On the passing of wonderful double bassist Danny Thompson
The term “creative border crosser” is misleading. The people we like to honor as creative border crossers don’t balance on any borders. They don’t cross any borders either. No, they simply don’t know any borders. They simply feel at home everywhere. What are different worlds for others is, for them, a vast cosmos with infinite facets. Perhaps it would be more appropriate to speak of creative cosmopolitans.
One of them was Danny Thompson. Born in 1939 into a mining family, he was introduced to music at an early age by his father’s two brothers, who played in a brass band. After his father died in the war, the family moved with six-year-old Danny to London, where he learned several instruments, including the trombone. He eventually discovered his love for the double bass, which captivated him so much that he built his first instrument himself at the age of 13 – according to legend, from a tea chest and piano strings he “found by chance.” Critics said they could still hear the influence of the trombone in his later bass playing.
In his early to mid-twenties, Danny Thompson embarked on what would become an exceptional career. He played in the band of jazz saxophonist Tubby Hayes, joined Alexis Korner’s Blues Incorporated, and finally, in 1967, was one of the founding members of Pentangle, the British band that effortlessly blended classic folk with jazz. It seemed only fitting that Thompson was also part of a trio around the future jazz-rock giant John McLaughlin (guitar). Blues, jazz, folk, and, of course, rock — Danny Thompson paid little attention to the criticism of the respective purists. He played what he wanted and with whomever he wanted. And this attitude catapulted him into a wide variety of musical spheres.
In the 1970s, the long-time highly esteemed string wizard went through difficult phases, was closely associated with brilliant eccentrics such as John Martyn and Nick Drake, the latter of whom died of an antidepressant overdose in 1974, and fell into alcoholism. From the 1980s onwards, having regained his footing, Danny Thompson also released his own music and increasingly contributed to albums by stars from a wide variety of genres. Only rarely were representatives of lighter pop music, such as Cliff Richard and Rod Stewart, included among his releases – mostly they were idiosyncratic artists who worked with as much vision and experimentation as he did. Talk Talk, David Sylvian, Peter Gabriel, Shelleyan Orphan, and Kate Bush are just a few of the many greats who enlisted his services. Through Peter Gabriel’s Real World label, he also participated in world music projects such as The Blind Boys of Alabama and S. E. Rogie.
It goes without saying that Danny Thompson was a virtuoso on his instrument. Furthermore, he developed a recognizable sound of his own, an almost poetic and consistently melodic style of playing, as well as the ability to absorb the music he contributed to while simultaneously enriching it with his personality. Danny Thompson never belonged to the army of ultimately interchangeable studio musicians, but was always a soulmate, a congenial artist who, with his bass playing, was known to elevate a production to the next level. You can hear it on many recordings – this bass, affectionately named Victoria by its keeper, is more than just a supporting instrument; Thompson plays it like a solo instrument, yet without obtrusively intruding on the foreground. An art mastered by few.
Danny Thompson died on September 23rd at the age of 86. With him, the world loses a great musician, whose companions always acknowledged that he had an equally big heart.
Paramore and Hayley Williams – this American band and their frontwoman have been on my mind for quite some time now. In more than twenty years, they’ve produced a collection of songs as extensive as they are stylistically diverse, and they’ve long since become international superstars. Only in Europe, and especially here in Germany, do they still fly somewhat under the radar. Why, actually?
They do exist, these clear cases: a new band, a new solo act, one or two stylish singles, and a well-made album, wonderful. As a fan, you don’t have to think about too much; the whole thing is simply fun and accompanies you through life for a while. Maybe a few nice songs more come along, and that’s it. Then there are the current sensations that come out of nowhere and supposedly shake up the pop world, but perhaps ultimately disappear into obscurity quite quickly – the garish iconoclasts and dazzling oddballs. Recently, these have often been women, and usually the topics have been gender politics, female empowerment, cheeky outsider perspectives, and/or the confident handling of apparent weaknesses and mental disorders. Sure, idiosyncratic stars like Megan Thee Stallion, Chappell Roan, Charli xcx, or, most recently, Lola Young, are incredibly exciting and important, but they are also somewhat overhyped. One can’t be sure whether they’ll still be making a name for themselves in the pop business in a year or two. Above all, of course, hover the almost untouchable megastars, sometimes in the literal sense. Just think of Pink & Co., whose live concerts are unthinkable without awe-inspiring acrobatics and an astonishing soaring above the crowd. The Madonnas, Coldplays, Beyoncés, and Dua Lipas of this world, who aim to simply overwhelm an event-hungry audience with perfectly crafted chart hits and elaborate stage shows, sometimes complemented by lavish dance crews and as many costume changes as possible – they are only topped by the biggest megastar of our time, Taylor Swift. With clever marketing strategies and a complex web of seemingly autobiographical references in her songs, she has created an entire “Taylorverse,” and no one will easily emulate her. But then there are the persistent, exceptional acts who slowly creep into your consciousness with their very own, unique sound; whom you initially encounter only sporadically, and in whom you discover more and more new sides the more you delve into them. Until at some point you realize that they have been in the business for a long time and have long been among the greats in other universes. Acts that are somehow present, but never truly tangible, that shimmer quite differently than the many flashy starlets, stars, and superstars we’re used to.
