In 1995, an Australian trio called silverchair emerged on the American music scene with Frogstomp, a grunge-rock album whose sophistication belied the musicians’ tender ages. At the time, lead singer and guitarist Daniel Johns was only 15 years old; drummer Ben Gillies and bassist Chris Joannou were both 14. Amazingly, the album went double platinum. Two years later, the boys released Freak Show, which despite decent sales abroad never came close to the success of Frogstomp in the U.S. Now the pendulum has swung again, with Ana's Song (Open Fire), a hit single off their latest album, Neon Ballroom, that became a staple on MTVs Total Request Live. But the strain of this roller-coaster ride has taken its toll, particularly on Daniel, the group's frontman and primary songwriter. His decline began in early 1998, when he sequestered himself for six months in a rented beach house in the band's hometown of Newcastle. Although notoriously private, Daniel, now 20, opens up about that experience. "The trappings of fame."

Believe it or not, I never had any desire to be famous -- I just wanted to play music. And at 14, I thought it was the coolest thing in the world to get a record deal with Epic so we could make a CD and call ourselves a real band. But because we were discovered so early, I don't think I had any concept of what fame would be like, which is probably why it was so confusing. I quickly discovered that fame is like anything else -- get too much of it and it can have a negative effect. By the time our debut album, Frogstomp, went double platinum in 1995, the amount of time we had to ourselves was virtually zero. It was just too much all at once, especially for me. Ben and Chris could go out and be relatively inconspicuous, but even if I was wearing a disguise, it would only take one person to recognize me and my cover would be blown.

"As our popularity grew, so did people's expectations. When you're a guy in a band, everyone thinks you should be happily swimming in girls. But it's just not that way unless you're a really confident person to start with. Or if you can take advantage of people, which is not what I want to do. So every time the crowd got bigger, I felt more empty when I walked offstage. Alone in the crowd Toward the end of 1997, while we were on the road touring for our second album, Freak Show, I gradually began to feel more and more alienated from people. By the start of 1998, it got really extreme-to the point where I really didn't want to see anyone. Thankfully, the tour was about to end. As soon as we got home to Newcastle, I took my three-and-a-half-year-old dog, Sweep, moved out of my parents' place and rented a two-bedroom house near the beach. It was the middle of winter in Australia, and the house wasn't heated, so it was really cold and uncomfortable. And empty. There was a couch, a television, a bed and a stereo -- that's it. After about a week, I bought a foot heater and just sat, despondent, in front of it all day. Then things took a turn for the worse. The psychological problems that surfaced on tour intensified, and my view of reality became really distorted. It started as depression and branched out from there. I began to feel really anxious and paranoid. I couldn't leave my house without thinking that something terrible was going to happen, whether it was getting beaten up or being hounded by photographers. The minute I'd step out my door, I'd start shaking and sweating, and I could feel my heart pumping like crazy. I know it sounds strange, but I was also really freaked out by phones. When mine rang, I'd have to leave the room to get away from it. I began limiting my food intake as a way to control the chaos I was feeling inside. Each day, I would test myself to see how much I could endure. If I hadn't eaten anything, it was an accomplishment; I would go to bed content. The only way I can describe it is to say that it felt comforting to be in control of something, like I hadn't totally lost it.

Within a few months, it got to the point where I was eating just so I wouldn't collapse. If I felt like I was going to black out, I'd eat a piece of fruit or a cup of soup. What little food I did eat, my family brought over. At that time, my parents and my younger brother and sister were the only people I trusted and could see without feeling anxious. Of course they were all worried sick about me, but I couldn't really see how bad it was. When I went out, usually it was to drive my Jeep to the video store down the street. In the course of six months, I racked up a $1,600 bill. At first, I only rented really dark films, like Leaving Las Vegas, because that's the frame of mind I was in. But eventually, I'd watch just about anything to pass the time and help me get through another day. Emotional rescue Some weeks were better than others. When I could, I'd make an appointment with the therapist my parents convinced me to see before I moved out of their house. But I found it too exposing to talk about my problems. I was always holding back. I'd much rather express myself through music and lyrics than in conversation. It's more therapeutic for me.

It was during this period that I began writing the poetry that would become the lyrics for most of Neon Ballroom. There is a lot of symbolism in those songs. For example, Paint Pastel Princess is a metaphor for Aropax, an antidepressant that my doctor prescribed for me. The song's about how taking that type of medication prevents you from feeling highs or lows -- everyday is the same. Still, the pills improved my state of mind. I don't intend to be on them forever, but for now they're helping me cope.

Ana's Song, the second single, is a metaphor for anorexia. It was the last song recorded for the album, and it was the first time I exposed my eating disorder to anyone. Everyone already knew, I guess, but I had never spoken about it, except with my family doctor. He was actually the one who helped me realize how bad things had gotten. I went to him because I had a bad cold that I just couldn't shake. (I found out later that malnutrition wrecks your immune system.) He's been my doctor since I was a baby, so as soon as he saw me, he just started shaking his head. He sat me down and told me the facts: If I didn't do something, I was going to die. He explained that signs that generally occur well into an eating disorder were already happening with me. Things like exposed gums and teeth,protruding bones everywhere, sunken cheeks. That was a turning point. I don't know exactly how much weight I lost, but the lightest I ever got was 110 pounds. It was never really my intent to harm myself, though I knew what I was doing wasn't good for me. The lyrics of Ana's Song, particularly "In my head, the flesh seems thicker" are about my desire to see how far I could take it. The problem is, you think you're gaining control over something, but in reality, you're losing control over the functioning of your body. A lot of people don't understand the real causes of an eating disorder, which is why it's hard to fathom how a guy can have one. But it isn't about vanity or beauty. When you see anorexic people, they don't look attractive. I'm sure the reason some people get eating disorders has to do with a distorted body image, but often it has nothing to do with looking a certain way. It's about gaining control over a part of your life. Making sense of it all I've always had a fascination with the darker side of life. I'm a bit fixated on it. The reason, I think, has to do with the fact that I had a hard time in high school.

Back then, it wasn't as acceptable to be in a young band. Nowadays, they're everywhere. When we started playing at 13, I was called a fag and beaten up. Even though Ben and Chris were in the band with me, for some reason they weren't subject to the same ridicule. Probably because I was the singer and they played relatively masculine instruments. They look more masculine than I do. Plus, their bodies are more built up and they were into sports. I've got nothing against jocks. I don't care what people do as long as they're good people. But I think that a lot of jocks have the opposite mentality -- unless you're one of them, they're a little afraid of you. As a result, I tend to close myself off to people. My way of dealing with things has always been through art, whether it's painting, drawing or writing music or poetry. All of the songs on this album are intensely personal, and I feel emotionally drained after performing them. No matter how many times I sing them, certain lines remind me of how badly I felt when I wrote them. But I'm glad I wrote them. People have sent letters to our fan club saying that the album has helped them admit to anxiety attacks, depression and eating disorders. Some have said that it's made them cry, but I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing. I'm just glad they've gotten something good out of a negative experience I had. I'm not fully recovered, but I think I've hit my lowest point and I'm on my way up. I still don't know exactly what went wrong. People have theorized that I had a nervous breakdown, but it doesn't matter what anyone else says. I have to figure it out for myself.

These days, it helps to focus on the things I want to do when we're finished with this tour [in November]: Things like seeing friends and not being tied to a schedule. Just stuff that doesn't involve promoting the band or being "Mr. silverchair." I'm not sure what the future holds. Unlike a lot of other bands, our lives don't revolve around being stars. I'm just looking forward to being happy. Whether it's producing music for silverchair or being a bum on the beach.