Chapter Text
Daisy Jones by William Belkin
‘Sunrise’
Rolling Stone: June 20th, 1979
SAN FRANCISCO - Beyond the curtain at the Fillmore lies a room of modest dimensions that echoes with the fervour just witnessed on stage. Daisy Jones, having been met with a rapturous embrace from the notoriously reserved West Coast crowd, slouches into a chair, setting ablaze a lucky strike. In this realm of mild pandemonium encircling her, she radiates an air of nonchalance. As the new decade dawns, who could have prophesied that the grandest resurgence would unfold not in the fields of sports or the theatres of politics, but within the sun-kissed embrace of Los Angeles? Here stands the singer-songwriter, rising from the ruins of a catastrophic schism that shattered her colossal band, architects of a 70’s opus. Most had relinquished their hopes, yet here she stands, poised for an encore, a presence that threatens to outshine even her storied past. She's back.
In person, she's more diminutive than the cyclonic force witnessed earlier, that tempest twirling and traipsing the stage. And yet, behold her now, grappling with responses, calculating every conceivable facet. Understandable, this reluctance to commune with the press. The legends surrounding her persona are ceaseless: born into opulent wealth and artistic splendour, ghostwriting for former paramours' chart-toppers incognito, trysts beyond counting, performances that bordered on bedlam, and a flirtation with substances that made Keith Richards blush. The maelstrom reached its zenith after the final crescendo with The Six in Chicago—a concert that culminated in overdose rumours, pregnancy whispers, graffiti on toilet walls of matrimony to a narco kingpin, and even a pilgrimage to the realm of avant-garde cinema.
But she commands an unwavering allegiance from her intimate cohort of confidantes and collaborators that gravitate around her. Consider the enigma that was her covert recording escapade. Nary a whisper. This impromptu gig, an overture for her forthcoming solo opus, flew so far below the radar that the scribes of this very publication remained oblivious until a club insider—beau to one of the secretaries—breathed the secret into our eager ears. The din is becoming a touch overwhelming for her, as melodies emanate from a tinny cassette player and well-wishers exchange hearty backslaps. A pact is forged; we shall rendezvous for lunch. As I prepare to depart, a solitary query: What topics remain beyond the pale? To this, she retorts, “Spare me the boring stuff. I’ve had to deal with shit from Rolling Stone before so no surprises please.”
Alright, folks, buckle up because we're in for a ride with the one and only Daisy Jones. She saunters in fashionably late, not giving two hoots about time or apologies, and perches those shades atop her head like a crown. No makeup, just raw and ready energy crackling in the air.
"It was great last night. Felt damn good to be back on that stage. Nothing quite like it, whether you're serenading ten or ten thousand," she speaks quickly, her words like honey-soaked rock 'n' roll.
And she doesn't shut the faucet for the next hour. Questions are mere backdrops for her monologue. Refreshing, isn’t it? I tell her how it's a breath of fresh air, this unfiltered candour.
"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised. "I guess I'm just allergic to bullshit nowadays."
Let's talk about these rumours, shall we?
"Jesus. I gave up on trying to stop those. I never got the fuss. What I do is my business, isn’t it? I’m not a deity for folks to worship under a microscope. I'll chat to fans, but who gives a damn about my relationships? Projection, I think it's called. People'll never be satisfied."
Welcome to the arena she's returned to, and she's as sharp as a guitar lick.
"I get the game. I’ve got a new record so I’ve got to make some noise. I understand the drill. Either you roll with it or you don't."
No tracks from Aurora last night?
"Nah, I don’t have the band just now for that and even then that’s the past . You need a certain kind of sorcery for the past, and we just started gelling after the studio stint. Didn't want to overcomplicate it, These new tunes, they're different, like... less anchored in their era. Does that make sense? A softer vibe."
Then she drops a scandalous tale involving a producer who wiped tapes after being spurned at a Wimpy and spins stories of meditation like a bard in a rock 'n' roll fantasy. Filter? What filter?
"So, what did you learn from The Six days?"
She straightens up, lights another cig, smoky aura intensifying. "Well, I learned a ton about myself, and how to play nice with others. I used to be a solo warrior, in my mind I'd end up as some dime-store Joni Mitchell. Then my friend Simone threw me into Teddy's orbit, and everything twisted. I learned to trust others' instincts alongside mine. Write better music. Now I’m comfortable on my own again, but I understand what works."
