Written by Andreas Babiolakis

Binge, Fringe, or Singe? is our television series that will cover the latest seasons, miniseries, and more. Binge is our recommendation to marathon the reviewed season. Fringe means it won’t be everyone’s favourite show, but is worth a try (maybe there are issues with it). Singe means to avoid the reviewed series at all costs.

The miniseries based on Taylor Jenkins Reid’s widespread novel, Daisy Jones & The Six, is finally done. Ten episodes later, this tale of a self destructive band from the 70s — based on the similar escapades and goings-on of Fleetwood Mac and the like — has resolved in a way that is bittersweet: finally, the series is showing signs of proper development and substance, and it is all over. I’m not sure what the novel is like (I’m aware that there are quite a few differences between the source material and this final adaptation, including major changes in plot details and the heavy prioritization of a secondary character: more on that later), but Daisy Jones & The Six is quite uneven as a series. What helps push the show through its narrative decisions is the complete devotion to the story’s time capsule nature. Everything from the costumes to the sets and props is straight out of the late 60s, 70s, and the years later when the members of the titular band sit down for a confessional documentary (as they prepare to grimace, cry, or smile whilst remembering).

We have to start with the story itself. We follow Daisy Jones & The Six: a band that takes a few episodes to actually come to fruition. They’re made up of the remnants of the Dunne Brothers band, lead by Billy Dunne. Once this family has a taste of fame in their early days, Billy goes off the rails with an alcohol addiction (amongst his yearning for power). Simultaneously, we follow Daisy Jones from her teen years as a budding singer to her start as a songwriting wiz that is abused by the system; she swiftly develops her own set of addictions. Even before we get much further, you get the sense that Daisy Jones & The Six just dips into these outcomes without ever really building up towards them. Why are Billy and Daisy addicts? Because rock and roll culture states that they must be, of course. We get a tiny bit of justification behind Daisy being neglected by her loved ones throughout her life, but we really don’t get enough information as to why these two musicians specifically turned towards their dark sides, outside of it being a side effect of the rockstar lifestyle. These plot points are presented far too thinly for any of these changes of heart to actually feel effective.

Rounding up the band is keyboardist Karen (Daisy Jones eventually joins the band afterward), and after a few minor lineup shifts, we get the classic Daisy Jones & The Six crew and their trajectory to the stratosphere. We see a few events pop up, including Billy needing to attend rehab in order to fix his life, members of the band threatening to quit (or outright quitting, at least temporarily), Karen developing a romance with Billy’s brother Graham, other brother Eddie garnering resentment for Billy, and much more. The members of the band quarrel quite often, particularly Billy and Daisy, and it’s the only constant that kind of makes sense: they’re both tortured people trying to find their own self worth. Outside of the band are a few supporters that also get their own series of turmoils, including Billy’s poor wife Camilla (who acts as the band’s photographer), tour manager Rod Reyes (played by a moonlighting Timothy Olyphant), and producer Teddy Price (the very person that actually suggests that solo singer Daisy Jones should try performing with The Six on a song, to great effect, considering they wound up becoming a band afterward).

Then there’s the Simone Jackson storyline, which I think is borderline pointless in the grand scheme of things. This character is elevated in the series from being simply Daisy Jones’ roommate when both singers are starting out, to being an innovator of disco music that gets her own significant amount of story (she even has an episode that is primarily hers). Her inclusion doesn’t benefit the overall story or Daisy Jones’ character all that much, and Simone herself doesn’t get a full enough arc or story to feel meaningful in any way. This was the series’ most wasted opportunity: we could have had an interesting look at the other shifts in the musical landscape happening alongside the rock music of Daisy Jones & The Six, but instead we get filler story that stuffs a lacking story in the wrong places; these are important minutes that could have been used to build out the rises and falls of lead and secondary characters so you really feel their losses and gains.

