Australia’s political speeches don’t have to be so bad

Australian political speeches often fall flat. We don’t do ‘soaring rhetoric’ the way others might. At best, we do ‘slightly airborne’ rhetoric. Many sound like they were written by an algorithm trained on years of question time transcripts.

Just look at Tony Abbott’s 2013 election victory speech: “I now look forward to forming a government that is competent, that is trustworthy, and which purposely and steadfastly and methodically sets about delivering on our commitments to you, the Australian people.” If you’re going to spell out your vision for the country, and the best you can hope for is that you’re ‘competent’, you really need to aim higher.

Compare that snoozefest to some of the legendary political oratory from overseas. Think of JFK’s inaugural address: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.” Or MLK’s “I Have A Dream” speech. We don’t have the equivalent of the Gettysburg Address.

But to be honest, I’m not sure we’d really want them either. Speeches like that just wouldn’t land here in Australia. If an Aussie politician tried to pull off that high rhetoric, we’d collectively cringe ourselves inside out. We make fun of politicians when they try to make jokes (‘zingers’) and we make fun of politicians when they try to hammer home their grand utopian vision for the future (‘jobs and growth’). We don’t really let politicians do grand statements because we think it’s a bit naff.

No, in Australia, we like our speeches a bit more real, more grounded. Less lofty idealism, more straight talk. When our leaders nail it, their words resonate precisely because they aren’t imitating some grand American or British style.

Paul Keating

Take Paul Keating’s famous Redfern Speech in 1992. This was no pollie robotically delivering focus-group tested one-liners. Keating stood in front of a crowd in the heart of an Indigenous community and unflinchingly confronted the nation’s racist history:

“We took the traditional lands and smashed the traditional way of life. We brought the diseases. The alcohol. We committed the murders. We took the children from their mothers.”

Damn. A worse speechwriter would have really laid on layers upon layers of bad things, with each of those points. Because each of those points is a pretty big thing to acknowledge. Seriously, if the speech was just “we took the children from their mothers”, that would have been a big deal. For a Prime Minister to say that in Redfern, in 1992, would have been a story in itself. You could do a whole speech on that. He says it in a sentence. And it’s after “We committed the murders”, too. Talk about burying the lede.

Keating wasn’t trying to inspire, he was trying to reckon with the cold, hard truth. That directness, that willingness to call a spade a shovel, is quintessentially Australian.

Noel Pearson

Our best speeches share some key qualities: they’re focused, genuine, and don’t muck around with $10 words when 10 cent ones will do. We appreciate speakers who level with us, who cut through the political fog with clear, plain language.

When Noel Pearson eulogised Gough Whitlam, he emphasized Whitlam’s legacy by repeatedly asking what he ever did for us, then answering his own question with a laundry list of monumental reforms. “Apart from Medibank and the Trade Practices Act, cutting tariff protections and no-fault divorce in the Family Law Act, the Australia Council, the Federal Court, the Order of Australia… Apart from all of this, what did this Roman ever do for us?”

The Roman thing doesn’t make as much sense out of context, but in the full context of the speech it’s pretty terrific. Regardless, you know who he’s referring to. He condenses the legislative achievements of Whitlam in the space between a capital letter and a full stop. And he makes a joke of it. The joke, of course, is the point. He did so much, in a small amount of time, and we have so much in modern Australia that owes its genesis to the man they’re all there to depart.

Apart from that though, what’s there to be grateful for?

Kevin Rudd

Even when the subject matter is heavy, a little irreverence goes a long way. In his Apology to the Stolen Generations, Kevin Rudd leavened the profound solemnity of the occasion with a wry observation: “I just hope the microphone lead doesn’t fall out like it did last time – just as I was getting up to a crescendo.”

Can you imagine Obama cracking a joke like that during a landmark speech? Nah, but for us, it’s perfect. A small reminder that even in the big moments, we don’t stand on ceremony.

This isn’t to say we can’t be moved by our leaders’ words. But what moves us isn’t grandiose rhetoric; it’s authenticity, humour, a sense that they’re one of us.

John Howard

But sometimes, it’s not just what you say, but how you frame it. John Howard’s 2001 campaign speech is a masterclass in political framing. With the Tampa affair dominating headlines and border security a hot-button issue, Howard stood up and declared:

The reality is that we must assert and maintain the undoubted right we have as a sovereign nation to control our borders. It is the first element in a basic national security policy not only to have adequate defences for the country but also to have the right to decide who comes to this country and the circumstances in which they come.

John Howard, 2 November 2011

In one sentence, he reframed the entire debate. Suddenly, it wasn’t about refugees or human rights, it was about national sovereignty. Howard positioned himself as the defender of Australia’s borders, the one who would ensure that we, not anyone else, would control our own destiny.

Now, you might not agree with the sentiment, but you can’t deny the power of the framing. Howard took a complex, emotionally charged issue and made it seem like a simple matter of national interest. It was a message perfectly calibrated for the anxious, post-9/11 zeitgeist.

That’s the thing about framing – when it’s done well, it can completely reshape how we think about an issue. A skilled politician can take a weakness and turn it into a strength, or take a complex problem and make it seem like there’s only one clear solution.

But framing only works if it taps into something the audience already believes or feels. Howard’s border security pitch resonated because it played on pre-existing fears and desires for control. Keating’s Redfern address hit home because, on some level, we all knew the terrible truths he was speaking.

The best speeches, the ones that endure, are those that frame the moment in a way that feels authentic and undeniable. They don’t try to change what we believe, they give voice to what we already know to be true.

Our most effective leaders understand this. They know that you can’t just impose a narrative, you have to work with the clay of public sentiment. You have to find the right angle, the right words, to make your case seem like the only reasonable one.

It’s a skill that requires equal parts empathy and strategy. You need to know what makes people tick, but you also need to know how to use that to your advantage. It’s not about manipulation, it’s about articulation – giving form and force to the inchoate hopes and fears of a nation.

So next time you hear a politician speak, don’t just listen to what they’re saying, think about how they’re saying it. Are they framing the issue in a way that resonates? Are they tapping into something real, or just trying to pull the wool over our eyes?

Because in the end, that’s what separates the forgettable speeches from the unforgettable ones. It’s not about high-flown rhetoric or cheap applause lines. It’s about framing the moment in a way that feels true, that speaks to who we are and who we want to be.

That’s the essence of great Australian oratory. Not grandiosity, but authenticity. Not obfuscation, but clarity. The ability to take the complex, messy reality of our national life and distill it into something clear, powerful, and undeniable.

It’s a rare skill, but when we see it, we know it. It’s what makes us sit up and take notice, what makes us feel, even for a moment, that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves.

And in a country as diverse and as contested as ours, that’s no small thing. We need leaders who can bring us together, not drive us apart. Who can frame our challenges in a way that unites us, not divides us.

That’s the power of framing. And it’s the key to understanding what makes a truly great Australian speech.