Why'd Teddy Price pick you?
She's leaning in now, fire in her eyes. "You would have to ask Teddy. He heard me playing, heard something in my songs. He told me they were OK but I could do better. And he was the first producer who didn’t want anything in return. That was interesting; he didn't want a piece of me. Unique."
Six collaboration, whose brainwave?
"Teddy's, probably. Can't quite remember? Writing this album, topics were all nebulous. It wrote itself after a while. Back then? Chaotic, a whirlwind. It was wild, just into it day after day. Nowadays I like to take my time on things. I try to get every word right and I’m not sure I was like that then. I take my sweet time. Every lyric is precise. Back then, dunno if I was like that. Meanings are malleable, but I like my songs being enigmatic."
How about that "The Long Run" gem you played first last night?
"Oh, I had the inkling for that for a long time. Might've been the first to cross the finish line, actually, that let me know I could do it again, showed me I had it in me again. Gotta build up that confidence."
What chips away at your confidence?
"Well, writing isn't easy to do, is it? Do you not lose confidence from time to time? Doesn’t everybody? I hadn’t written a song since we finished Aurora. Time just flies by, you know? We were on tour for so long that you don’t really get much time to write, you’re just working differently, and I had been co-writing as well. It’s easy to get out of the habit and just wait for inspiration. When you’re backstage, you can hear the crowd, and the buzz and the moment you walk onstage it changes. You’re in charge of these people, their hopes, and their dreams and you just go into Daisy mode. When you’re not on stage there isn’t a Daisy mode."
Here comes Molly, a teenage embodiment of rock 'n' roll dreams and LA gauche accent, nervously swaggering up, paying tribute to Daisy. It's a movie scene. Daisy, a grinning Mona Lisa, absorbs the fan’s love. When asked about reuniting with The Six, Daisy's expression is a cryptic dance. Molly leaves with a signature on a napkin and a giddy chuckle.
So, where'd you vanish for a year and a half? Rock legends don't just evaporate, right?
"Lots of them wish they could. And who sets the rule? I lounged, watched the ocean, and soaked in that for a month. Soul-searched through Christmas and New Year. Took stock, and penned tunes. In the beginning, it felt dry, but I realised I was crafting for myself, you know, that I didn't need an audience. Started like that and then I realised I always need an audience for my music."
Keep in touch with bandmates?
"Some. Warren, Karen mostly. They’re busy little bees."
Billy Dunne and more jams?
"Nope." She ponders, staring distant as if gazing beyond this universe, and takes a long draw on the cig. "You know, folks saw me as a party animal, life of the scene. Truth? I cherished my friends. The band was new to me, but they were veterans. I joined, but it was all ticking time bombs, and bands usually break . The vibe on tour was too much, too quick. Maybe a slower rise would've smoothed things. It didn't. We weren’t built for it. It’s different now you know? I hold the reins."
Hold on, what does she mean? But she barrels on.
"My happiest memories were being young and watching bands. Music's everything. Like that girl Molly, she reminds me of me. I watched shows, rain or shine, three nights a week at least. My world was music. I absorbed heartbreak and learned love. Soaked it all up. Never missed a gig you know? One recording maybe. I work. I evolve."
Album theme?
“Yeah, I guess so. As an overall theme? I can’t think of a better one for me right now. Moving on. Every day’s a new day you know? Every day has a sunrise.”
Yeah, she's back kiddos.
Daisy Jones by Fallon Humphreys
Painting the Town Red
Creem: September 20th 1983
Daisy Jones, live and unleashed, ranks among life's supreme sensory sizzles. But today's tête-à-tête squeezed between the electric pulse of soundcheck and the climactic riffs of her tour's ultimate stop, isn’t exactly a rollicking carnival. The fresh-faced manager type she's got now has been clear-cutting conversational avenues like a lumberjack. Motherhood, the mysterious daddy, her folks, The Six and the dearly departed Teddy Price? You guessed it, off limits, gang. When I raised a fuss about the narrow strip left, it was a take-it-or-leave-it gambit. Well, call me a gambler, because I'm in.
She's perched on a crimson couch, backstage's sanctuary, her trademark bangs and sky-blue eyes holding forward. A book on child-rearing flips shut, and I waltz in with the tepid icebreaker: Does this volume signify some new research kick?