For me, these somewhat different acts include Paramore and Hayley Williams. But: Is it Paramore and their singer Hayley Williams? Or is it Hayley Williams—the frontwoman, who also occasionally pursues solo paths—with her band Paramore? The possible answers to these questions alone constitute part of Paramore’s fascination, especially since these questions have occupied and continue to occupy the changing band members as well. Indeed, the turbulent history of this American rock phenomenon is a bottomless pit, so let me just say this: When the band came together in Franklin, Tennessee, in 2004, its members were more or less teenagers. Emocore, pop-punk, and crossover rock were all the rage back then, and the extraordinarily talented combo quickly achieved initial notable success in the scene. From the very beginning, the fact that major record label Atlantic had a contract only with singer Hayley Williams, whom they hoped to develop into a mainstream pop star as a solo act, proved difficult. Williams, however, wanted to make it big with the band, so Paramore was reluctantly placed on a sublabel. This very unusual constellation resulted in constant jealousy in the early years – especially since Williams, whether she wanted it or not, always received the most attention from fans and the media. In addition, the frontwoman entered into romantic relationships with various band members one after the other, which further accelerated the already lively cycle of new additions, hiatuses, departures, and rejoinings. Enough fodder for gossip enthusiasts who, until then, had thought that the dynamics within a band couldn’t be more chaotic than those of Fleetwood Mac. I lost track of things at some point, and, to be honest, I ultimately don’t care.
Because what impresses me most is the extensive creative output of this band, which has integrated a wide variety of influences into its music, from crossover, grunge, and indie pop to classic singer-songwriter rock, dance, funk, and post-rock. This is especially true of Hayley Williams’ solo albums, which range from meditative trip-hop to quirky funk and truly serious mainstream pop. I could ramble on, but who cares? So I’ll just highlight a few highlights: Paramore’s song “Decode” was included on the soundtrack to the film adaptation of the “Twilight” fantasy saga. Hayley Williams is friends with Taylor Swift, and she has made moving guest appearances on her shows. This means that Williams and the band reach a huge spectrum of fans, from the die-hard alternative scene to charts-oriented audiences around the world. Williams is a style icon, changing outfits and hairstyles with dizzying frequency and being voted “Sexiest Female Artist” several times in reader polls for rock magazines. At the same time, she makes no secret of the fears, insecurities, and depressive phases in her life, which she often addresses in her songs. “Mental health” is a big topic. Williams is a role model for both up-and-coming lifestyle hedonists and pubescent kids in the process of self-discovery, which is actually an almost impossible balancing act. And yet this balancing act also naturally shapes the videos, some of which are bizarre and creepy, some of which are extremely tasteful and captivating. The full-blooded musicians and producers with whom Williams works have transcended all genre boundaries and know what they’re doing. The music harmonizes in a strange way with the lead vocals, which are anything but rock, but still come across as powerful and develop an astonishing number of nuances. What the collective delivers is – just like the lyrics – surprisingly free of clichés, stylistically diverse, and free of self-quotations or repetitions. Williams and Paramore don’t chase trends, but consistently cultivate their own free sound. And although they now fill huge stadiums and pull off a few rehearsed moves on stage, they don’t resort to glamorous, dazzling showmanship live, but rather stay grounded, sometimes self-deprecatingly. Essentially, Williams and Paramore – despite their intense self-promotion, including on social media – have retained a certain alternative and indie charm to this day, and their oft-demonstrated closeness to their fans doesn’t seem fake. In fact, you can still imagine these big stars in a small, trendy club.
Speaking of lyrics: They’re also worth exploring – rich in imagery, occasionally cryptic, but never mannered or overly convoluted. Rather searching, yet brutally open and often deadpan. Band dynamics are poetically reflected, as are psychological abysses, although there are always glimmers of hope. I would love to quote verse after verse here, but I’ll leave it at the opening verse of a song with the memorable title “Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party,” the title track of Williams’ current solo album. The overall context is difficult to grasp; it seems to be about a woman who feels called to greater things artistically, but never gets beyond depressing performances at bachelorette parties, at singing competitions in the provinces, or even in “fucking” karaoke bars. Perhaps a feeling from Williams’ early years? Or a reckoning with dull, restrictive social rituals and structures? The verse goes: “I’ll be the biggest star at this racist country singer’s bar.” The bold verse already hints at the tragedy of the main character, who will later realize: “No use shootin’ for the moon, no use chasing waterfalls.” Something so simple and yet profound takes some writing. For all their urge to push boundaries and engage in intense navel-gazing, there’s something very “American” about Williams and Paramore, and thus also something strange, difficult for Europeans to grasp, especially in today’s turbulent times. Perhaps one of the reasons why this exceptional ensemble hasn’t had a major breakthrough in our latitudes so far.
Music fans know the fulfilling feeling that comes with gradually getting to know and understand seemingly unwieldy artists and their music… or thinking they do. Not everything seems appealing, some of it is strange, but overall, the fascination prevails. The newly discovered music becomes an uplifting companion, and that for a long time. The oeuvre of Paramore and Hayley Williams must also be explored song by song, album by album, video by video. Here are five more tips to get you started:
“Now” A song from earlier times – stirring alternative rock with an anthemic chorus: “If there’s a future we want it NOW!” The equally stirring video depicts a brutal war scenario. Hayley Williams ends the violence – naively and poignantly at the same time – with a hug…
“Hard Times” Beguiling groove, depressive lyrics – a deliberate contradiction. The video, however, exudes humor and joie de vivre. One of Paramore’s biggest hits – occasionally heard on German radio too.
