Storms (44 page)

J.C. stood aside as the band ran up the stairs to the stage. The voices of thousands of fans erupted into screams and cheers, echoing throughout the huge stadium with a deafening roar. As soon as the band launched into
“Say You Love Me”, I sprinted up the short flight of metal steps and stood on the left side of the platform. There was no way I would miss a second of the audience's reaction to Lindsey in the debut of his radical new music and stage persona. And I was not disappointed. On the contrary, I was about to be shocked out of my naive little mind.

As I looked out over the ocean of faces it seemed that almost every pair of eyes was glued to Lindsey. He looked so different that I thought there was at first some slight confusion in the audience about who the hell he
was.
But then, as he crossed to the mike and began to sing, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that it was indeed Lindsey Buckingham on stage.

By the second song, “The Chain”, I began to notice an audience reaction that I'd never seen (or heard) before. As Lindsey sang the lyrics, his voice was met with welcoming screams from thousands of women standing at his feet. Over and over again. Each time he sang another line, the noise of female voices threatened to almost drown out his. Lindsey started laughing, for there was no mistaking the screams for anything but what they were: the screams of women who were swooning in front of a sex symbol.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare first at Lindsey and then at the adoring faces of the women in the first fifty or so rows of the amphitheater. Realization hit me like a sledgehammer.
Oh my God… it's like he's friggin' Jim Morrison or something! Those women look like they want to rip his damn clothes off! What have I done?

I felt like going to the nearest speaker and slamming my head down on top of it.
Fuckin' great! I'm going to have about a million women trying to get their hands on my man! Shit, shit, shit!
I thought as I sank down onto one of the folding chairs that were always set up for me, Sara, and Julie and stared glumly at Lindsey. He looked gorgeous. No wonder all the girls wanted to jump onto the stage and drag him off with them.

As I sat pouting I suddenly noticed something else that was different about Lindsey and my mind began to race.
He's standing at the front of the stage! He's playing every guitar solo standing ten feet in front of Stevie! He's never done that before!
I was incredulous and as I watched I realized that not only was he placing himself on stage literally as the front man, he was also playing and singing with a feverish passion that I'd never heard before. He was performing like a man possessed. Chewing my fingernail, I thought,
Jesus! He not only looks like a demon, but he's playing like one! I think I've seen enough for now … I need a toot.

With a last look at the new, improved Lindsey, I stomped off the stage. Walking quickly through the curtains, I headed down the dirty cement hallway. And as I walked, a feeling of triumph began to wash over me and suddenly all feelings of insecurity were swept away. The realization that Lindsey's new persona had unleashed some kind of inner power within him on stage made me feel incredibly happy.
Giorgio Armani would be proud!
I thought smugly.
It's kind of like a superhero suit that he's wearing … and, I have to admit, Bjorn himself couldn't have done a better job on his makeup!

I almost felt like skipping the last few feet into the dressing room, so thrilled was I with the success of my grand plan for Lindsey's new stage look. As I entered the door, J.C. greeted me with a huge smile. “I take it you've been out on the stage, Mrs. B.? It's turning out to be one of the best shows the band's ever done! I don't think I've ever seen Lindsey play so well. I like the suit and hair. Well done.” Gesturing to the tray of cocaine-filled bottle caps, he gave me a wink and waited while I treated myself to a hit of blow.

“Thanks, J.C. The new look is perfect for him—and right now there are at least eight thousand women out there who'd agree with me!” I answered dryly.

“You don't have to worry about that, Carol Ann. Lindsey doesn't fuck around—hell, it's band policy not to let groupies come within five hundred feet of their backstage. Fleetwood Mac protects their women from that kind of bullshit. You don't have a thing to worry about.”

“I know—it's just going to take some getting used to. I mean he's a damn sex symbol on stage now, J.C.! But I'm excited about it. After all, I styled it! Want to walk back out with me to see the show?”

With a grin J.C. took my arm and we walked back outside and stood next to the stage. Once there, we watched in amazement as the band gave what promised to be the best performance we'd ever seen. It was like they were all painted with magic.

The energy that was being created on stage swirled over the crowd like crashing waves and then surged back again, sweeping through the air and coloring it with shimmering waves of sound. J.C. and I looked at each other
open-mouthed as we watched what was happening up on the huge platform. It was obvious to us both that what we were watching was a relentless power struggle on stage. Three members of Fleetwood Mac were mercilessly waging war against each other, using music and performance as their weapons.

Fueled (and not amused) by Lindsey's showstopping guitar licks and now undeniable stage presence, Stevie was giving the performance of her life. Barely looking in Lindsey's direction—ever—she was doing the show as though she were the only person on stage. Beige chiffon swirling, voice wailing and soaring, she was doing her best to outshine Lindsey and put herself back into the spotlight that she had so long been accustomed to occupying
alone.
Christine was competing with Stevie, and John and Mick were caught up in the fury of sound, feeding the battle between their three lead singers with the raw power of bass and drums.