"Yeah, you'd think they'd hand you a playbook or something. Nobody trains you for it really. And my own parents didn’t give two flying fucks about parenting so, you know, you try to take what you can.”
I give a furtive glance at a door closing, half expecting her posse to swoop in like and grab the tape, but it's just Warren Rojas, the ever-present session drummer to half of LA, crashing down next to her, a beer in hand, and a grin as wide as a runway.
"Hey there, it's interview o'clock!" he guffaws. "Come on, Daisy, spill the beans—baby daddy's identity, spill!"
Her response is a friendly cuff to his arm, good vibes only. "Warren, seriously, you're one of a kind. And not in a good way," she jabs. “Always so inappropriate these hired hands,” she laughs and he feigns wounded innocence.
Curious, I nudge for the scoop on their history.
"We've been together now for..."
"Almost forty years!" they break into song and laugh.
There's an aura of camaraderie about them, like those old buddies who weathered the same storms. When Daisy jets off to the restroom later, Rojas will lean in, and speak quietly about what a great Mother she will be.
“He was the drummer in The Six and I crashed the band,” she offers in the meantime.
"Quite literally," he snorts.
"It’s surprisingly difficult to get drummers. Lots of them are really good but soulless. Lots of them have soul but aren’t reliable. Warren's got a bit of both, and cheap at that," she quips.
"Competitive," Warren pipes up.
“I was never overly happy with the last album. It was just too polished and weak and I didn’t see it through the way I should have. The drums are the most important things on every track I do, they propel it all forward. I should have redone it all but I ran out of time.”
I point out how that doesn't exactly jive with her "perfectionist" rep.
"Well, there were a lot of things happening back then. Sometimes you get distracted, lose your grip on the wheel, and end up in a ditch for a while."
A pause. So, why is this record and tour hot on the heels of the last?
“Yeah. If I’m going to be taking some time off after this I can’t leave it with something that would drive me mad. So I turned the page and went right back at it. Warren graciously stepped in and I changed the band around. The songs were different of course…”
The tenderness coursing through this tale, the absolution granted, has the critics and fans sharing a lovefest. It's a blend rarer than a backstage pass and a secret show.
“Well sometimes you have to look back and forward at the same time, look into that magic mirror you know and see yourself through time. Fifteen and not knowing how people were. Twenty-four and in the biggest band in the world, twenty-five and not in the biggest band in the world. Twenty-nine and pregnant. You can tell yourself you were an asshole, you can tell yourself to forget the assholes and you can tell yourself it’s a new chapter and that everything will be OK. So maybe, yeah, I was feeling tender and forgiving. Well, tender definitely.”
And then comes that scorching track to cap the album, "Witnesses." Speculation central, so who’s the target?
"Names, right? I know people want names, but really it’s as much an amalgamation of bastards as anything.”
Warren leans in. "Dibs on that for a band name."
"Should've slapped it on the album cover," she chuckles. "Fact is, some people are just all shades of awful. I’m not sure why I keep on having them in my life mind you."
"But not everyone scores their own theme song."
"True, that's some next-level loathing. I played it for Teddy, and he just laughed and said, 'You've got a real knack for picking 'em, Jones.'"
We've been shooting the breeze for a good twenty minutes, breaking every memo the manager sent. I give Daisy a heads-up, half-apologetic, but she just nods.
“I’m capable of taking care of my own shit. I appreciate what my people do for me but when it comes down to it I run it. Maybe things will change next year, but for now, my compass still points north. If a topic's off, it's off.”
I prod Rojas about the metamorphosis he's seen in seven years.
"Watch it, Rojas, payday's on the line."
“Not much really. I mean she’s not the centre of every party anymore but she’s still the same person I met. Still with the ridiculous clothes. Still with the catchy tunes. I hadn’t seen her for about a year and then we bumped into each other at a gig. After that we were back in each other’s lives I guess. I didn’t play on her second album because I was double booked and the first one was mainly acoustic so it’s good to be back playing with her.”
"Warren here, he never waded into the muck. Think that's why he's not washed up like the rest of us. That and having a movie star wife who can shut him up."
"Yeah, I'll pick her voice over the rock star's any day."
The chatter leads to Jagger. I mentioned my interview with him the previous month.
"Never actually met the guy," she murmurs. "Which was a crying shame."
We spiral into a debate about calling it quits and the calls for them to retire gracefully. Why musicians and not movie stars? Jagger, he's rolling on with no plans to stop.
