Parallel Roads ↠ Daisy Jones & The Six

track 002: april come she will

TRACK TWO:
APRIL COME SHE WILL

❝ april, come she will
when streams are ripe and swelled with rain
may, she will stay
resting in my arms again ❞
— simon & garfunkel

.•° ✿ °•.

FRANCESCA: At first, it was all like a dream. New York was where so many up-and-coming folk artists had been getting their start, and... I mean, I guess the stars were in my eyes. I went to different venues up and down Greenwich Village. You know, all the greats — the Café Au Go Go, the Gaslight, The Bitter End. I got to see some of my heroes up on stage, and the making of some new ones, too.

In the October of '68, I actually saw Joni Mitchell at The Bitter End... I mean, I don't think I remember the other guys she was playing with at all. [Grins] Of course she stole the show! I bought 'Song To A Seagull' straight after that, along with every other album she's made since.

Anyway, that time in New York was a really important part of my life, I think.

INTERVIEWER: But didn't you leave New York a few months later?

FRANCESCA: Yeah... I did. The novelty started to wear off after a few months. Wandering around Greenwich Village was fun and all, but I wasn't getting very far with my music. That wasn't so much of a problem at the start — I had thick skin, so being a little down on my luck I could cope with. Struggling musician problems, right?

But by the end of the winter, I don't know... I just hit a brick wall.

.•° ✿ °•.

In the four walls of a claustrophobic payphone box, Francesca hides. It is a cold March evening in 1969, and she wishes she could be anywhere else. The letter worn from re-folding, even though it was only just delivered this morning, is held in her hand with the phone number to call — someone to reach out to. Police sirens wail and shoes scuffle in the background as she slots the measly handful of coins into the machine, punching in the phone number the minute they clatter down.

"Come on, come on, come on..." she whispers to herself, only being greeted with a dial tone so far.

"Francesca..." a voice eventually replies on the other end.

A relieved gasp escapes her lips, gripping the phone tighter as she watches her breath turn into clouds. "Tony! Hi, hi..."

"Hey, uh, I got your letter."

"And I got yours," she replies, glancing down at the paper in her hand.

"So, what's going on?" Tony asks. His voice seems heavy with protectiveness. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm not hurt, I'm just..." Francesca swallows thickly, suddenly finding there's a lump in her throat she can't fight. She fiercely blinks away tears that sting her eyes. Why are you crying? Don't cry. Pausing, she searches for the words — the reason Francesca needed her brother isn't even clear to herself. What happens instead is a tumbling of words, trying to chart the map of her feelings that has gone off-road in recent months.

It isn't like this trip has been all bad... it started off well enough. The leaves slowly starting to burn autumnal, Francesca settled into the small room she had in her family friend's apartment — even if it was just a squeaky mattress on a hardwood floor — and she familiarised herself with Greenwich Village. Wandering around with her guitar case, all on her own, had been the first step of liberation that she'd been searching for. It felt as though she was carving her own path, searching for her own destiny. The folk-rock scene was drawing her in, slowly and surely...