Inside a seafront motel room, as an air conditioner rattles and groans, Gary Stamler, the American manager of a South Pacific pop band, is on the telephone. "Neil? Neil?" he barks. "Number seven! With a bullet! And next week is going to be even better." The other end of this conversation is inaudible. But what it is that's number seven with a bullet, and about to be even better, is "Don't Dream It's Over," the first single from the first album by Crowded House. Potent, seductive, and as intelligent and heartfelt as it is commercial, the song has opened doors. It's selling albums, it's selling tickets, it's getting the video played, it's getting the name around. It's the main reason the band was asked to perform here, and it's the reason why, even in Daytona Beach, Gary Stamler's phone does not stop ringing.

"The activity surrounding this band is incredible," he says. "Twenty-four hours a day. And in November, nothing was happening." Now they've visited with Joan, and with Jane and Bryant, they're slated for Johnny, and MTV has bumped them into the headliner's spot, over 'til tuesday and KBC. There's a photographer from Rockbill asking for a moment of their time. US is sending someone down. Sting recently came to meet them. And now it's your turn.
 

N	eil Finn, the band's 28-year-old singer, guitarist, and songwriter, is looking out from his motel balcony toward a veiled horizon. The smell of breakfast wafts from below, while on the foggy

beach, determined young vacationers strive to have a good time. "It's like they've got their own little world, surrounded by the haze," he muses. "They're down here to party, to fight for their right to party." Meanwhile, airplanes trace the sullen skies, towing bulletins that read: "All-Male Revue," "Wet T-Shirt Competition," and "Free Drinks, 7-Eleven."

Neil grew up in the small New Zealand country town of Te Awamutu. "We have TV, microwaves, videos," he explains, "but it's just a few years behind -- in a good way. There's not that same air of competitiveness that you get here. People want to be successful, but there's a cynicism about it that's quite healthy."

In 1972, Neil's big brother Tim formed Split Enz. Neil joined on guitar in 1978. Though the band had a 12-year run, their success away from home was marginal. In America it went no further than the 1980 mini-hit "I Got You." "It leaves you feeling that you were good enough for Australia and New Zealand but not for the rest of the world," Neil says, "and it makes the career you do have seem kind of a consolation prize. But it's not that simple, because a lot of bands that should have made it here just never got the chance."

Tim Finn eventually quit to go solo, but Neil stayed on through the 1984 farewell tour, writing some of the band's better-known songs. A few have survived into Crowded House, as has Paul Hester, Split Enz' last drummer. Bassist Nick Seymour came into the picture when he accosted Neil at a party and "forced himself on us." Demos were recorded, and shopped not in Australia but in America. Capitol Records made them an offer they didn't want to refuse. "It sure as hell beat spending five years in a transit van beating up and down the highways of Australia, only to find you had to wait a year to get your record released anywhere else."

A boat comes drifting along the oceanfront, flashing an electronic message from the Daytona Mall. "Dress ... For ... Success," Neil reads aloud, laughing. "Yeah! Brilliant!"
 

T	he LP Crowded House was recorded in Los Angeles, with Mitchell Froom producing and contributing keyboards. Neil gives him a lot of the credit for the record's feel, which is much

more soulful and warm than the music of Split Enz, burdened to the end with a certain art-rock iciness. While recording, the band set up crowded housekeeping at the base of the Hollywood Hills. This arrangement not only gave them a name but also allowed them to get to know one another better.

This is what Neil learned about Nick: "Nick likes to experience everything that's going on. He hates missing out on anything. I couldn't handle giving myself to that many situations. It would exhaust me. Rather than go out every night, I'll go back to my room and just listen to a tape or read a book, 'cause I like having my own time. But Nick is willing to give himself to anybody who comes along. He had L.A. sussed within three weeks. It's different paths to the same knowledge -- Nick's path is to experience everything, get to know everybody."

And this is what Nick discovered about Paul: "I think he has a major chemical imbalance. He's always at extremes. He has his totally over-the-top, very funny, intense periods, but when he's really down, everybody has to suffer with him. He'll jump to conclusions, be really paranoid, really tense. But he's remarkable when he's on the ball. He can keep an audience totally entertained. He's a very good character actor -- he can get caricatures down very quickly. He can be really funny taking people off. I don't think he likes touring. He's domestic. He likes his space, and his tea, and his cleaning utensils. His vacuum, his freshly laundered tea towels, his clean kitchen surfaces."

