‘Daisy Jones’ looks at ups, downs of fictional band
Based on the 2019 novel about a fictional rock band that became huge in the late ’70s and then just as quickly fell apart, the 10-episode Amazon Prime Video adaptation of “Daisy Jones & The Six” is structured (as is the book) like an episode of VH1’s “Behind the Music.”
Fleetwood Mac is author Taylor Jenkins Reid’s inspiration, with her two main characters emulating, with some important tweaks, the combative push-pull that defined the personal and professional collaborations of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham.
The Six is a band led by Billy Dunne (Sam Claflin), a working-class guy from Pittsburgh with Jim Morrison cheekbones and a chip on his shoulder. His insecurities and massive ego give way to addiction when the band goes on its first tour. So it’s off to rehab for Billy, who returns committed to doing right by his wife (Camila Morrone) and baby. The band just needs something extra to take it to the next level.
When an avuncular and endlessly patient music producer (Tom Wright) pairs Billy with a singer-songwriter named Daisy Jones (Riley Keough) — a free spirit from Los Angeles who masks her insecurities with bravado, booze and pills — their duet goes to No. 1 and, after some grumbling from Billy, she’s invited to join the band.
The group records one “Rumours”-esque album and then embarks on a stadium tour fraught with interpersonal issues plaguing the entire band (except for the blissed-out, Ringolike drummer played by Sebastian Chacon). It all comes to a head at a soldout show at Soldier Field in
Chicago. It would be their last time onstage together. Twenty years later, they’re sitting for interviews and looking back at their origin story.
Created by the screenwriting team of Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber, the series falls into a number of expected traps. It’s the “same old tired rock ’n’ roll tale,” as Billy puts it, and he’s not wrong. But the episodes have a cumulative power, even if the storytelling often feels like it’s cutting corners rather than digging in.
Musically, Keough and Claflin are a good match. She has a strong, clear voice that bolsters their harmonies, but he can hold his own too, and they’re credible as performers. Keough is the granddaughter of Elvis Presley and, fairly or not, is perhaps shouldering certain expectations about her presence as a singer. But she looks at home onstage and finds a way to channel some of Nicks’ physicality and flowy-wispy stagewear without mimicking her outright.
It’s the offstage drama that the show struggles with. As a pair, Daisy and Billy are supposed to feel like a musical inevitability fueled by mutual friction and attraction. But the fireworks just aren’t there.
Some of this comes down to casting. Billy is a pill, but Claflin’s performance isn’t charismatic enough to transform that into: He’s a pill, but I get it. Keough’s role is just as underdeveloped; the script tells us she’s into Billy — that she feels a unique connection with him — but that chemistry never shows up.
The series is primarily the Billy and Daisy show, with the other members of the band relegated to supporting status, including Suki Waterhouse. While the keyboard can clearly be heard on the tracks, the character’s actual musical contributions are rendered invisible. There’s also Daisy’s friend played by Nabiyah Be, who goes from background singer to disco sensation when she moves to New York and gets her song played in a club. Her story may feel tacked on, but Be is terrific.
The show feels most alive whenever Timothy Olyphant shows up as their droll tour manager. And Morrone, as Billy’s other half, is more than just the long-suffering wife. She’s a three-dimensional character with her own point of view, and she pushes Billy to collaborate with Daisy because she can see the way they ignite each other. Too bad the rest of us can’t.