Storms (24 page)

He was the guitar player for one of the biggest bands in the world. There was not a shadow of a doubt that everything that went along with that golden fame in the world of rock ‘n' roll would define our existence for as long as the ride lasted. Drugs, alcohol, no sleep … endless concerts and endless partying. It was already written on the wall in indelible ink. Moderation and healthy living was, in the world of Fleetwood Mac, a ludicrous concept. No matter how important a concept it was for Lindsey's health, I knew that our life on the road, and in the studio, made it an impossible one to maintain. Even if Lindsey wanted to—which, of course, he didn't—it just wasn't going to happen.

As I watched the lightning flash outside our window, I swore to myself that I would do everything within my power to watch over him. For as that day had proved, I couldn't count on any help from the members of the Fleetwood Mac family—they either couldn't or wouldn't deal with Lindsey's “problem.” As I listened to a crack of thunder, I knew that when it came to Lindsey's epilepsy, we were on our own.

I was so, so right. If I had known that night what lay before both of us in the years to come, I would have wept in despair—for there would be many more close calls.

But I had no idea what might lie ahead. All I knew then was that I never again wanted to experience the terror and helplessness that I'd felt since the morning of the band's biggest show of the
Rumours
tour. The images of Lindsey convulsing on a dirty floor—and screaming out in agony as his back arched in excruciating spasms in a downtown hotel in D.C.—were brutal. I didn't know if or how I could shelter him, but I knew that no matter what it took, I would do whatever I could to stop it from happening to him again.

I knew rationally that I had no power over what might happen, but logic had nothing to do with it. Emotionally, I only knew that I had to believe that I had that power. To believe otherwise was unbearable.

As time would prove, it would take every ounce of strength and will I had to try to keep Lindsey safe.

There would be nights when I would rush onto the stage in the middle of a show to give Lindsey extra doses of Dilantin as he tried to head off the sickening feelings of an impending flash.

There would be nights too numerous to count when I would sit up in a dark hotel room, my eyes burning from lack of sleep, head aching from that night's show and the partying that was a Fleetwood Mac ritual.

Keeping watch.

Keeping watch as Lindsey sat up in bed beside me, head on his knees, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Drunk, wired from blow, he would stay that way sometimes for two or three hours until exhaustion would finally make him slump over and fall into a deathlike sleep.

Keeping watch with the doctor's warning of what could happen if he drank and did drugs ringing in my head. For Lindsey ignored his warnings and mine.

Keeping watch as the images of Philadelphia and a desperate run through the streets of Washington, D.C., ran like a horror movie through my own exhausted mind. My heart in my throat, these hellish images of Lindsey's vulnerability (and mine) would play over and over again. And I would sit up a little straighter, watch a little closer, until I was sure that the danger had passed.

He never knew of my late-night vigils.

I never, ever told him. To tell him, I felt, would open a door to his own defenselessness that he might not be able to face. It was a burden that I willingly took on.

Because I was hopelessly in love with him.

Because I was a young woman who truly believed—right up until the end—that love could conquer any darkness.

And I was so very, very wrong.

Unlike the beginning of the year—when the band agonized in painful doubt over the fate of the soon-to-be-released
Rumours
—1977 ended with Fleetwood Mac on the fast track to becoming one of the biggest bands in the entire world.

We had stopped holding our collective breath now. We were, instead, enjoying the ride—for it looked as though
this
ride was going to last for a long, long time.

Rumours
was still selling like it was the only album on the market after remaining at number one on the
Billboard
chart for an unrivalled six months. The album was breaking all records in the music industry. The momentum was growing with each passing day.

A two-word ad on
Billboard
's back cover in the fall of 1977 said it all. “SIX MILLION”, it read. And under those two words that were anything but simple was a picture of the album cover. Just that—nothing else needed to be said. The ad was the talk of the industry—so explosive and elegant that it got its own rave reviews from newspapers all across America. As if this salute to the album's sales figure wasn't sweet enough, one million of those sales had been in L.A. alone. To any artist, that meant a hell of a lot. To the five members of Fleetwood Mac, it was an astonishing affirmation of their talent.

