Fleetwood Mac provided the soundtrack to my life…and my love, writes ALEXANDRA SHULMAN
It was 1975 and when I was 17 I was hanging out in my cousin Larry’s bedroom in his house at the base of Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles. Larry, with his Zapata mustache, was pulling on a bong and I was sitting on his bed mesmerized by the captivating vocals of Christine McVie, in the band I had just discovered – Fleetwood Mac.
This was back when they were still a slightly under the radar British band, hitting LA and being picked up by those in the know. Christine was the only woman – a bluesy singer with a pageboy haircut and aviator specs, whose raspy voice rang with emotion, painful love and good times.
She was the woman that anyone who was serious about their music knew was the real deal.
When American duo Stevie Nicks and her lover Lindsey Buckingham joined Christine, her husband John McVie and Mick Fleetwood, the group changed, but Christine remained the same. Christine McVie is pictured above with Stevie Nicks
While there were other fabulous singer-songwriters – Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell and Carole King – Christine was different. She was in a rock band, holding her own in a world dominated by guitar-licking men.
When American duo Stevie Nicks and her lover Lindsey Buckingham joined Christine, her husband John McVie and Mick Fleetwood, the group changed, but Christine remained the same.
Stevie Nicks conjured up mystical characters like Rhiannon – immortalized in the song – the kind of fantasy creature girls like me in our vintage Hawaiian shirts and army surplus jackets wanted to be, adored by all men and trapped by none. As Stevie twirled around, a satin nymph dominating the stage, Christine stood in the back on the keyboards, making the hearts of the band race. A strong woman. We wanted to be that too.
In 1977, the year Rumors came out, I was on an American gap year, traveling coast to coast in Greyhound buses with my friend Alyson. This album was the soundtrack of the journey.
From our starting point in New York’s Greenwich Village to our final destination in Beverly Hills, we’ve been feeding jukeboxes with plays across the country listening to tracks like Dreams, Gold Dust Woman and Songbird, all songs that the two women sang.
When we found ourselves in less than pleasant situations – the cockroach-infested room in Atlanta, the very dodgy dive bar in New Orleans – it was the voices of Stevie and Christine that reminded us that we were living the life and had the kind of experiences the women in their songs would take in their stride. Well, that’s what we thought.
Several years later, after the band broke up, they reunited for a tour in 2003. I had never seen them play live and, although I was apprehensive that the music still had the resonance of my youth, I bought two tickets for the Earl’s Court show.
Christine was there, her shaggy hair still blonde, still the ultimate rock chic but serious, exuding authority.
I made an appointment with me, an old friend who I thought might understand what Fleetwood Mac had meant to me all that time ago. It was a great evening. He loved the show as much as I did. We have now lived together for 18 years.
