Storms (53 page)

The rest of the tour through Europe seemed tame compared with Germany. The finale was six sold-out shows in Wembley Stadium in London. Like the Forum in L.A. and Madison Square Garden in New York, playing
Wembley was the epitome of success for a rock band. And Fleetwood Mac gave amazing performances at each of the shows.

Carol Ann and Lindsey playing Monopoly on a day off.

But it wasn't the Fleetwood Mac shows that had Lindsey and I so excited about being in London. We were going to see the Clash play in a small hall on the outskirts of the city. This band had inspired Lindsey to walk down a new path with his music and both of us had memorized all the lyrics from their double album
London Calling.
We'd played it nonstop on this tour. So it was a nice change for Lindsey to be the one feeling the excitement of being a fan instead of the adored artist. And I was every bit as thrilled.

The concert was held in an old decrepit hall. Stark and dirty, it was absolutely perfect as a backdrop for the band. Dressed in ripped jeans and T-shirts, we managed to slip unnoticed into the upstairs balcony, Lindsey keeping his head down.

When the Clash took the stage, the punked-out audience went mad. The music hit us like a wall of unpolished sound and raw emotion. The acoustics and almost nonexistent mixing board erased the subtle nuances of the recorded versions, but still, it was the Clash, and that was all that mattered. They were the antithesis of Fleetwood Mac—gangling blue-collar boys singing rage-infused melodies. It was dripping with feeling and Lindsey listened in rapt attention as he downed pint after pint of beer.

Once the show was over I almost had to carry him out to the car. Thinking all my troubles were over as soon as Lindsey and I were seated in the limo, I settled in for a nice ride back to the hotel. Just as the car got on the freeway, Lindsey announced in a loud voice that he had to pee. Looking in dismay at the road, I could see that there were no exits in sight. None. “Lindsey, you can wait, right? I mean, there's nowhere the driver can pull over!”

With a shrug and shrill giggle Lindsey said, “Too bad”—he had to go and that was that. The driver was watching us in his rearview mirror with a stunned expression on his face as Lindsey started unzipping his jeans.

“Oh, hell no, Lindsey! You can't just pee in here!” I said as I, too, started to giggle hysterically. “Wait! Take off your boot! Use that!” By this time we were both laughing so hard that I was about to pee my own pants as I struggled to get Lindsey's cowboy boot off his foot. And within thirty seconds he was pissing away inside his boot as our driver looked on in horror.

We rode the rest of the way into London with the sound of urine sloshing around in a $600 Tony Lama cowboy boot. I think Joe Strummer would approve, I told Lindsey as we tossed it into the gutter before the scowling face of our driver. As he ambled through the plush lobby of our hotel Lindsey looked arrogant, drunk, and a bit lopsided. Actually, he looked like he belonged on stage with the Clash.

The band returned to the States for a four-week break. But when I got back, instead of a peaceful month off, I began to experience terrifying attacks of illness that struck me out of the blue. First I'd break out in a cold sweat, which would be quickly followed by nausea, chest pains, and room-spinning disorientation. When the room stopped whirling, a severe headache was the signal that, for the time being, all that was left was pain, and then the episode would be over. The attacks lasted for over an hour, leaving me so weak that I couldn't even walk across the room without Lindsey's help.

After a battery of blood tests, neurological MRIs, and electrocardiograms, the specialists could find no real cause for the attacks. Since leaving the road I hadn't touched cocaine and since I never drank alcohol, the doctors were completely baffled by my symptoms. But they had plenty of medications to treat them. I was given an arsenal of pain medication, heart medication, and antianxiety drugs. I had so many pills to take at specific times that I had to keep a time sheet in my purse to remind me when and how to take them all. And I hated it, but the attacks were so bad that I'd do anything to make them stop.