"Well, especially if you're a woman. Once you cross thirty, your voice turns into white noise for record buyers. Crazy, right? When I hit the studio after The Six, the record company only dished out two weeks' worth of studio time. They were convinced I hadn't laid a finger on the album! I remember this old prick leaning back, crowing that Billy was the genius behind it all."
Why the scepticism?
"I reckon it's the same reason everyone won't shut up about who is partly responsible for this," she jests, fingers dancing to her belly. "They've always aimed to belittle me and my contributions. It took a while for members of the band to notice what I had, as well as my voice. It’s twice the work for a woman in this game.”
And if the sales of "Aurora" were fireworks, her magnum opus "December" rides the same comet's tail. It's a mall anthem, radio earworm—you can't escape it. Daisy's moved to a bigger house with security systems and gates, girded by locks and alarms. She doesn’t like it, but the darker side of fame, she gets it. Life's golden, California-style. But Teddy Price, lost earlier this year, threw a jagged wrench into that. Reminds me of a chat I had with a Capitol producer, spilling about how ‘Every time one of the good guys goes, everything gets a little bit nastier.’ She agrees with the assessment.
"It was just... so fucking unfair. Teddy was riding high. He was the anchor when I was adrift. I took that one on the chin and wobbled. He was all stoked for me, chock-full of advice. Simone probably had a closer line and talked to him more often than I did, but we'd get together like twice a month. He'd lend an ear to my demos, and my tunes, and offer his two cents. He was the one who planted the seed, and made me believe I could be something, you know? Him going that young, it's just not right. And of course, I was out of the country and couldn’t get back without bailing on a shit load of shows which just couldn’t be rescheduled.”
I mention that I caught the memorial service, a nod to having profiled and interviewed Teddy on his history for Goldmine and Cashbox, as well as the liner notes I penned for some bands he cooked up.
“I heard it was well attended.”
Standing room only on a Friday, a swelter of love and grief. And the sole Six-er there was Billy Dunne.
"Well, Warren and I were in Germany. Graham, I'm not too sure about, I think he's stepped back fully."
"He has," Warren interjects. "He's back in Pittsburgh. Eddie nobody had heard from and he was in Mexico, by the time we caught up it was over. Karen doesn't like those things.”
"She hates funerals. She told me she did her own thing, holed up, played his tunes, and kept his memory alive that way. I liked that. Simone did make it. I probably would've skipped, to be honest. It was just... raw. I'm like Karen in that regard."
I reflect on Billy's moving speech.
"What'd he say?" she inquires, eyes flicking toward Warren and it's difficult not to notice Rojas' shoulders tense a little
From memory, I recall that he said Teddy didn't have the overconfidence the mediocre had. He was quiet and reserved because the great don't need to shout about how great they are. He also said if anything we should be grateful he helped show us the gift of Daisy Jones. Her brows arch, surprise knitting her features.
"Well, grief makes us say funny things," she offers.
I steer back to the future, the tour's twilight approaching. What's the next move?
“Hibernation I think. I’ve still got to get the place decorated, I haven’t even spent a full week there.”
Her exit sparks Rojas to prophesy. “She’s a hard worker, man. This is just another thing she’ll go with.”
When she returns, her manager in tow, a dapper middle-aged LA model type draped in a posh suit, pleasantries incarnate, not a peep about the mandates. As she strolls off for a pre-gig nap, she beams a parting grin.
"Greatness doesn't require a megaphone. That's a good one right there. Wonder if I can spin that into a lyric?"
Review of the gig on pages 44 & 45
1982 - 84
He gives a shot at getting up, but his legs aren’t taking orders.
"Everything?"
“From first glance, it's shaping up that way."
A fancy clock on the mantel is ticking away.
"Everything?" he takes another shot.
The gents in front give a nod, quiet as church mice. He can't even get a straight thought in edgewise. He grabs onto the chair and gives his fingers a good squeeze, anything to shift his mind off it. Lord, he'd give his eyeteeth for Teddy to be here.
"Billy?"
"Yep?" but it doesn’t even sound like his own voice. He's off in la-la land, pondering what degree to spill to Camila. Julia's floating around in there too. And, by God, for the first time in a dog's age, the taste of the hard stuff comes sneaking back.
"We'll be in touch, Mr. Dunne."
