And for a story set in the ’70s, it’s inconsistently political, elevating a queer-character arc but erasing a meaningful subplot from the novel about the Vietnam War. The world-building is teeny-tiny, confined to the interiors of mid-century homes, buses, and recording studios brief visits to Greece or New York City are only interruptions, not immersions. Creative process is recurrently pushed aside for romantic pining, and there’s no imagination for artistic motivation past jealousy and lust. The series shrinks Reid’s novel ( partially inspired by the infamously stormy relationship between Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham) into a claustrophobic love triangle mostly uninterested in looking beyond its three points, and indifferent to the paranoia and exhilaration of the 1970s. For all the series’ delights - the chemistry between Sam Claflin and Riley Keough, the constant scene-stealing by Camila Morrone, the fizziness of the original songs - there’s an unignorable smallness throughout, a sense that, as with that Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, we’re settling for a copy of a copy. That same dilemma plagues Daisy Jones & The Six, Prime Video’s adaptation of Taylor Jenkins Reid’s best-selling 2019 novel. You’re buying an advertisement, not a time machine.
But what no amount of money can do is take you back to the time and the place that shaped the music your T-shirt is conveying appreciation for. The garment links you, the listener, to them, the band, and you can be part of that public fandom for $39 or so. The dye from the graphic transfer is fresh and the seams are unfrayed there’s crisp newness to the product. Watching Daisy Jones & The Six is a bit like buying a Fleetwood Mac T-shirt from Urban Outfitters.
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