While both Lindsey and I were worried about my health, we were too busy to dwell on it. The band had the last leg of the
Tusk
tour yet to complete and I didn't have time to be sick. And I didn't want Lindsey to worry about me. So I started hiding my pain, my nausea, and my fear about what was happening
to me.
He needs me to be strong for him. There's a lot of shows left to do and his health is what's important, not mine
, I told myself. I packed my medications along with my clothes and left with Lindsey for the summer
Tusk
tour.

Lindsey and Jeff Buckingham playing Risk on the road.

It was the last six weeks of a grueling yearlong tour and everything had a sameness to it now. The cities went by in a blur of chaotic hotel rooms, limos, and sold-out shows. The fights between band members were repeats of the ones that had gone before: the same words, same accusations, same anger, same everything. The drug and alcohol consumption had increased alarmingly, but everyone was so exhausted that no one even noticed. At this point, whatever it took to get the band and its inner circle through the days and nights of life on the road was done without thought or concern over anything as mundane as health or worry over being wasted in front of fans and reporters. We just didn't care.

Greg Thomason offering advice.

To fill the boring hours, the Fleetwood Mac family entertained themselves with “all in the family” sex. There were so many “affairs” going on that I couldn't keep track of who was sleeping with whom. Curry was spending long nights “visiting” Stevie; Sharon Celani, Stevie's wardrobe girl, was ending her relationship with our latest security man, Jet, and beginning a new one with Lindsey's faithful roadie, Ray Lindsey; Christie, the makeup artist, not only had an on-again, off-again “friendship” with Curry but was falling in love with Greg; John McVie (who was still in the doghouse with his wife Julie after spending lovely evenings with one of the band's personal
assistants at the beginning of the tour) was once again making cow eyes at the assistant. And Mick was prowling around
again
, having a mysterious “affair” with a woman no one had even seen but with whom he swore he was “in love.” But at least this unknown woman wasn't a member of the Fleetwood Mac sixteen—and I gave him credit for that.

It had gotten so bad that people couldn't even be bothered to hide their sex toys. One morning I opened the door of our room to place our breakfast dishes outside and glanced down at the breakfast tray sitting on the floor next to mine. On it was a tall, thin cardboard box with a picture of a vibrator emblazoned on the side—and thrown on top of that was an empty battery package. Screaming with hysterical laughter, I rushed inside to drag Lindsey out into the hall for a look, and we both almost gagged as we realized that the room belonged to a member of our personal security who'd spent the night with one of Stevie's crew members. We were completely grossed out. It was the kind of information we didn't need. Lindsey and I didn't care what people did behind closed doors, but Jesus, don't leave your nasty, giant vibrator box
outside
the door of your boss's room. It was very trashy, very uncool, and very, very icky.

Not surprisingly, everyone's health was deteriorating rapidly. Mick was having severe problems with his hypoglycemia; extra doses of Dilantin were slipped to Lindsey during the performances to counteract any warning signs of another seizure; I was taking my prescription drugs precisely as ordered while chasing them with cocaine to offset the drowsiness they caused; and Christine, Stevie, and John were self-medicating with any and every available substance backstage. We were just trying to get through it at that point, trying to survive the last exhausting weeks in any way we could.

“Tell Your Story Walkin'” button
.

If one thing summed up the summer tour for
Tusk
it was the badge-like buttons that J.C. had ordered for the band, inner circle, and crew. They read: “Tell Your Story Walkin'.” It was exactly how we were feeling inside: “Get the fuck away from me. Don't talk to me, don't bother me, just get the hell away. I don't give a shit about what your ‘story' was, will be, or is. Just leave me the fuck alone.”

Already antisocial before the tour, we'd become isolationists—and anyone not inside the inner circle was viewed at best with distaste and boredom, and at worst with hostility bordering on hate. During the
Rumours
tour and the beginning of this one Fleetwood Mac would always stop and sign autographs for the fans. They'd always smile even when they felt like shit, always do their best to answer questions and pose for pictures when they'd rather be doing anything but catering to the public. And always, always, they tried to present a united front to show that they were warm, friendly, and approachable.

Summer
Tusk
tour schedule.