“Leave It Alone” Starts out ordinary, almost boring, but soon develops a meditative pull. The video is one of the more bizarre kinds; the lyrics speak of loss and the truth that kills. And yet, the will to live resonates here too; the song’s self can’t let go: “Can’t leave it alone”…
“Running Out of Time” This is what Paramore sounded like recently, rhythmically and sonically sophisticated, even slightly experimental. The lyrics are about a person who is completely out of sorts, feels overwhelmed, and is constantly late, also in a figurative sense. In the nonetheless entertaining video, reality becomes a morbid fantasy show – Alice is greeting from Wonderland. Yes, we’re constantly panting after inhuman expectations. And no, this band isn’t interested in trivial, everything-is-easy messages.
“Watch Me While I Bloom” But that’s also what Hayley Williams can sound like – joyful, confident, positive. “How lucky I feel to be in my body again… Watch me while I bloom,” the lyrics go, all over a cheerful groove. And one hopes that Paramore and Williams will continue to bloom for a while longer.
Joseph is the name three singing sisters from Oregon/USA have given themselves. They have released four albums with unique and timeless songs that range from atmospheric folk music to power pop with a hint of rock – the latest is called The Sun and is about mindfulness, resilience and healing.
„I thought I was the light switch you turned on / But I am the sun.” Bang! Finally, lyrics that stick with you. Striking, clunky and inspiring in the best sense of the word. They are by the American band Joseph and can be heard in The Sun, the title track of Joseph’s fourth album which was released in the spring of 2023. In The Sun, a person frees themselves from the bonds of a seemingly healthy relationship and begins to shine. The person in the song thought that their constantly depressed mood was “normal” and looked for faults only in themselves, without realizing that the other person in the relationship was primarily concerned with feeling superior: „Well, you wanted me small / So you could feel like someone at all / And I played along / And normalized, telling myself I was wrong.“ But now something has changed. Suddenly, “Feeling good doesn’t feel bad anymore” and the unfair game stops: “I’m done playing a game that can’t be won.” The motif of the light switch that crops up in the main lyrics seems strange, but was chosen deliberately: It accentuates not just the artificial glow that the person in the song has long taken for granted, but also being instrumentalized and used. The person in the song now knows that they are not just some switch the other person pulls to create an artificial glow – they are a star shining brightly on their own!
Of course the assumption is that this song is primarily about a romantic relationship. But the lyrics are kept so general that the dynamics described can also be applied to other relation-ships: those between children and parents, between team members and supervisors, or more generally, between members of a group. And anyone who has gradually grown tired of euphoric self-assertiveness hits like Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, Cher’s Strong Enough or I’m Still Standing by Elton John, might discover an understated alternative in the hymnal-optimistic Joseph song The Sun.
What makes the song worth listening to, aside from the pointed lyrics and captivating melody, is the soulful performance and the unusual people behind it. Joseph is a trio that is already somewhat well-known in the United States, but tends to fly under the radar in the rest of the world. They are the twin sisters Allison and Meegan Closner and their half-sister Natalie Closner-Schepman, who is four years older. Together, they bring harmonies to the stage which are almost indescribable and which only such an unconventional group of sisters can pull off. And we’re not talking about clinical perfection, i.e. an artfully smooth but ultimately soulless fusion of voices, but a very special overall sound that each singer enriches with individual nuances. Natalie Closner-Schepman isn’t just a vocalist, but also “the one with the guitar” and the spokesperson in interviews. She originally tried her hand as a solo singer-songwriter and then, when things weren’t taking off, persuaded the no less talented Meegan and Allison to join her in a band. The name of the trio? Well, Joseph is a town in Oregon, the state the three are from, and Joseph was the name of their beloved grandfather – sometimes it can be that simple and down-to-earth. For almost a decade the soulful sisters have been offering up everything from atmospheric folk music to power pop, while effortlessly integrating elements of country and rock, but without allowing themselves to be pinned down to a specific genre. What they do has a timeless quality. Their music is so rich with beguiling melodies, unusual harmonies and great lyrics, their performance so charismatic, that Joseph should have been superstars long ago. But they aren’t. They are probably just … too idiosyncratic.
It starts with the way they present themselves. They usually go onstage seemingly without make-up and in casual clothes. And when they do “dress up” it looks more old-fashioned, like grandma’s birthday or a school prom, than in the style of “real” pop stars. There are flashes of rock glamour here and there, but on the whole you can’t help but get the impression that these sisters are just having fun, perhaps even self-deprecatingly putting on something of a show so they can ultimately focus on the only thing they really want to do: go out and sing.
This is why, although there are a few “official videos” of the trio’s songs, these seldom seem to be lavishly produced and, it must be said, are also rarely very riveting. Much more exciting are the countless live or unplugged clips of Joseph circulating on the internet: The three women can be seen standing somewhere in the countryside, in cramped studios or in auditoriums, stores or libraries, performing their songs in a raw lo-fi sound. Sometimes they seem so immersed in their music that you find yourself holding your breath, even when watching them on your device. As a result, the ending of every Joseph song on the sometimes lavishly arranged studio albums with a band line-up – which are well worth listening to – is properly composed, i.e. it never fades out. Joseph’s songs are self-contained compositions for live performances – they get to the point in every respect.