And this is what Paul has to say about Neil: "In Split Enz, everybody had an animal to describe his personality. Neil was the ant. To a large degree, he still is very antish. Like, 'Where's the stage?' There it is. 'Right!' And he'll march straight onto it. He's a real noble sort of musician, Neil. I can imagine him as a king or something. He can't sleep or relax if some one little thing is bugging him, until he nuts it out. He'll come to you and talk it over. Make an apology if he thinks it's due, or tell people off, but in a fair way. And he's the eternal songwriter. It's in his blood. His mum's like that. Neil's always striving to do the right thing. But then, you know, he likes to be a tear-ass, too, to go crazy. Because he suppresses a lot of things, and people like that have an incredible explosive point. But he's a true believer, that's the best thing."
 

T	he true believer is taking his medicine, a milky-brown mixture of lemon, garlic, ginger, and honey, enlivened by a dash of unprescribed gin. This is rumored to be good for the voice. One

would say it had better be. On the other side of the outdoor stage, 'til tuesday have finally gone off, predictably later than predicted, as the rain continues and the wind comes up. The giant inflatable bottles toss in their moorings. Back in the crowded dressing van, Paul Hester is ironing his shirt and talking to Tracy, an affable young security guard who stands just inside the door.

"Fuckin' hell, Tracy. How am I gonna get through today? How am I gonna make it?" he mock pleads, then unexpectedly explodes: "Don't look at me like that, ya fuckin' bastard! I WANNA NEW SECURITY GUY!" He slams the wall hard -- pam! -- and Tracy jackrabbits out of the trailer.

"That was a little too real," someone says.

"Well," chirps Paul, "we can turn off the iron now."

Tracy pokes his head tentatively inside, out of the wet.

"Sorry, Tracy," says Paul. "We must be real bad motherfuckers, eh? To scare the security guys off? Aren't we like bad? Aren't we like nasty?"

Aimee Mann, 'til tuesday's bushy-blond singer, drops by. "Did you get any electric shocks up there?" Neil asks her.

"No," she says, "but it's wet. You'll get wet. It seems to be raining harder than when we were on. Have a good set. I think you guys are great. You're the only band I like in the world."
 

M	TV had predicted, promised, an audience of tens of thousands, but by the time Crowded House take the stage, late in the afternoon, the crowd has dwindled to a very determined

couple of hundred, not counting a score of rain-jacketed, severely understimulated policemen. Waves rise, stubbornly roll in from out of the cooling mist. Someone is surfing. A hamburger stand is shuttered, hooked to a truck and hauled away. No one onstage will look back on this as a Great Day in the History of Pop. But from the benches, a dozen rows of which are covered with sopping, bopping, Daytona-partyin' teens-and-older, none of that matters. There's goodwill to spare, from both sides of the cyclone fences that separates band from public. Against the odds, and the elements, a generous spontaneity is asserted. And if all player and listener might hold in common is a love of this music -- this often glorious, emotionally familiar pop music -- well, what the hell else can anyone reasonably ask? Except for maybe an autograph.
 

N	ow," says Paul Hester, back in his room at the end of this exceptionally long day. "I'm going to make you a real cup of tea. I make it with proper tea leaves. And it brews in a pot. And

it has fresh milk."

Paul's girlfriend Mardi is here, reading in bed. "Our room becomes like a little home," he continues, "especially when we're together. Nick is always having a go at me and Mardi for not going out and partying on. And yet when we come back to our room, we usually have the most fun of the day. We have card games, and we have social sort of nights with the crew. It's really neat. There's nothing colder than being alone in a hotel room, and you can just feel for like a mile around you every room is the same. It's the irony of touring. You spend so much time in those places, and what you're really about is trying to be entertaining and artistic and exciting. Like a circus coming to town. You have to take that with you all the time. And the environment's really against that.

"We were sitting in a room in Minneapolis two weeks ago with all these people around us, and it was only two years ago that Neil and me got in a plane and traveled around the world with our little cassette, wondering what the fuck would happen. And here we were in this room with our record company, and our agent, and our managers Australian and American, and our record producer, our tour managers and crew, having this big meeting. And I was thinking about how we brought all these people together. I felt pretty good about everyone. It was extraordinary."¶