Billy nods, but his mind's on a little vacation of its own. The summer of '82 hung heavy over the life of the reclusive Billy Dunne, like damp in a house that wouldn't lift. Way down on the outskirts of California, a parcel of earth just over from the ranch he had purchased in ‘79 had whispered promises of solace and silence, a spot to build an extension for a small studio he could work in. But promises can unravel as easily as the threads on his old jeans. He had spent three months arguing about it with Camila, wasted time like ice melting on a hot day.
It was a letter that plastered the truth before him, stark as a winter night's full moon. The accountant, the one entrusted with dollars and cents, had been skimming more than a fair share from every client on the books. The world seemed poisoned now. The money he'd earned and saved for his refuge was no more than a phantom whisper lost to deceit. The reality came knocking, heavy-handed and demanding attention. Now he'd have to step back into the mire he thought he'd escaped, the throbbing heart of a business he'd turned away from with a broken heart in 1977. The road back was as unfamiliar as it was unwelcome, lined with neon lights and hollow applause that didn't warm a musical heart gone cold.
He didn’t know how long he wandered after leaving the office, past the investigators with their old-fashioned glasses peering into old-fashioned leather ledgers, but it was getting dark when he climbed back into a car he would probably have to sell.
The little golden wind chimes at the top of the swing door announced his arrival. Camila met him with the silent knowing of shared sorrows. His face seemed straight out of a photo album from October ‘77. It scared the living shit out of her, he could see it, and she felt lost. Words, or at least the meaning, had never been their forte in the past few years, and as the air grew thick with unspoken truths, a storm brewed. The clash was quiet, like the rumble of distant thunder, careful not to wake their daughter in her bunk bed with her friend Carmie tucked into the bottom one on an impromptu sleepover. Camila, the one who'd stood there and been certain, now faced a reality he had to unveil. The account of the betrayal carried on hushed currents. "This isn’t a life I really chose," he finally spoke, his voice the testament of wearied years, tired at the concept that he had to give up the thing he loved for all of this.
"And what about the choices we did make Billy?" Her words, like daggers dulled by time, struck a nerve not well severed. Past dalliances, threads of infidelity, woven into the tapestry of their lives, now dangled before them, no longer hidden by the guise of a contented marriage.
Their words swayed between a metronome of accusation and remorse, the air heavy with the scent of love gone awry. She spoke of the old days, the days of absence, the hushed whispers in darkened corners. He cast her back the stolen glances and late-night rendezvous in return. The history of broken fidelity bubbled to the surface, a final meal long simmering. They couldn't stop, a perpetual spinning top of animosity and long subdued pain. Eventually, she stormed off to their bedroom, now a cold place.
Frustrated and unmoored, he turned to the receiver on the wall, and the digits of his brother's number. Pittsburgh was a world away, but he needed something firm to grasp. The voice that answered carried the familiar sigh of family, but the connection strained like a taut wire, bore witness to years of separation that geography provoked. He laid out his turmoil, only to receive sympathetic echoes. Graham's advice was as hollow as the abandoned factory lots that speckled the cityscape in his hometown.
Alone again, he sought refuge in a relic from years past. An album cover, faded by time and tucked carefully into a seemingly unconnected row of records; ' Aurora.’ A window into the echoes of youth. The woman gracing the cover, eyes enigmatic, evoked memories of stolen heart-thumping moments in the hush of a beach in the moonlight. Vinyl met the turntable with a soft, satisfying thud, and the room filled with melodies long since orphaned. The sounds, like old friends returning, wrapped around him, a warm embrace in a sea of cold uncertainty. 'Aurora' spun tales of lost loves and bittersweet yearnings, each track an intimate whisper from the past. He closed his eyes, memories of her lips against his in the shadowed corner of that parking lot flooding his senses. 'Fuck, we were good,' he thought.
With the last note, the room held a breath. Daisy seemed to look right through him, a phantom of a memory that refused to fade. The corners of his lips curled, a bittersweet smile playing on his face. The taste of her kiss, a memory as vivid as yesterday, lingered like a refrain.
Early morning tiptoed through the windows, saturating the room in muted shades of tarnished gold. In a quiet corner, untouched for a couple of years, sat his old guitar. Fingers that had grown foreign to its strings now touched them like an inexperienced lover, tentative, clumsy and uncertain. The wood felt alive, warm against his touch. He plucked a string, a simple note that broke the silence like a long-time sigh. Then another, and another, until the room was filled with the sound he'd thought he'd lost.