Yes, I can really rave about this band. But from all the exceptional characteristics described above, it’s easy to circle back to songs like The Sun. Because just like the person in this song frees themselves from negative influences and begins to shine from within, the band’s development and approach also reflects its will to resist, above all to remain true to itself, to avoid artificiality, even self-deception and to not betray its own artistic aspirations. In interviews, Joseph talks openly about insecurities, self-doubt and fears, about a family dynamic that was not always harmonious, about successes, difficult partnerships and failures – and about personal development, for which they also sought therapeutic help.
Some earlier songs were, in fact, already about intense relationship work, self-assertiveness and empowerment. The 2023 album The Sun now documents a re-emergence of the band and is almost entirely about “more-ness”, as the protagonists call it: about recognizing that you are “more” than you think you are – and even more than what society, your personal environment and your partner want to reduce you to. So the ten songs on the album are something like the sound of resilience, with unusual lyrics like the following, which come from the constantly rising and falling song Waves Crash: „There’s no need to define / How I measure up next to anyone / Or how well I stayed in the lines / I’m a tall, tall tree reaching up in the breeze / All I have to do is breathe / I’m a limb of goodness in motion / (…) / You wouldn’t tell the flower it was made of sin / You know it’s good just for being / What if, what if I’m not made of sin? / What if, what if I’m lightning?“ No, life isn’t about comparing yourself to others and fitting in. It’s about existing freely – like a tree or a flower, as a natural being, without guilt and with good intentions. Wow, that makes you sit up and take notice again. But it’s a disarming perspective. With a surprising final question: “What if I am lightning?”
Mindfulness, resilience, empowerment – these are the buzzwords of our time. Many pop stars use them too, especially female ones. But what American stars in particular are selling as “female empowerment” isn’t always convincing: Some stars who are living in the lap of luxury thanks to countless hits in the charts, and who have unlimited financial resources, suggest that you can simultaneously be a superstar, successful pop entrepreneur, sex symbol and a perfect mother, too. Other stars present themselves as especially tough and independent, but try to conceal the fact that their crude lyrics and glamorous looks, which have been enhanced by cosmetic interventions, fuel entire industries – and, even more, fulfil the expectations of heterosexual men. This all sells well, but creates ideal images which are questionable, if not downright unattainable – and which ultimately widen the gap between female artists and fans.
The Closner sisters, on the other hand, are neither models, nor are they desperately trying to be so. They seem to be focused only on their songwriting, authentic, approachable, sometimes weird and vulnerable. They interact on equal footing with their audience. This low-key, almost “normal” approach and the ultimately too complex messages are probably what have prevented them from achieving international stardom so far, even though songs like White Flag reached number one in the billboard-“Adult Alternative Airplay”-charts in October 2016. “Burn the white flag!” goes the rousing chorus. And of course it’s all about not surrendering. However, the opponents are neither personal or political enemies nor any sinister villains, but the skeptical voices and the fear of failure that prevent you from doing what you actually want to do.
In Fighter, a similarly catchy song from 2019, Joseph put their very own spin on a common theme of self-assertiveness. Contrary to all pop conventions, here it’s not the person in the song who is celebrating themselves as an uncompromising fighter for survival. No, the narrator has been fighting for love for a long time, but now also demands that the other person does not retreat, but is just as committed to fighting to save the relationship: „Don’t keep yourself from me (…) Don’t lie this time / I need a fighter / You’re my bright side / I want it brighter / Don’t leave me in the dark.“ In turn, lyrics like this tie in with Canyon, an irresistible power pop song in which the person in the song prepares to finally get closer to their counterpart, characterized as a country, a mine and an ocean. But this counterpart is so closed off and, figuratively speaking, so “far away” that even a few centimeters distance seems like an unbridgeable canyon: „Can’t get, I can’t get / Can’t get close enough to be close to you / Can’t get, I can’t get there / An inch is a canyon.“ Never getting close enough to really be able to talk about closeness – that sounds like heavy emotional labor.
Which brings us to that key word ‘love’. Yes, love is also an important topic for Joseph – as a central element in families and partnerships, but also as a driving universal force. However, in their deep dive into this universal force, the three avoid throwing around overly naïve and kitschy phrases like “All you need is love” or “Love is the answer”. On the contrary: The person in the song Love Is Flowing, also from the current album The Sun, is realistic – they feel pain, see suffering, but feel powerless and can’t help: „Something’s burning / But I can’t reach it / Phantom limb on fire / Someone’s hurting / But I can’t fix it / And I don’t know how to try.“ Even all-encompassing love, of whose existence and constant flow the person in the song is at least convinced, cannot really be felt, let alone channeled into something that benefits all people. But there is a longing for an entry point, and that at least gives us hope: „Love is flowing, love is flowing, love is flowing, love is flowing / And I wanna get in it.“ The bubbling rhythm and gently undulating vocal line visualize this inspiring river, which one wishes would eventually permeate everyone and everything. These are bittersweet lyrics. They are neither flirtatious nor pretentious. Just apt.
We live in turbulent times. The pandemic, wars and political crises have changed the world, depressing news every day, certainties are dissolving. And one often gets the impression that the people in ones own personal circle are behaving differently, more unpredictably than before. In times like these, bands like Joseph with songs like Fighter, Canyon, The Sun or Love Is Flowing don’t only provide support and comfort, but also energy and confidence. Pop as therapy – for the artists and for the audience.
