#store journal

[mercerislandbooks]

A Review of Daisy Jones and the Six for Music Snobs

There is something you should know about me before I begin. My dad is a musician and a trivia buff. Combined, my childhood was full of rockdocs, VH1 Classic music video shows, and late nights playing vinyl. My earliest memories are band practices, and my fondest ones are concerts. Daisy Jones is the girl I dreamed of being since I was old enough to understand what it took to make it in rock and roll. From the first few paragraphs Taylor Jenkins Reid captured my imagination, and I was lost in Daisy’s story.

Me on my 10th birthday in Cleveland

The book is written in dialogue like an oral history. This fictional interview automatically made me think of Spinal Tap or The Rutles, hilarious commentaries on the male-centric rock and roll culture and history. After reading further, it is clear Daisy Jones and the Six is not this. I liked that Daisy Jones is as serious and funny as life is, with all of the messiness in between. Reid portrayed the reality of the music business rather than just the image. Following Daisy from 17-years-old onward gives a sense of her struggle before the fame.

“I had absolutely no interest in being somebody else’s muse. I am not a muse. I am the somebody. End of f*cking story.” - Daisy Jones and the Six

Daisy Jones herself is a female perspective in a culture that primarily used women as objects. While we can point to amazing women in rock and roll history, every single one of them will report that it was hard to be a woman in the music industry in the early part of the mid-twentieth century; it still is today. Daisy Jones goes through countless experiences where men take advantage of her, don’t listen to her, or doubt her abilities because of her age, looks, gender, drug addiction, etc.

This rawness is breathtaking.

Reid’s portrayal of a fearless teen on the Sunset Strip reminds me of the startling youth of the Runaways and the heartbreaking talent of Janis Joplin without taking away from the fact that Daisy Jones has individuality to be reckoned with. Reid invokes this tension-filled history without blatantly duplicating it. I was blown away. Below, Reid was kind enough to answer my question about where she found inspiration in music history:

Island Books: What notorious stories from rock’n’roll history inspired you in the creation of Daisy Jones and the Six? Taylor Jenkins Reid: The most obvious influence for the story comes from the conflicts within Fleetwood Mac. But I was also really inspired by the Civil Wars, Bruce Springsteen, Linda Ronstadt, the Eagles, and a lot of the musicians from the Laurel Canyon scene — Joni Mitchell, Crosby Stills & Nash, the Mamas and the Papas, etc. Most of my research about 70s rock was just used for atmosphere and inspiration. But there were some things I took directly from real life. There are some references early in the book to Jimmy Page and Iggy Pop, because in my research, I learned a lot about what rock stars were getting up to in the 70s and wanted to acknowledge just how difficult that would have made life for someone like Daisy Jones, a woman who just wanted to be a part of it all at any cost. I really wanted to transport the reader back the 70s on the Sunset Strip as authentically as possible.

Fleetwood Mac from the Rumors photoshoot

Fleetwood Mac was the first band that popped into my head during the scenes that Daisy Jones and the Six begin writing their album. Who’s sleeping with who? Who is writing about who? Who just flat-out doesn’t want to be there anymore? The toxic and complex relationships required to produce an album as layered and moving as Rumors is difficult to understand. Musicians are best known for suffering for their art. Reid makes a point of maintaining that producing an incredible album isn’t just about standards; stacked on top of the studio’s pressure to succeed after a hit record is money. More money is necessary to support a new way of life. Band members are tempted by the allure of the never-ending party, and addiction runs rampant. Reid tells a familiar story of addiction, but I most respected the complicated story of recovery. It’s not linear, it’s not easy, and it’s not always what the addict wants.

This goes the same for song writing. My favorite part of reading Daisy Jones was the way Reid managed to convey the sound of the music. I somehow listened to an entire album through reading, and I loved it. Let’s cross our fingers in hoping that the television version manages to do justice to the “legendary” album.

If you are a fan of rock and roll, a fan of Taylor Jenkins Reid, or a fan of complicated heroines, please consider reading Daisy Jones and the Six. How much I loved it surprised me, but I am more than happy that I gave it a chance.

We will be having a 70s themed party on Saturday, March 16th at 5:30pm to celebrate the author and the release. Tickets cost $35 and include a signed copy of the book, a signature cocktail, and appetizers. You can also get a ticket without a book $8. If you have questions for Reid you would like asked during her book talk, please email them to [email protected] or send us a message on Instagram.