It seemed like the whole world was feeling the same intense emotions that I'd felt at Producer's Workshop on that rainy afternoon barely eleven months before. On hearing
Rumours
for the first time in Studio B, I was blown away—and now it was clear that everyone else was too.
Rumours
was a phenomenon: one of those rare albums that seemed to touch everyone who heard it.

And despite the short setback from Lindsey's epilepsy that forced cancellations of important shows, the tour had been selling out in every single
city. In the U.S., Australia, Canada, Europe, and Japan, a Fleetwood Mac concert was the hottest ticket in town.

Fleetwood Mac was now world-famous—rock stars, each and every one of them—idolized and loved by millions of fans.

And within the inner circle of Fleetwood Mac, we were all growing used to it.

Used to the fame.

Used to the cocaine.

Used to the money pouring in.

Used to the adulation that comes from being at the center of a new universe seemingly spinning around us—and only us.

In L.A., we were building personal kingdoms: each band member had a castle over which to reign, with all that money could buy within its walls. Everything seemed ours for the taking. And take we did … relishing each and every fucking minute of it.

But if 1977 seemed like a fantasy, then 1978 was about to blow our slightly jaded minds. And so the New Year began …

Lindsey bought a new silver BMW 733 to park in the driveway of our new home, our Gothic mansion on June Street in Hancock Park. For me, we chose a metallic-green Beemer 528i to replace my beloved Volkswagen Beetle, which was no longer seemly for a rock star's girlfriend to drive. The rest of the band members and their variations of live-in lovers were also spending money like there was no tomorrow. Mick was adding cars to his fleet at an astounding rate. Christine and John were shopping for new homes. And Stevie was renting yet another, bigger mansion, filling its closets with furs and designer dresses—and lots and lots of platform boots.

Most of this frenzied shopping took place in December during the start of a long break in the tour. Because of the many months on the road, no one had had time to spend and enjoy the money that was now rapidly filling the band's bank accounts. During one trip to Lindsey's business managers' office to pick up documents for him, I glimpsed three separate checks lying haphazardly across the desk of his accountant. Ranging from $600,000 to $900,000, they were his writer's royalties for just the past few months.

Barely five years before, Lindsey and Stevie were hocking guitars and bouncing checks for $7—the combined price of their “fine dining” meals at
Bob's Big Boy hamburger restaurants. Stevie's salary as a waitress was not quite making ends meet as Lindsey sat at home in their tiny apartment, working on new songs for Buckingham Nicks. But their years of hard work and sacrifice were now paying off. Big time.

Even though each of us relished our new cars, clothes, and mansions, none of us could truly enjoy our new bounty. We were all too freaked about what was looming ahead in January and February. Despite all of the record sales, despite the sold-out concerts, the last big test of the band's success and musical achievement would be two music awards shows: the American Music Awards and the Grammy Awards.

Both
Rumours
and the band had been nominated for major awards at both shows. It was bizarre, to say the least, to realize that we were now going to be one of the main attractions at two of the biggest events in the music industry calendar. The entire Fleetwood Mac family was anxious and excited. Lindsey was so nervous that he was pacing the floor like an expectant father in a maternity ward.

The day before the American Music Awards, I went shopping for a new outfit, choosing a sexy black velvet suit with a tight, knee-length skirt, similar to the one I'd worn at the band's first concert for the
Rumours
tour. Too nervous to shop, Lindsey decided to wear an outfit straight out of his closet: his signature blue jeans, designer shirt, and cowboy boots. Mick, John, Christine, and Stevie would, of course, be dressed to the nines.