In the mid-70s, Pink Floyd released Have A Cigar, a song criticizing the music industry and its scummy managers. Today, some of those historic fronts have dissolved while others have shifted significantly. And some heroes from back then aren’t what they used to be.
“Oh, by the way, which one (of you) is Pink?” We’re in the 70s, Have A Cigar by Pink Floyd is playing as usual. And like every time this song gets played, you are captivated by the heavy, almost metallic-sounding groove that the band is unleashing here within the context of a state-of-the-art studio production, as well as by the rather aloof-sounding vocals. But when the singer mentions a part of the band’s name yet again, you start to wonder. Asking about someone called Pink in a song by the British art rock band Pink Floyd of all things? That’s weird. At some point you also start to analyze the lyrics. And you realize that it is precisely this question about the band member called Pink which proves that the song’s narrator is a hypocritical ignoramus – and which reveals the lyrics’ unusual narrative situation.
Have A Cigar was released in 1975 on the LP Wish You Were Here and has the characteristics of a dramatic monologue. This lyrical form of presentation differs from the classic monologue in that the narrator is speaking within a very specific communicative or dialogic situation. Although the other person is not quoted at all, their presence can be felt: Because they are being addressed directly or because one of their comments is being responded to. The lyrics thus don’t mirror a soliloquy, but rather the monologue of a central character which has been detached from a stage drama. The great dramatic monologues of literary history are often gripping because the narrator is in a unique, emotionally charged situation and is allowing the audience to participate in an evolutionary or decision-making process. This can also lead to surprising revelations, or even self-revelations. Of course, the lyrics of Have A Cigar are far too short and compact to cover such an exceptional range of content – and yet Pink Floyd’s lyrics and vocal act in the mid-70s go significantly beyond what garrulous songwriters usually produce in pop songs.
The narrator of the piece is clearly a music manager who – in an arrogantly avuncular manner and with suggestive rhetoric – is trying to persuade a talented young musician and his band to make a deal. First he entices and impresses the artist with cigars, a symbol of success-oriented machismo and big-wiggery, then he promises him the moon. He says the “boy” – and with him his bandmates – are destined for success: “Come in here, dear boy, have a cigar. / You’re gonna go far / You’re gonna fly high, / You’re never gonna die, / You’re gonna make it, if you try. / They’re gonna love you.” However, as the lyrics progress it becomes increasingly clear that the manager is not seriously interested in either the musician or his music: “Well, I’ve always had a deep respect, / And I mean that most sincere”, he flatters and emphasizes how wonderful he thinks the group he wants to sign is: “The band is just fantastic, / That is really what I think.” It’s all so over the top that it’s hard to believe. And then the manager asks the cringey question that finally outs him as an unempathetic wheeler-dealer: “Oh, by the way, which one is Pink?” Of course, we can assume that the “authors” of the song are also addressing themselves here. And anyone who is even slightly interested in Pink Floyd will definitely know that there is no band member with the first name Pink – that the band name is in fact made up of the first names of the blues musicians Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. So our brash manager put his foot in his mouth – without even realizing it.
Worse still, in the chorus that follows he cheerfully admits that he and the company he works for are just playing a game centered around money: “And did we tell you the name of the game, boy? / We call it riding the gravy train.” By now the narrator has revealed himself to be a representative of an ice-cold, profit-hungry music business that only assesses people and artistic achievements according to their market value and is exactly the opposite of “sincere”, namely insincere and dishonest. Against this backdrop, the machine-like groove and the “windy”, slightly drugged-up vocals make even more sense – cue the cliché of fat decision-makers in the music industry who are busy doing coke and think they are star-creators, or to put it more mundanely: the greatest, i.e. gods. What is fascinating in this context is that the manager’s speech also sheds light on the construct of the rock brand “Pink Floyd”: It is not only able to stand for many other bands, it can also easily take on the role of an extra in its own song.
Have A Cigar is one of two songs on Wish You Were Here that explicitly criticize the music industry, the other is called Welcome to the Machine. And if you take this criticism as the central theme of the album, then the accompanying cover- and postcard designs, which at the time we fans simply found spectacularly surreal and somehow cool, also send clear messages: There is the man in a suit in flames, to whom another man in a suit is holding out his hand – as if he is literally being burned by closing a deal. There is the person whose bare legs are sticking straight out of the water of an almost mirror-smooth lake – a deceptively beautiful image for gleaming illusions in which the human being seems to be just an appendage, or also for the insignificance of human activity, because the person in the picture is not making any waves. There are the two machine hands that, once again, come together for a contractual handshake.And there is the faceless man with a bowler hat and briefcase, reminiscent of figures by René Magritte, who is trying to sell records to fans somewhere in the desert. All iconic images of rock culture. And maybe the casting of the vocal part of Have A Cigar was also a tiny sign of rebellion: Because the wonderfully crazy voice of the song’s sly narrator is not supplied by a Pink Floyd member, but by folk singer Roy Harper. During the production of Wish You Were Here he happened to be recording in a neighboring studio and ended up stepping in, either because the band vocalists who were supposed to do it couldn’t do it properly, or because they simply didn’t want to. In any case, this was also not quite what the record bosses were expecting from their “cash cow” Pink Floyd.