Billy Dunne: The Comeback Kid
An Exclusive Chat with Louise DeSantos
Billboard: March 1st, 1984
In the heart of LA, in late February, winter's seemingly heading out the door. I'm way too early for this interview I've been wrangling with for like, three months (in stark contrast, Michael Jackson merely inquired about my primate allergies). But guess what? The guy behind the seventh best-selling album of all time (one of my all-time faves too) is already here. The notion crosses my mind to inquire if he's got a portrait in the attic or something. Anyway, he's right there, ready to shake my hand. No time for mirror jokes. He's all like, "Hey, need anything?"
Back in 1982, Billy Dunne realised his accountant had pulled a fast one on him. Everything he thought he owned? Poof, gone. His bank account was emptier than political promises mid-term. All the cash from his hit album "Aurora"? Vanished. This kind of money mess isn't new in music, but here's the kicker: Billy, who used to rock the leather jacket and then disappeared like a guitar-wielding Bigfoot, had to step back into the spotlight and try to claw his way back.
"I’ve got bills to pay," he sighs. He talks slowly like he's figuring out a complex guitar solo. "So, here I am."
And he's definitely here. In the last nine months, he's been pumping out hits like nobody's business. Some are better than others, sure, but hits they are. He's been part of six number-one tracks as a writer, producer or both. And now he's dropping his first solo album. People in the industry are already buzzing about it. It's got that kind of energy, the unstoppable hype that the biggest records get before they even hit the shelves.
So, here we are. Both of us dealing with some limits on what we can chat about, but still trying to make this convo cool. He's giving my recorder the side-eye like it's a weapon or something. He stops himself from saying too much and argues points he should probably let go, but he's still giving me his time. He orders us coffee and keeps checking the door like he's waiting for someone. First press talk he's done since the '70s, by the way.
Are you expecting someone?
"Nah, I just haven't been around LA much lately. Lots of memories, you know?."
He quit smoking two years ago but went back to it when he found out his bank account was in the gutter again. He lights up as we get into the questions.
Is it weird being back into all this?
"In what way?"
I mean, you didn't exactly choose to come back for the right reasons and now it’s interviews.
"Yeah, wasn't exactly my favourite thing back then either, doing this. No offence."
What didn't you like about it?
"It's all fake, you know? I always tried to avoid that. Although, I didn't do a ton of interviews. Do you want to talk about the album?"
Sure thing. But before we dive into that, let's talk about how you went from pulling a Houdini to being a rock star again.
“Well, obviously my troubles went public. It wasn't a conscious choice to drop everything and get back into it. It was….fluid.”
So, you didn't plan this big comeback? Not the most inspiring story, huh?
"I wouldn't say that."
Let's take a trip down memory lane.
“Depends on where that road goes. We talked about this, right?”
Yeah, and it's interesting. You're doing everything solo now—no manager, no agent, no PR. Can you trust anyone these days?
“I've always tried to. Had Teddy and Rod and our security, but that was about it. Maybe I trusted people too much and thought they were all like Rod Reyes. I made a mistake with that and…..Here I am. Lesson fucking learned. I’ll need people again, of course I will but I’ll take my time on that.”
How'd you end up in LA? You're from Pittsburgh, right?
“Yeah, born and raised in the 'Burgh. We were gigging, supporting other bands, and then Rod Reyes was like, "Get your butts to the West Coast." Nothing special, right? Like in the UK, everyone ends up in London. It's where the action is. So, we headed west.”
You weren't called The Six back then?
“Sort of. The Dunne Brothers. Karen joined soon after we landed here and that’s when the name changed. We worked our tails off. Don't think it's a huge deal, though.”
Disagree with that, Billy. You were a rock star on a global level, then you vanished without a peep from anyone in your band. That's not a small thing.
“I find that pretty crazy, honestly. I'm surprised people are still curious about it.”
Seriously? You can't be serious.
“I am. It's just an album.”
I'm not buying that. Let's backtrack a bit. Think about the music you were into when you started. What was it?
“ (Grinning) We were a garage band, like legit garage band but five years too late really. Actually, it was my brother's band, and he tricked me into it to impress some girls. This was in the late '60s, early '70s. College wasn't on the table, and we were broke. Limited options, you know? We got tight, got better. But Pittsburgh wasn't cutting it.”
