Don’t Fight It: Daisy Jones & The Six Is Ridiculously Addictive TV

Let me preface all of this by saying I’m as happy about the return of Succession (and bereft at the prospect of the Roys’ superyacht sailing permanently into the sunset) as the next discerning viewer. But I’m not here to dissect the exquisite exchanges between Tom Wambsgans and the newly cocky Cousin Greg in the first episode, nor debate the appropriate accessory to carry at a cocktail party with the 1%, or even to obsess over Naomi Pierce’s magnificent new hair. I’m here to draw your attention to an entirely different show—one you might have overlooked, or dismissed, or scoffed at. I’m here to tell you that you’re making a mistake.

Daisy Jones & the Six—for the benefit of those who haven’t spent the past fortnight bingeing back-to-back episodes, googling “Stevie Nicks Lindsey Buckingham together pictures,” or adding tracks by fictional musicians to their Spotify playlist—follows the members of a 1970s rock band as they go from playing birthday parties in Pittsburgh to selling out stadiums around the globe, and all of the inevitable sex, substance abuse, and screaming matches along the way. At its heart: the powerful connection—both creative and carnal—between married lead singer Billy Dunne (Sam Claflin) and the mercurial Daisy Jones (Riley Keough), who joins the band and ultimately becomes its adored front woman. 

An adaptation of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s 2019 bestseller, with queen of the page-to-screen success story Reese Witherspoon on board as executive producer and a no-expense-spared marketing campaign, the critics’ response to the show has nonetheless been… tepid. “Lacks bite,” says Empire. “Not cool,” says The Times of London. A “diet soda version of love, lust and ’70s music” says The Guardian. I say: pass me a straw.

Admittedly, I was probably always going to enjoy this show—and not just because Jones, in her floppy hat and shearling coat, so perfectly embodies my dream aesthetic circa 2012. I read the book in lockdown, I’m a fan of Fleetwood Mac, and no amount of nepo-baby discourse could stop me being fascinated by the fact that Keough is Elvis Presley’s actual granddaughter. I was ready to sit back and let the show’s glossy hedonism-lite wash over me, a televisual tranquilizer with all the sedative effects of one of Daisy’s downers, or the half-bottle of Beaujolais she routinely knocks back for breakfast. 

But even though I didn’t need Daisy Jones to be anything more than mindless viewing, somewhere around the third episode, as the memory of the awful wigs in the opening scenes receded, I realized the show had gotten its (honestly, weirdly catchy) hooks into me. I texted a friend I knew was also watching. “I am starting to think Leo’s insanely hot model ex is actually a very good actress??” She replied immediately. “I am playing the soundtrack in my car right now??”

Sure, it’s all very earnest, and fair, the screenplay isn’t going to win awards, but Keough throws everything at her performance as Daisy, and her star quality is undeniable—ditto her on-stage chemistry with Claflin (both do all their own singing). Only the stoniest of hearts could remain unmoved by adorable guitarist Graham Dunne’s early attempts to woo the girl of his dreams, sassy keyboard player Karen Sirko (Suki Waterhouse). And have I mentioned the clothes? Between Daisy’s vintage Halston (a nod to “Gold Dust Woman”) and the Bianca Jagger-worthy wardrobe Billy’s wife Camilla acquires once the band hits the big time, the costumes alone make this show well worth your 10-episode time investment. 

But there’s so much more to love here besides gloriously nostalgic ’70s fashion. It’s the LA sunshine, it’s the sad, sexy people, it’s the unapologetically soapy plot lines (played out against the kind of lavishly realized backdrop only a multi-million-dollar budget can provide). It’s—as it turned out—exactly the hit of undemanding, feel-good entertainment I needed to brighten up this unusually damp March. 

I defy anyone not to enjoy being swept back to Daisy Jones’s Laurel Canyon in the sepia-toned ’70s, all sleek mid-century mansions, pool parties at the Chateau, and meaningful glances through the smoke in the recording studio. Surely an infinitely better place in which to lose yourself for an hour than, say, a desolate corner of Boston after the planet has been ravaged by a deadly fungal infection? Forget what the critics say—they’re just trying to make a good thing bad.