stage appearances in over five years - Johns will get up close and personal with fans, who’ll also be invited to submit questions pre-event in each city.”

And close and personal it was - sometimes too personal. Dylan Lewis tried valiantly to MC, but the event teetered on the edge of "beautiful" chaos. Guests who’d attended the Sydney show (and happened to be staying at my hotel) said he’d been visibly nervous, trembling through the opening moments. In Newcastle, it seemed Daniel had self-medicated, possibly with MDMA - hugging Dylan and his mates in a way that was endearing yet disquieting. Dylan did his best, often tossing his notes in the air with a kind of desperate abandon. Amid the bedlam, though, were flashes of absolute brilliance - Daniel talking about how melodies “come to him,” not as conscious creations but as soomething else, he just wirtes what is in head. Whether that’s literal or metaphorical, it hardly matters. When he’s in that flow, it’s as though he’s tuned to a divine frequency the rest of us can only strain to hear.

Hearing his early demos was a gift - a raw, unfiltered masterclass in genius. The final Silverchair song, titled HELLO, needs to be released. It’s SOOOOOOOOOOO GOOD - like the best secret you can’t believe someone’s keeping. The archival videos - school photos, live clips, backstage footage - tugged at every nostalgic thread in me. His lifelong friend and photographer appeared too, though it seemed they’d perhaps shared in the self-medication, which added a strange haze to the proceedings. Still, the music filling the auditorium was transcendent - familiar yet brand new, the echo of a band that defined a generation.

Seeing Daniel in his struggles is heartbreaking. I’ll never stop supporting him - he’s elevated to near rock-god status in my world - but I can sense some fans wavering, unsure of how to reconcile the myth with the man before us. Not that Daniel seems to care, and maybe that’s part of his mystique.

The film itself runs around 20–25 minutes, including a music clip. Daniel plays a monk-like, psychedelic guru who travels back in time to meet his younger self a lost boy who doesn’t recognise him - to impart hard-won wisdom. He counsels resilience, defiance, forgiveness. It’s deeply autobiographical - a cinematic letter to his past self, a wish for the strength he needed but perhaps never fully found. It’s moving, it’s surreal, and it’s tinged with the melancholy of a man who knows the advice comes too late.

Then came the moment. After the credits, the screen bursts into a performance where Mindriot (the Silverchair stand-ins in The Future Never Happened) launch into Israel’s Son. The lead singer glitches in and out, replaced by Daniel himself - the two of them fusing and separating in a visual symphony. For four glorious minutes, Daniel is back - guitar in hand, every movement electric, his confidence alive and unbroken. It’s the best part of the night because, for that brief flicker, it felt like watching him again - the Daniel Johns who changed our lives with every riff and every scream. Whether Mindriot was used for copyright reasons or as a representation of Daniel’s inner universe, it didn’t matter. It worked.

I’ll end this not as a critic, but as the lifelong devotee I am. I have loved Daniel Johns and Silverchair since 1994 and always will. I’ll go wherever his music takes me - even if that road never leads back to a live performance or a reunion. I don’t think Daniel will ever perform live again. I don’t think Silverchair will ever reunite. And honestly? That hurts. But I’ll still be here, tattooed hand raised, waiting for the next whisper from the man who taught me what genius sounds like.