The world thought Jack O’Donnell was just another another, egocentric Rockstar, but they were so very wrong. How do I know this? I would be the one to tell his story. It wasn’t the clear blue of his eyes that held so much pain, or the well-defined forearms of a practiced guitar player that drew me in. It was his story. He told me I wouldn’t be able to handle it, that I wouldn’t like the ending. As I sit in a cold metal chair in the basement of a Catholic Church, I know he is right. I am a journalist. Trained to get the story. He shouldn’t be trusting me with the most vulnerable parts of himself. But he did. One Interview, Two Days, Twenty-Five years of Rock 'n Roll