Stevie Nicks.

“Jesus Christ!”
J.C. shouted above the music. He gave me a wink and we grinned at each other, sharing a moment that gave both of us a conspiratorial thrill. It was obvious that Lindsey had turned a corner in his stage presence and performance. He was, in our eyes
and undoubtedly in those of the audience as well, winning the struggle to be the center-stage star at
this
show—and we both knew what that was going to mean to him.

Lindsey had long lived in the shadow of Stevie on stage. His musical genius and amazing guitar playing were often overshadowed by the powerful visual presence of a beautiful blonde dressed in revealing black chiffon. It was a visual presence that gave Stevie's amazing musical abilities a bit of an unfair advantage. But now that Lindsey had become a newborn sex symbol, it looked like all that was about to change
—was
changing—right before our eyes.

J.C. and I stayed by the stage, unable to tear our eyes away from Fleetwood Mac. Looking around, I saw that most of the road crew were standing with us, staring up at the stage as the band played through their set, as enthralled as we were.

And let's face it, when the Fleetwood Mac family itself—who at that point had witnessed over one hundred shows—was mesmerized by the band's performance, then you could bet your life that the show was the best that any of us had seen.

As the concert neared its end, J.C. insisted that I go back to the safety of the “unlimited-access only” barricaded area backstage, as the crowd out front was getting increasingly out of control. People were surging toward the stage, pushing and shoving their way into the aisles with looks of intense and scary determination on their faces. J.C. pulled a walkie-talkie out of his pocket, barking orders for security guards to rush down front, now!

Climbing onto the stage, I looked in shock at the chaos lying before me. I saw people falling and getting trampled as others climbed over their prostrate bodies in their frenzy to reach the band. I flashed back to the show in Paris during the
Rumours
tour and knew that history was repeating itself. I found myself shrinking away from the chaos in front of me. To my relief, the ones who'd fallen got back onto their feet and joined in the ocean of people, who were like sharks in a feeding frenzy. They were swarming and clawing their way toward the objects of their fanatical desire: the members of Fleetwood Mac.

Greg grabbed me by the arm and started to pull me off the stage. “Greg!” I shouted over the music. “Is the band going to be OK?”

“We've called for extra security—we're not going to let anyone get close to them, don't worry”, he screamed back. “It's not safe out here, Carol! J.C. wants you back in the dressing room. This crowd is out of control. Man, the band really worked them into a frenzy, huh? Come on, Carol, we gotta
run
to the dressing room. I have to get right back out here. The band's gonna need all of us when they try to leave the stage.
Jesus Christ!
I've never seen anything like it!”

Looking over my shoulder at the mob of hungry faces behind me, I allowed myself to be taken by the hand and led backstage like a child, grateful for the protection of Greg's muscular physique.

Stevie and Lindsey on stage.

“Come on, Carol, run … run! The show's almost over and I have to be out here for the band. Man, this show was bitchin'!” Greg yelled as we took off down the huge inner cement hallway. Getting to the dressing room, he threw open the door and pushed me inside. “Lock the door! Don't open it up until we bring the band back!”

Breathless with excitement over the success of the show and the audience response to their new songs, the five members of Fleetwood Mac burst through the doors triumphantly. Exhausted, sweaty, and happy, they crowded together, sharing the moment in pure celebration. The fact that the audience had gotten worked up into a mob-like frenzy had blown everyone's minds. There was a feeling in the dressing room of having just survived a siege. I knew that, in a sense, they had. It was a remarkable contrast to the aftermath of the first show of the
Rumours
tour, and all of the band knew it.

No more words were spoken about Lindsey's new “gay” stage persona. It was obvious to all of the band and crew that he rocked the house—and whatever caused him to play the best performance of his life was not open
to debate. No one cared. All that mattered was that Lindsey fueled the fire behind the band's kick-ass show and it was clear that every member of the band thoroughly enjoyed trying to upstage each other.

And no matter what the critics might have been saying about Lindsey's songs on the new album, the next year on the road would prove that his radical change in musical direction and stage persona would be the star power that burned like fire every time the band took the stage during the yearlong
Tusk
tour.

When I close my eyes and think back to the
Tusk
tour, I see a hotel room with silver Halliburton suitcases thrown open on the floor. Dresses, shoes, blue jeans, wrinkled designer jackets, and beaded, hand-tooled belts spill across the carpet, creating a kaleidoscope of colors against the muted tones of the suite's interior. There's a room-service table sitting in the middle of the room, overflowing with dirty dishes and ashtrays full of cigarette butts and half-smoked joints. A cassette player sits on the end of the bed blasting the Clash or Talking Heads.