Were you writing your own stuff then?
“Yep, but it wasn't great.”
In what way?
“Hardly anyone starts off hitting the bullseye. Even the Beatles were doing half an album of covers at the beginning. Who's got the life experience and words to describe it when they're just starting out? Very few. I was just copying other people's crappy songs rather than having anything to say.”
So, what changed?
“Teddy Price. You knew him?”
Yeah. You've heard that idea about producers and managers being like surrogate parents?
“Mmm.”
Does that make sense to you?
“Yeah, it does. I think when I stopped working with Teddy, I sort of stopped considering music as even possible. I needed his valediction. Teddy worked his ass off for me."
That story about your audition with him is etched in my memory.
“Yeah, we played "Silver Nail" in a tiny room with a crap PA that you couldn't hear a thing through. Teddy loved it even though he was hungover. That got us gigs in the strip. We spent a couple of years in LA before we even recorded anything.”
And then you finally made an album.
“Eventually, yeah. Not saying it's a masterpiece when you listen to it, though.”
In what way?
“We kinda went overboard with the rock thing. The songs ranged from really good to just okay. We were trying to be this hardcore rock band, but we really weren’t like that. We should've been a bit more mellow. Warren wasn't a rock drummer; he had a jazzy touch, more like Charlie Watts. We were so used to playing live that it was tough to capture those subtle moments in the studio.”
What were your songs about?
“I wasn't really thinking about that. I cared more about the sound, and the lyrics came last. Probably a lot about my wife, which annoyed the band. Things have changed since then. Did you give the album a listen?”
Yeah, I did. Is that the only thing that's changed?
“Well, I'm flying solo now. Did everything myself.”
Wasn't there some drama with the record company back then?
“Yeah, record companies always throw some drama into the mix.”
Didn't a tour get cancelled?
“Drama with record companies, Louise. Drama's just part of the deal. The band was good, though. Graham was really coming into his own. Me, not so much. I was pushing it too hard at that point.”
Did you enjoy touring?
“Sometimes.”
When?
“When it felt right. Can we talk about the album now?”
I'm just trying to get some background before we dive into that.
“You're asking some tough questions, stuff I'm not sure I want to get into. I've played awful gigs for big crowds and amazing gigs for tiny ones. My first five shows were the Beatles, BB King, The Stones, The Who, and The Monkees. That's a lot to live up to.”
How did you manage to go from the first album to seven million records in a couple of years?
“Whoa, how long is a piece of string? Some artists just hit the right note at the right time.”
You've penned some mega hits, you might know.
“Yeah if I knew that I’d be a manager… Co-wrote most, though.”
How's that different? Writing alone versus with someone?
“Yeah, it's different. Both work. You've just gotta be open to it.”
I'm curious about the song "Branches" on side two of your album.
“Yeah? What about it?”
It feels like an Aurora track.
“How so?”
The lyrics, the melody. Was that written for someone?
“Mmmm. Not really. It was the first song I wrote for this so it may resemble some earlier work.”
You know, I've been talking to some folks in preparation for this. Want to hear what they said?
“I'm not sure. I've never really cared too much about what people say about me. Doesn't really change what I do.”
One person said you were "sometimes a genius, sometimes an asshole."
“ (Laughs) Well, that could probably apply to a lot of folks, was that Graham who said that? I'm not sure about the genius part. I'm a hard worker, and that's what matters. This album took me six months start to finish—five months to psych myself up, three weeks to actually do it, nine-to-five every day.”
Kinda like a job?
“Exactly, like a job. Not everyone works that way, but I prefer it.”
Why did you need to psych yourself up?
“ (Lighting a cigarette and pausing) I had had the luxury to pick and choose what I wanted to do. That let me do my best work when I had time to think and create for others and suddenly that didn’t exist anymore. And when that luxury disappears…”
When did you realise you wouldn't get to pick and choose anymore?
“ (Chuckles) Nicely put. It was all over the news, so you could probably just read up on it. It wasn't just me getting screwed over.”
What are the odds of getting anything back?
“Zero. I came to terms with that pretty quickly. I've got a roof over my head. Opportunities ahead. Not everyone can say that. It's a lesson, you know? Like when Teddy Price passed, my whole outlook shifted. You get a reality check on life—what's important and what's not.”
Does that include your past work?