In fact, the gentlemen at the head of the record company were less than enthusiastic about the cover designs and song messages on the Wish You Were Here album. The latter have long been seen as the band’s reaction to the pressure created by the worldwide success of the previous Pink Floyd album The Dark Side of the Moon (1973). “We need a follow-up album that is at least as successful as this one”, is what the record company’s expectation is said to have been. And Pink Floyd didn’t want that. It is almost ironic that they ultimately fulfilled this expectation and that Wish You Were Here is now a frontrunner in various lists of the best albums of all time. Just like the fact that the band did end up introducing a guy called Pink into their universe just a few years after Wish You Were Here and Have A Cigar. We are, of course, talking about the fictional protagonist of the 1979 concept album The Wall: This Pink is definitely not a grinning hero, but a musician plagued by psychosis – but that is almost obvious.
Songs like Have A Cigar harken back to a time when the boisterous rock-n-roll of the 1950s and 60s had gradually come of age. Rock music had matured and become a profitable global business which produced saturated superstars – so much so that it was in danger of betraying its old ideals. It was a time when large record companies dominated the rules of the game and charismatic managers such as Brian Epstein (The Beatles) or Thomas Andrew “Colonel Tom” Parker (Elvis Presley) controlled the fortunes of “their” artists. Even the counter-movements of punk and new wave produced similarly enigmatic figures, who are also referred to as “Svengalis” after a sinister behind-the-scenes protagonist from George du Maurier’s horror story Trilby (1894) – think Malcolm McLaren (The Sex Pistols) and Bill Drummond (Echo & The Bunnymen, The Teardrop Explodes). No question: In the 1970s and 80s, being a serious fan meant cultivating a healthy mistrust of the mainstream and the major labels, combined with a passion for the underground bands and independent labels that were springing up like mushrooms. Of course, there was nothing wrong with still listening to idiosyncratic rock dinosaurs like Pink Floyd in the privacy of your own room – after all, nobody needed to know.
Big record companies and management gurus on the one side, brave indie creators on the other – this juxtaposition seemed to be set in stone and to offer a sense of direction designed to last forever. But then came digitalization, the internet and social media – and suddenly nothing was the way it used to be. Historic fronts dissolved and unprecedented opportunities arose for today’s musical artists. At the same time, new images of ‘the enemy’ emerged. Today, we look back at bands like the Arctic Monkeys and stars like Billie Eilish who became famous not with the help of a major record company, but rather through the internet, and who have long since successfully enjoyed a lot of artistic freedom. We celebrate independent starlets and stars, but also superstars like Lady Gaga and Beyoncé – the latter runs a kind of family music empire with her husband Jay-Z.
And we lionize phenomena like Taylor Swift, a megastar personality whose success across all analogue and digital platforms has almost managed to create a significant industry of her very own. Once dependent on labels that marketed her first albums without her, Swift regained control by simply covering her own early albums, i.e. by re-recording them with slight changes and then marketing them herself. Today, she is dictating terms to providers such as Apple Music and breaking all attendance records with her tours. Which leads us to a flipside of today’s music industry, the streaming services. Because they pay artists showcasing their work on these platforms negligible royalties, which means that only the industry’s top stars can actually earn any kind of money there. And that, in turn, pits the smaller artists against the top earners. Yes, the times they are a’ changing – and so are the historic fronts. So much so that the chasm between successful and unsuccessful, between rich and poor, is almost greater today than it was in the 70s, that era of industry-criticizing titans such as Pink Floyd and their ilk.
So what has become of the “good old” cigar-smoking record bosses and the egocentric Svengalis of yesteryear? They have simply disappeared. Or, except in the case of casted test-tube acts, they have become almost irrelevant. It’s true that there are still things that artists have professionals manage for them – from bookings to studio rentals, from accounting and legal advice to video shootings. But in stark contrast to 30 or 40 years ago the stars of today, including a pleasantly large number of women, very often have a high degree of control over their work and actions. Nobody would write a song like Have A Cigar these days. And to be honest, by and large some artists from back then aren’t what they used to be. In fact, the members of Pink Floyd have been at odds for years. And Roger Waters, something of a band leader and globally feted social critic in the 70s, is facing headline-grabbing police investigations and attempts to ban him from performing in 2023 because of weird pro-Putin statements and the irritating integration of anti-Semitic symbols into his stage performances.
This article first appeared in the „LyrikLINES“ series on the ‘Faust-Kultur’ portal
A legendary, tragic love story set in the rock-n-roll milieu for a change? Or a cool rock-n-roll epos that incorporates elements of a tragic love story? Daisy Jones & The Six, the bestselling novel by Taylor Jenkins Reid, works on both levels, infusing everything with a nice shot of 70s nostalgia while perpetuating the eternal trope that great art is born mainly from pain and suffering. Although the film version of the glamorous rock star fiction as an Amazon Prime series makes a few dramaturgical modifications, it is a more than congenial reincarnation of the original book – and it gives the world the music album of a group that doesn’t even exist.
The 70s are over: Daisy Jones & The Six have made it – they are globally celebrated rock stars. But at the very height of their career, the band breaks up. Fans are stunned. How could it have come to this? Many years later, the estranged band members and some of their confidantes are interviewed separately for a documentary. All the little comments, anecdotes and sometimes contradictory reckonings morph into abundant flashbacks – the rise and fall of a brilliant band unfolds, including the true reasons behind the break-up. Only at the end does it become clear who is conducting the enlightening interviews. It’s a heart-warming revelation with a surprising twist.