— Kelleen

[mercerislandbooks]

Get Lost in a Book

My first English class in college was the most varied and exciting. “Literature in Film” was probably the best 100 Level class offered in the whole college. The entire lesson plan consisted of reading amazing books that were adapted into movies. Then, of course, we watched the movies. I was introduced to film genres previously unexplored, like noir, and classic films, like Apocalypse Now or Double Indemnity. Best of all was reading Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep and watching the requisite Blade Runner. I was in love with this cyberpunk aesthetic formed by simple and straightforward language. Young Harrison Ford didn’t hurt, either.

Part of what I loved and still love about Do Androids… was the writing style, how I consistently lost myself in the world, even if I didn’t understand it. And so I decided to read more… five years later. The Man in the High Castle was on my fiance’s grandmother’s bookshelf, so I asked if I could borrow it to read.

About a month later, I opened it up.

After some time, I got to the last page.

I finished it.

I closed the book.

I said, “What just even happened?” to the empty room.

I immediately opened up a young adult rewrite of Grease with two teen boys as the love interests (10/10 would recommend, titled Only Mostly Devastated, and out now). I anger-read that one in a day and let The Man in the High Castle rest in the back of my mind. I was so confused by the last twenty pages, the way truth and hallucinations and stream-of-consciousness type monologues floated into the narrative. Aesthetically, I loved reading it. Philip K. Dick is a magnificently pragmatic and forceful writer. Every word was picked meticulously. Narratively, I found the movement of events confounding. Even when I read detailed plot summaries online, I didn’t see what these literary readers found in the work compared to what I read. 

Upon re-reading the last few pages, I got it. Sort of? I am simultaneously enthralled and angry at my inability to read this novel with the proficiency I expected of myself. This was in late November/early December. It’s been a gift to reflect on the experience of being confused and challenged by a book. So often I read books that challenge my point of view but not my reading comprehension. While this experience was frustrating, as any ego-blow is, I am relieved that it allowed me to let go a little bit more when I read and get lost in the language.

Not only was The Man in the High Castle challenging, it also re-acquainted me with a genre I have been long remiss in not reading consistently over the past years. I read Ray Bradbury in middle school, but I think that reading Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep in college was my first adult sci-fi book since then. And while The Man in the High Castle is not a traditional science-fiction novel, the level of world building, historicising, and uncanny familiarity made reading it a similar experience to reading sci-fi. Ever a student of contextualization and historization, I have decided to put novels like Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler and Neuromancer by William Gibson on my To Be Read list to further immerse myself in the genre.

Since reading The Man in the High Castle, I have read Gideon the Ninth (and Harrow the Ninth, the sequel coming out in June) by Tasmyn Muir. I loved reading these books because of the same process of lostness that I found myself entrenched in. Instead of being frustrated by the experience, this time I enjoyed being immersed in a new world with rules I didn’t fully understand, the challenge of figuring them out, and the joy of seeing all the pieces fall together. Tasmyn Muir does a particularly wonderful job at scattering details and hints that seem unimportant until they are suddenly the most important detail to remember. Gideon the Ninth, for those interested, is a story of necromancers in space, ruled under the watchful eye of a goth God. Gideon is a servant to the Ninth House, the ninth planet in the system formed by God. She doesn’t know her history but knows that she doesn’t belong with the pale, black-haired, and moldering characters on the Ninth House. When she takes the ultimate opportunity to win her freedom, nothing ends up the way she expects. It’s amazing, cheeky, and full of snark. And the sequel only made it even better.

Books that similarly affected me and whisked me away into mysterious worlds and challenging prose seem to all have one thing in common: They are all set in worlds that are uncannily familiar. They are obviously not our world today, but close enough that you want to identify with the characters’ experiences even if you can’t. In Gideon the Ninth, Gideon encounters the archaic technology of white boards and wears vintage Ray Bands, but exists in a world where people can make swords out of old bones. In The Man in the High Castle, many of the facts of the world, the technology, the styles, the racism, is familiar, but the history is not. A book I would consider in the same vein would be Station Eleven, a book we always tout as one of the best of the last decade at Island Books. Emily St. John Mandel has since put out a new release, The Glass Hotel. I am behind the train and only halfway through, but its hypnotic prose, unreliable narration, and unclear timelines qualify the book for this uncanny classification. She even states at one point in the story, “It is possible to leave so much out of any given story,” coaxing us to think of all the moments she might be leaving out (65). I am lost in terms of understanding what is actually happening in the story. I couldn’t quite explain it to you yet. But I absolutely adore being lost in this world.

Escapism has been key to me over the past month or so as uncertainty of the future grows more and more prevalent. These books have reminded me that the world has always been uncertain; we are just able to see how fragile and translucent the construct of the future has always been. Losing myself in the pleasure of this uncertainty in books has made living it feel a little less surreal.

What books have you been getting lost in? Let us know and we will feature them on our social media! Tag us in your posts or send us an email at [email protected].

— Kelleen