Storms (46 page)

After New York, Dennis Wilson and Sara joined us in Philadelphia. I was ecstatic to have them there. Dennis fell all over himself apologizing for what he said to Christine about both of us, and in a heartbeat it was forgiven. It was impossible to stay mad at Dennis. He was like a wicked little child and when he smiled at you, you had to smile back. Sara and I were joined at the hip backstage and we gossiped and giggled our way through the show. As we sat in the dressing room Dennis joined us, looking higher than God Almighty as he stumbled into the room.

“I want to go up on stage, you guys! Will you walk out with me? I tried to go on my own, but I couldn't seem to find my way. I got fuckin' lost and I had to come back here to do another line to have the energy to try again! Come on, girls, do a line with me and let's go see the end of the show. I want to watch Christine do ‘Songbird.' OK? Pretty please?”

As Sara and I looked at each other we burst into laughter. The thought of Dennis wandering aimlessly backstage and more than likely bouncing off concrete walls was hysterical. As we got up to lead him to the band we had no idea that we were about to see one of the most classic Dennis moments we'd ever witnessed.

At this venue the only way to get around to stage right, where our chairs were waiting on stage, was to go under the actual stage itself. And it was a bit of a hazardous walk. Steel beams and girders threaded through our path, but it was well lit and not all that hard to navigate—for us. Dennis was following behind us, talking a blue streak, when suddenly there was a loud thunk and then dead silence. Whirling around, we saw Dennis lying flat on his back, knocked out cold. He'd hit his head on one of the beams and a huge welt was already forming over one of his eyes. As Sara and I knelt over him, about to shout for help, he opened his slightly crossed eyes and grinned. “Shit! Didn't see that one! Fuck! Help me up, girls … Let's get out there!”

“Damn, Dennis! Are you OK? Maybe you need to go lie down for a little while!” I said as he struggled to his feet using us as his anchors.

Christine and Stevie on stage.

“I'm fine! Bit of a headache, though.” Taking him firmly by the arms between us, now laughing hysterically, we managed to steer him out from under the stage and up onto it. Finally sitting him down on a chair between
us, Sara and I gave our attention to the show and watched the band perform. And then it happened.

We heard another loud thunk as we felt a whoosh of air, and instead of Dennis's head between us, we were now looking at his feet. He'd fallen over backward in his chair and was lying as helpless as a turtle on his back right in front of fifteen thousand Fleetwood Mac fans. Still in a seated position with his chair under him, he blinked a few times and grinned.

Screaming with laughter, Sara and I knelt once again beside him, rolled him onto his side, and helped him to his feet. Lindsey was watching out of the corner of his eye and I could see that he was having a hard time trying to keep a straight face as he watched Dennis, Sara, and me struggle like Lucy and Ethel with Desi in the 1950s sitcom. Finally we got Dennis back into his chair and I stood behind him to make sure that he didn't fall over again on my watch. The good news was that he got to hear “Songbird” the bad news was that he was going to have to endure a week's worth of vicious teasing by the Fleetwood Mac inner circle.

In the midst of all our good times and the band's success, tragedy was about to strike. In Champaign, Illinois, a horrific event took place during the show: a fan was knifed to death during a fight in the balcony. Halfway through the band's performance, J.C. walked into the dressing room, ashen-faced and shaken. Taking me aside, he told me in a low voice about the incident. The details were murky and we had no idea why it had happened—only that it had. As I looked at him in shock he asked me to not say a word to anyone.

“We have to let the police handle it, Carol Ann. It's not going to help anything to upset the band and the crew about it. I'll tell them about it tomorrow on the plane. I just can't believe that something like this could happen at one of our shows. This isn't Altamont—those are nice kids out there, not members of the Hell's Angels. I don't understand it.”

As he poured himself a stiff drink, I sank down on a couch and stared into space. The incident at Altamont in 1969 when, during a Rolling Stones concert, fights broke out between the Hell's Angels guarding the Stones and the fans, was now legend. To think that a violent death had occurred in a place where people had gathered to enjoy the music of Fleetwood Mac was inconceivable to me. And I knew that when they heard of it the band would be devastated.

John and Stevie on stage.

The death cast a pall over the next weeks on the road, and it was with relief that we returned to Los Angeles to play five shows at the Forum. The USC Trojan Marching Band would be a part of each concert and that, of course, added to our excitement. All five shows were sold out and each night the band's dressing room was packed with family, friends, and the usual glad-handing executives. An exception to the usual somewhat-smarmy executives was Danny Goldberg. Young, handsome, hip, funny, and brilliant, Danny was co-owner of Modern Records and had recently signed Stevie as a solo artist. Her future
Bella Donna
album would go to number one on Danny's label. He had a great friendship with Stevie and was also a close friend to the band. He was at many of the shows, and the Mac family was always glad to see him walk in. He, along with all of us, was eagerly anticipating the Forum shows. Like the rest of the tour, the band would be playing their hearts out.