From romantic fiction to hit series to chart success
For decades, feature films were the ‘non plus ultra’ when it came to telling stories for the big screen and on screens of all kinds. But contrary to all assertions about our fast-paced times and continually shrinking attentions spans, the opulent series format has been gaining ground for some time now. It offers the chance of letting a story unfold believably and in several narrative threads, of giving characters depth, and of exploring all the positive and negative dynamics between the protagonists. It seems hard to believe, but fans stay engaged, even for six to ten episodes and even for several seasons – if a series is done well. This is also true of pop biopics and -stories. In spite of their entertainment value, several 90- to 120-minute movies have already suffered from the fact that the script had to be limited to a few central topics, and that a band just seen playing rather amateurishly in a run-down provincial club is next seen being celebrated by a large festival audience, only to show its ultimate demise soon after.
The makers of the Amazon Prime series Daisy Jones & The Six have not only benefited from the strengths of the series format, but have also thoroughly exploited the marketing potential of the original, Taylor Jenkins Reid’s successful book by the same name. A clever dramatization, captivating cast and polished performance have allowed them to create a gripping series that you can immerse yourself in for almost ten hours. And instead of a conventional soundtrack album with different artists contributing the songs, they have actually brought the fictional Daisy-Jones-&-The-Six album Aurora to life. As a result, the fictional group and their songs are in the international charts, like a real rock performance.
Fleetwood Mac (and others) send their regards
Two narrative threads initially emerge from the flashbacks. There are the Dunne Brothers, a band led by the sometimes authoritarian frontman Billy Dunne, who are trying to gain a foothold somewhere in Pennsylvania, mostly with cover versions. And then there’s Daisy Jones in Los Angeles, an unconventional young woman surviving through odd jobs, but who is secretly dreaming of a career as a singer-songwriter. The story gains traction when Daisy comes to the attention of the renowned but no longer quite so successful music producer Teddy Price, who takes her under his wing. Meanwhile, the Dunne Brothers undergo several transformations and finally welcome keyboardist Karen Sirko as a new member. The band renames themselves The Six, write more and more original songs and eventually move to L.A. to take the next step in their career. It is more by coincidence that the quirky group, which is increasingly getting its act together, meets Teddy Price. And that’s not all: The Six also manage to convince the influential studio wizard of the merits of their songs. But the producer feels there is something lacking – maybe some lyrical input, plus a strong female voice. And because Daisy Jones is also lacking something, namely a band capable of channeling her lyrical and musical ideas in even more artistically fruitful directions, Teddy Price immediately connects the two groups. And tells them to write new songs together. An inspired move that triggers an unprecedented success story – but also hopeless emotional chaos.
Anyone familiar with the dynamics in rock bands will have one or two moments of déjà vu – there are plenty of well-observed details and band anecdotes to make you smile. Anyone who knows what the music business was like then and now will probably shake their head about powerful and smug corporate record bosses in suits, as well as about shrewd producer and shrill manager types. Anyone who lived through the 70s will definitely be overcome by nostalgia, because the fashions and lifestyle are so aptly captured – even if you don’t have to have experienced every sex and drug escapade yourself. Anyone who likes Fleetwood Mac and their music during the Rumours era will be agog, because the sound, appearance and one or two biographical details of Daisy Jones & The Six were inspired by the legendary British-American band. And even if you just like larger-than-life love stories with euphoric ups and tragic downs, you will enjoy this.
Billy Dunne and Daisy Jones are two extraordinary, not entirely lovable characters – damaged souls who put each other, but also everyone around them, through a lot. The two of them often fight, but hardly anyone fails to notice that they are also powerfully attracted to one another. Billy has a young daughter with his wife Camila. She sees the band as a close-knit family and acts like an uber-motherly arbitrator where needed. But she too must come to terms with the fact that Billy sometimes succumbs to the destructive rock-n-roll lifestyle, becomes addicted to alcohol, and takes a long time to grow into his role as a father after rehab. She certainly doesn’t like the vibes she feels later, when she sees her husband and Daisy Jones performing together. And she too messes up. In addition, there are peaceful moments of happiness and intoxicating highs, a long-secret affair within the band, fellow musicians who suffer from a lack of appreciation, frustrations and crises, including Daisy taking a temporary break in Greece. And then there is also – cue Almost Famous – the journalist from an influential rock magazine who accompanies the rapidly rising stars on tour to score a big story. The gossip and secrets he gleans from the torn band members, independently of each other, just add fuel to the fire. Only the drummer – whose naïve insouciance is reminiscent of the notoriously underrated Beatle Ringo Starr – remains completely unscathed. He actually meets an attractive Hollywood actress, starts a family with her and, one may assume, lives happily ever after. What a wonderful pop cliché – a character who provides regular ‘comic relief’ and enriches the dramatic narrative with a dash of self-irony.
The female perspective
Where rock dramas written by men like to focus on the rock-n-roll lifestyle and highlight their protagonists as torn but ultimately brilliant lonesome-hero-types, Daisy Jones & The Six deliberately focuses on other aspects: For example, the problematic effects that this rock-n-roll lifestyle and the struggle between two alpha males has on the protagonists and everyone around them. The main characters are subtly drawn, with great strengths but glaring weaknesses, too. Daisy, Camila and keyboardist Karen are three self-confident women. On the one hand they are asserting themselves in the male-dominated rock world. However, the societal conditions and attitudes of the time also have a uniquely negative impact on them. For example, it is the women who have to deal with the problem of an unwanted pregnancy and the possible consequences for their careers. It is painful but good that we also see how the previously ‘cool’ frontman Billy Dunne initially can’t hold his little daughter and commit to being a father. Although Daisy Jones shows him a totally new side of himself, he always remains lovingly connected to his wife Camila. It’s complicated. And this is where the female author’s perspective clearly shines through – as well as that of producer Reese Witherspoon, already known for her strong female role as June Carter in the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line.