Because the show was filmed a few hours before it was actually shown across the country, we had to leave at 3
P.M.
for the 4:30 taping. As the limousine pulled up in front of our house, I handed Lindsey the three Dilantin pills that he needed to take each and every day to control his epilepsy, pills that he reluctantly took from me and then laid down on the side table by our couch. I sighed as I picked them up and held them out to him once again, answering his glare with a serene smile and a glass of water.

As I had surmised on that rainy night in D.C., it was primarily up to me to try to keep watch over the man I loved. Because he had no memory of his grand mal seizure—and therefore didn't truly understand what the big deal was—we went through a daily ritual of badgering and cajoling before he'd take his medication. Feeling back to normal, he didn't see the point. He hated the way the pills made him feel, he said—although through the haze of his daily joints, I found it hard to believe that the “downer” effect of
the Dilantin could be
that
shocking for him. It was one ritual that he hated, however, and even though he was distracted by the excitement of the awards show, he still bitched for ten minutes (instead of the regular twenty) about having to take his pills.

The irony of this, as that night's events unfolded, was enough to make a grown man cry. Our first red carpet event at the American Music Awards would not be the evening of “rock ‘n' roll cool” all of us had dreamed of. Rather, it would rapidly deteriorate into a real-life precursor to the film
This Is Spinal Tap.

Embarrassing as this night would prove to be, the Fleetwood Mac family would, true to form, try to distance themselves from the public spectacle by pretending that what was happening in front of their eyes was a hallucination brought on by their own intoxication. And, par for the course, they would be only too happy to leave the damage control to me.

As we climbed into the back seat of our limo, Richard Dashut greeted us. He was hitching a ride in Fleetwood Mac style. With a joint burning and a flask of Jack Daniel's cradled in his lap, he was already wasted. Lindsey smirked as he took in Richard's crooked tie, wild red eyes, and wrinkled white ruffled shirt. Grabbing the joint from his hand, he took a long drag and told him he looked like the Marquis de Sade.

Too stoned to answer, Richard giggled insanely and offered the flask to Lindsey—which, of course, he took instantly. I shook my head and sighed. He had already consumed quite a few beers at home.
Not a good idea
, I thought, as I watched him down it, then follow it with a chaser of a new joint. The smoke was already so thick inside the back of the limousine that I could barely breathe. But the sight of the two of them giggling hysterically over nothing in particular was worth the unwanted contact high that I was sure to get. Waving the majority of the fumes away from my face, I once again wished that just
once
we could go out somewhere without being surrounded by a cloud of marijuana smoke.

But it was a part of Lindsey's everyday life and I'd grown used to it. I'd also grown used to trying to spend most of my time downwind of the potent fumes of the California Gold that he loved. Even though it was hard to do, I was becoming quite adept at it. I had to be. I'd learned the hard way that Lindsey's weed was so powerful that it had me walking in circles and bumping into furniture for hours—and it wasn't a pretty sight.

Before we knew it, we'd arrived at the show and it was everything I'd thought it would be. Hundreds of fans were grouped behind barricades watching as the limousines pulled up, hoping they would unload someone they recognized. As we stepped out of
our
long, black limo, flashbulbs blinded us as the paparazzi got busy with their cameras. Cheers from the crowds behind the barricades went up with a roar as Lindsey turned to wave to one and all, a huge, inebriated grin on his face. I clung to his arm, intimidated a bit and incredibly awed that we were walking down an actual red carpet! It was the stuff of dreams and for a little while at least, I would get to enjoy the star experience of being Lindsey's lady at our first awards show.

The band was waiting for us inside, seated in a place of honor: the second row of the auditorium. Aisle seats, of course—all the better from which to jump up and dash to the stage when their name was called for the two awards for which they'd been nominated: Best Band of the Year and Best Album of the Year.

Steering Lindsey toward the empty seats beside Christine, I focused on not falling as we both clumsily climbed over the rest of the already seated band members. We collapsed into our seats just as the lights dimmed and I let out a sigh of relief, grateful to have my butt in a chair—instead of sprawled across the laps of Fleetwood Mac.