But the highlight of each night was when the band performed the song “Tusk.” Huge red curtains were hung around the stage shielding the USC kids from the eyes of the audience until the song began. As the band launched into the raucous strains of “Tusk”, the curtains parted and the marching band, in full Trojan uniform, joined in, its members high-stepping
down the aisles among the audience as they played their instruments. It was absolutely brilliant and it brought the house down.

The last three shows of the fall 1979
Tusk
tour were in San Francisco at the Cow Palace. Even though these shows were amazing, the USC Trojan Marching Band was greatly missed by all of us. If we could have, we would have had them on the road with us for the entire tour. It was debated back and forth before the beginning of the tour, but the cost was astronomical, and in a rare moment of restraint Fleetwood Mac put cost over want and the marching band was left behind in L.A. But that was pretty much the only time budget came into play during this tour.

The money pouring in from record sales and box-office receipts was being spent hand over fist by every member of Fleetwood Mac. During the past seven weeks, grand pianos had been delivered to both Christine's and Stevie's hotel rooms whenever they wanted them. Hotel suites were painted pink if Stevie felt she needed to be surrounded by the flattering, soothing shade in order to perform. Cocaine was flown out on a regular basis by a dealer on the band's payroll, and Dom Pérignon was sipped like water by every member of the inner circle during all-night parties held in the best hotels across the country. While it was true that the tour had been grueling despite the five-star luxury, if we'd suffered, we'd done it in style.

By this time any little thing that the band wanted to do was done on such a huge scale that sometimes even we couldn't believe it. The last show in San Francisco happened to be on J.C.'s birthday. Before the concert, John McVie came tiptoeing up behind me and whispered into my ear that Lindsey and I had to hightail it out of the hall and back to the Saint Francis Hotel, where we were all staying, ASAP after the show.

“I'm planning a big surprise for J.C. and I want all the band to be there for it. Believe me, Carol, when you see what it is, you're going to absolutely die. And when you get to the hotel, go straight to J.C.'s room. Promise me you won't say a word to Courage, OK? Just get there as fast as you can”, he said with a wicked laugh.

Whatever's going on, it's got to be big
, I thought.
John has never in his life wanted to rush back to the hotel after a show. Damn, he's usually the last person to leave the hall. Yep, whatever's in store for J.C., it's big.
As soon as the band left the stage I whispered John's words into Lindsey's ear and within fifteen minutes all of the band members were in their limos heading back to
the hotel, leaving a very puzzled J.C. behind. None of us had even wished him a happy birthday yet and he was worried. He knew that something was going on, and the entire evening he'd walked around with the look of a doomed man. And rightly so, I found out as soon as we arrived at his hotel suite.

Even before we knocked I heard weird sounds emanating from behind the door. Scratching, cackling noises that were distinctly out of place in a stuffy, conservative hotel like the Saint Francis—or at a motel, for that matter. A giggling Mick opened the door and ushered us into a room that was filled with chickens and covered with straw. With a high-pitched scream I ducked as three chickens went flying by my head in a flutter of wings. With a hysterically laughing Lindsey beside me, I stared in shock at the scene before me. Everywhere I turned there were chickens and roosters. Birds were perching in the middle of J.C.'s suitcase, on the television, on chairs and tables, and cackling happily on the straw covering the expensive carpet.

Hearing Dennis's voice coming from the bathroom, I dodged the chickens and poked my head inside. He was lying in the bathtub, fully dressed, with a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of blow in the other. He tossed me the bottle and gestured toward the rooster grandly perched on the toilet.

“Pretty fuckin' cool, huh?”

Since it was pointless to even try to speak above the hysterical laughter coming from the rapidly filling outer room, I nodded my head and grinned as I dumped some blow on the back of my hand. Dennis looked completely demented lying in the tub, but not all that out of place in the shambles of a once-luxurious hotel suite. J.C. arrived and with laughter and good-natured curses, he accepted the inevitable and joined in with the serious partying going on around him.

With all of us coming and going at will, the chickens began to escape from the room and wander the hallway, pecking their way into open elevators and riding down into the lobby of the staid hotel. As the stunned hotel management chased hens around their plush lobby, they were not as amused as we. It would be the last time the band would be allowed to even walk through their hallowed halls—and it was with both relief and loathing that they wished us a firm goodbye forever as we departed for the airport the next day and headed back to L.A. for separate vacations for a six-week break in the tour.

Lindsey and I went straight to Hawaii and spent three weeks in Oahu and Maui. Alone, drug-free (except for Lindsey's pot), and relaxed, we savored every single minute we were there. Tan, rested, and happy, we returned to L.A. expecting to spend the next few weeks quietly enjoying our home. Instead, we were about to walk into a nightmare. Unlocking our door, we were met by a frazzled-looking Bob Aguirre.