Brilliant cast
Just as strong is the impression that Kiley Reough leaves when depicting Daisy Jones. Elvis Presley’s granddaughter galvanizes the audience with her powerful facial expressions, gestures and body language. After various appearances in movies and series, this energy-laden role should help her make her final breakthrough. Her presence alone makes it worth streaming. But the rest of the cast is also impressive, above all The Hunger Games beau Sam Claflin as the often in demand and overwhelmed frontman Billy Dunne. Of the stars playing the band, Suki Waterhouse stands out as the determined, uncompromising keyboardist Karen Sirko. In addition, Tom Wright dazzles as the clever, sensitive producer Teddy Price and Timothy Olyphant (who once played the somewhat rigid sheriff in the famous Western series Deadwood or the bald killer Hitman) shines as the crazy but ultimately professional, suitably empathetic tour manager Rod Reyes.
The casting of the two main characters also proves to be a stroke of luck when it comes to the music. Both stars can actually sing, with Sam Claflin having a slightly more subtle voice that occasionally sounds like Tom Petty, and Riley Keough’s performance seemingly effortlessly invoking Fleetwood Mac diva Stevie Nicks, Kate Pierson from the B 52s and one or two other country music icons. It sounds surprisingly strong and full when Claflin and Keough sing in harmony and bring the songs from the fictional album Aurora to life. In the book, author Taylor Jenkins Reid had written a few of her own lyrics to the band’s songs. However, she admits frankly that they didn’t count for much, but were intended more to describe the characters. With Reid’s consent, the series producers then brought in real songwriting luminaries, including Phoebe Bridgers, Marcus Mumford and even superstar Jackson Browne. The experts were given a fairly free hand and provided the music, including new lyrics, for the songs sung by Claflin and Keough.
The new song versions are very clearly designed to convey emotional intensity and, above all, to get to the heart of the characters’ internal conflicts and interpersonal disputes. Summarization, dramatization and modernization – similar effects are also achieved through dramaturgical modifications to the original book: For example, Camila and Billy have several children in the book, but only one daughter in the series. Camila doesn’t have an affair in the book, but she does in the series. And while Daisy is only called Daisy in the book, in the series she is allowed to tell Billy that her real name is Margaret – a moment that creates a special intimacy between the two characters for the first time. Showrunner Scott Neustadter says that keyboardist Karen is no longer American in the series, but British, as an explicit homage to the recently deceased Fleetwood Mac keyboardist Christine McVie. On the other hand, Daisy’s friend Simone, a soul singer and aspiring disco star, is depicted in the series as having a happy lesbian relationship after various ups and downs, in homage to the queer movement. And unlike in the book, when Daisy overdoses she is saved by Billy – who else!
Ingenious pastiche or: Art is born from empathy
Almost more than in the book, the series adaptation suggests that great art comes primarily from friction, pain and suffering. Some of the best moments in the series are the scenes where Daisy and Billy compose music and write lyrics together. They bicker at each other, repeatedly criticize the other one’s lyrics and force each other to navel-gaze. In the process, these seemingly fundamentally different characters realize that they have more in common in their pain and unfulfilled longings than they would like. And they are already writing bittersweet lyrics like: “If you’re gonna let me down, let me down easy”, “I’m an echo in your shadow / I’m in too deep” or “We can make a good thing bad”. “A lot of suffering, more excellent songs” – that’s the principle, and of course it has already been roughly mapped out in things like Fleetwood Mac’s band history. The group was famous for tricky relationships and complicated interpersonal dynamics which are said to have been the driving force behind some of their best songs.
The trope of “great art from great pain” is still often advanced today and routinely underpinned by references to Vincent Van Gogh and Edvard Munch, Joseph Beuys and Hermann Nitsch. This includes ideas such as: Positive feelings only need to be enjoyed, negative feelings need to be processed – which is why the latter provide additional and more interesting material for creating art. All of this may apply to some creatives and their work, but can’t be generalized. It also would be somewhat unfair towards songs like Happy, Walking On Sunshine, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Don’t Worry – Be Happy and other evergreens of bliss. They don’t seem to be born out of great pain, not in the slightest, and yet they have undeniable artistic merit, at least for the author of these lines. Last but not least, the Daisy Jones novel itself and – even more so – the series adaptation can be cited as evidence of further sources of inspiration for great art. Author Taylor Jenkins Reid is simply incredibly talented, as she has proven in her previous books. Then she had her next idea, but first she had to do a lot of research – on music and songwriting, on the biographies of famous bands and on the 70s in general. Her love of writing and perfecting, but also a lot of patience, ultimately led to a captivating story about the power of love and the power of music. The creators of the series and the fictional album Aurora, which has in turn become music, took an even more meta approach as part of a large-scale ensemble production. They shaped and supplemented the literary original with a great deal of brainpower and skill, set a professional film production machine in motion and simultaneously commissioned suitable songs. The result is an ingenious pastiche about a couple of 70s rock stars who create great art from great suffering. Not very likely that the series’ creators and their service providers have themselves suffered congenially.