Most of the series coasts on the drama within the band, its rise in fame, and the usual sort of details. These are told in hindsight by the members of the band years later, and this behind-the-music approach — implemented from how the novel is written — isn’t exactly a new idea, but it is handled well. It provides the series with the kind of personal touch that it desperately needs when it isn’t fleshing out characters properly in shots of the past. Outside of the story and the production comes the real magic of this series: the music and those that perform it. Every actor here feels attached to the music they play, as if they are actually living and breathing through these literary characters and have brought them to life. The fictional songs that are presented here range from decent to pretty good, but it is the series’ presentation of these tunes that make them fully legitimate: all of the times “Look at Us Now (Honeycomb)” is played, it’s like I’m believing its existence more and more (because of the different responses attached to each performance). Everyone put in a lot of work to make this band real, including Riley Keough (Daisy) and Sam Claflin (Billy), who weren’t even singers before this series began production (a delay in shooting due to the pandemic likely helped both have extra time to get even better).

On the topic of music, there is for sure at least a basic sense of how music was operating at the time. Daisy Jones & The Six’s southern-sounding rock was indicative of not just Fleetwood Mac but also many contemporaries (from Creedence Clearwater Revival at the end of the 60s and start of the 70s, to Linda Ronstadt’s genre blending ways throughout the decade). The series touches upon not just the rise of disco but other genres as well, including punk rock (while overlooking proto-punk almost entirely, outside of the inclusion of a terrific Television cut off of Marquee Moon) and new wave (particularly towards the end of the series for the latter). I know this is about this particular band, but I feel like the imminent threat of a fortunate group losing everything would ring even louder if we’re always aware of how many trends are actually creeping in on them at any given moment. The series kind of brings up that other sounds exist, but it really could have explored them more (not just as a celebration, but to increase the stakes for Daisy Jones & The SIx).

Overall, I think that Daisy Jones & The Six will speak to you the most if you are a lover of music and nostalgia. You’ll be able to look over the narrative faults much more easily if you’re obsessing over the attentions-to-detail surrounding concert rigging and musicianship. Having said all of my complaints, I find that the finale, “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide” (named after the brilliant David Bowie track), ties up the series well enough to warrant watching it all in the first place; you just have to reach it. With all that has happened, the longevity of Daisy Jones & The Six as a band is endangered in this final episode. Without spoiling much, this finale is presented in a way that makes a lot of the narrative meandering that happened before feel like it all matters to some degree now. With a couple of genuine twists that don’t feel cheap in any way, this final episode does more than just help the series end well: it very much is the glue that holds the series together. It is bittersweet, beautiful, impactful, and very worthwhile.

Could Daisy Jones & The Six have been a stronger series? Sure, but I think that it at least displays enough heart in an area that counts enough: the series’ passion for the music of yesteryear. Even if you don’t buy into this fictional band at all, it feels difficult to count out the music and performance sequences outright. If you do, then all of the sideline drama works a little better. It’s a flawed series but not a bad one by any means. If only it had some tightness in pacing, strengthening in character building, and exploration in the goings-on surrounding this band; this series could have been quite the TV love letter to the 70s music scene and its many facets (good and bad). As it stands, Daisy Jones & The Six is at least a neat escape for a little while. You may really like being on the tour bus and on that stage with this band. I don’t think this series is going to gel with everyone, but those that it will place a spell on will likely want to return to this again and again; it has the makings for that kind of cult following, like many fictional bands do. Otherwise, you may be like me: pleased during the series’ duration, and then quickly comfortable in moving onto the next series once it was all over. I did long for that lasting impact of a crashing-and-burning band that had it all, especially as a major fan of rock music, but at least there was that fun I was also expecting.

Andreas Babiolakis has a Masters degree in Film and Photography Preservation and Collections Management from Toronto Metropolitan University, as well as a Bachelors degree in Cinema Studies from York University. His favourite times of year are the Criterion Collection flash sales and the annual Toronto International Film Festival.

Daisy Jones & The Six: Binge, Fringe, or Singe?

Written by Andreas Babiolakis