“Well, it was good stuff, and I'm still proud of it. But it's getting up to a decade ago if we’re talking about Aurora?”
I am talking about Aurora. Not many bands implode right after dropping a mega album and in the middle of a tour.
“Yeah, I know.”
Do you still keep in touch with the crew?
“Not really. My brother, of course.”
I was listening to your tunes last night, thinking about this chat. That album was massive. You were everywhere, and then you all disappeared. Just like that.
“We were in our own bubble at that point. You stop noticing the madness after a while, you know? It's bus, hotel, gig, hotel, bus, gig. It blurs together. Maybe things could've been fixed, I don't know. Maybe someday I can look back and figure it out, but right now, I'm focused on moving forward.”
What about touring now?
“Not sure. Depends. Maybe a few small gigs. I'm still too close to the record. Did you like it?”
Yeah, I did. It's different but it’s not if that makes sense, like a relative that turns up at Thanksgiving and you’re not sure what they’re going to say and everyone’s on edge.
“Interesting take (laughs) , I had to strip things down and redo the songs almost from scratch. There were tracks I thought needed strings, but then I wondered, do they? Do I need that word? Can I say it differently…”
A challenge?
“Yeah, challenging myself. That helped.”
"Wallflower" is pretty intriguing.
“Yeah, you think?”
Sounds like an apology song to me.
“There's a bit of that in there.”
Who are you saying sorry to?
“'Sometimes an asshole,’ right? Pick a number from the hat. Music's cool though because you can say so much in three minutes.”
Karen Sirko had a song very much like that on her album.
“Haven't listened to it since it came out. Interesting record. Karen was the most talented musician in the band. Not flashy, just nailed every part without endless debates. We all seem to be writing apology songs, doesn't that say something?”
What about Daisy Jones?
“What about her?”
You guys still in touch?
“Nah, not since the band split.”
Do you listen to her stuff?
“Can't really escape it.”
What do you think?
“I try not to, well, not like that, jeez don’t print it like that. It's tricky sometimes. You hear a lot of it. I really envy good stuff, and she's always got good stuff. I like how she pushes herself. She’s always been very honest.”
Like her latest album?
“I guess, yeah. The one with synths?”
Yeah, that one.
“Hmm.”
People speculate a lot about her song’s meanings.
“They're about her.”
I mean, who else?
“You'd have to ask her.”
Do you see yourself in any of them?
“That's... nah, I don't think I'm ego-driven enough to hear myself in someone else's work. That takes a level of narcissism I don't think I possess. I was never big on deep meanings, you know? Daisy wrote more openly like that.”
Did you learn anything from writing with her?
“Of course, you pick up things when you work that closely. And it worked well for us.”
Anything specific?
“Nothing off the top of my head. I think it's more subconscious than a deliberate "I'll use this now". We made each other better writers just by seeing how each other worked."
She did kind of cryptically mention in an interview that "Tall Trees" is about you. First time it's come up.
“Hmm. People love gossip, don't they?”
Have you heard that track?
“I don’t remember the titles, and I'm not sure I want to chat about this anymore. Doesn’t have anything to do with the record, you know?”
You really think so? Do you think you've cut ties with your past? Is that a good thing?
“Not completely. Hard to do that. Not sure why you think my past matters so much for what I'm doing now.”
Well, experience, for one. Inspiration, maybe? Your lyrics in the first track...
"Laurel Blue."
Yeah, those lyrics read like a trip down memory lane. You know, things you wish you'd said type of stuff?
“Depends on how you look at it. That's why it works, it's about what you want it to be, you know? The best songs are the ones where you put yourself in the song's shoes. Like "Hey Jude." When that came out, I was a young guy. Life was confusing, with no father figure, and the country was wild. I half-expected Vietnam and here's this song that seems to get me, telling me I need something in my life, someone to share life with. It's eloquent without being wordy, it speaks to me like it's about me. Not in the crazy fan way, but like it's a piece of my musical bible.”
But your lyrics aren't as cryptic as that.
“Is that a compliment or a jab?”
Could be both. Your lyrics hit me, though.
“Well, thanks. When you sit down to write, you're not thinking, "I'll move people." You're thinking, ‘I want to say something for me, and if it connects with others, that's awesome.’”
So, what's next after the album?
“Gotta see how it goes, you know? But everything is possible.”
‘First Move’ is reviewed on pages 56-57; Billy Dunne has announced a short US tour starting in June.