two ends and in the middle. “It was making

two ends and in the middle. “It was making me suffer a lot. The time element was critical. I needed more than 24 hours in a day,” he said, recalling how he’d get home from a gig in D. C. at midnight, study until 3 or 4 a.m. and then grab a few hours of sleep before his 8 a.m. class. “I was irritable, surly,” Daley admitted. “And I realized that I was more of a musician than a scholar.”

So he drooped school for a year. The energy split between music and books is now channeled entirely towards music. He spends mornings practicing in the old farm house next door to Bessie Bell mountain. His small work room is dominated by an antique piano, a donation from a 'friend. Fingers flying across the keyboard occasionally land a clunker of a note, the fault, he explained, of the piano, not the pianist.

“It’s much more valuable as an antique than an instrument,” Daley noted, justifying his reluctance to spend upwards of $500 to have it restrung. Guitars, a dulcimer, tape decks, microphones, records, sheet music and other musical paraphernalia crowd the floor. At the other extreme, oriental prints flank a photograph of Bryan’s teacher in Tibetan Buddhism. Looking down from the walls, they give the room an aura of uncluttered simplicity, a feeling of airy space.

During his years at U Va., Daley built a clientele in Charlottesville. Ticking off the places he’s played on a fairly regular basis, the list sounds like the yellow page index of night spots and restaurants. “Since 1 went to school there, I’ve had an easier time,” he said. Now he’s trying to crack a little bigger nut, moving on to D. C. where he’s performed as a solo act at seven or eight places.

His style is soft rock, California acoustic that’s a little like Linda Rondstadt, a Jittle like Jackson Brown and „ a lot like Dan Foggleburg.