Storms (45 page)

Tusk
tour book.

And in my mind's eye there I am, seated at a vanity mirror with a curling iron in my hand, burning waves and curls into my long, straight hair. I see myself turn and watch Lindsey as he paws through the pile of clothes on the floor, searching for a clean pair of jeans or a shirt to wear to that night's venue. Looking up, he smiles and asks what I'm wearing tonight. He knows that I always have a designer outfit ready and waiting to slip into. On this tour, Armani jackets, antique skirts, and couture dresses adorn my body at every show. And as
I stand before him Lindsey tells me how beautiful I look—and because he says it, I feel it.

The phone rings, summoning us downstairs to our waiting limousine, and I rush back to the vanity table to do yet another touch-up of my makeup before we walk out the door. Lindsey leans against the wall, taking one last hit of his joint as he watches me apply lipstick and, without fail, kisses it off before he lets me leave the room.

Other images from that year are not at all pleasant, but they are just as vivid. It is a year of enough events and memories to fill ten years of life for anyone not living within the inner world of Fleetwood Mac.

A sure sign that the band's star had risen since playing New York City during the
Rumours
tour was waiting for us in the limousines that were lined up at the bottom of the stairs of Fleetwood Mac's jet. Each car had four grams of bottled blow rolling around on the black leather seats—courtesy of the limo company. The bottles were met with cries of glee as we all piled into our individual rides. Later the band would agree that it was so very, very thoughtful of the limo company to welcome us in this way to NYC. Those bottles would pretty much set the tone for the entire tour.

It was going to be an exciting, delirious, nerve-racking week and a half for both the band and myself. There was to be a party at Studio 54 in Fleetwood Mac's honor and two back-to-back, sold-out shows at Madison Square Garden. And I would be going to my long-awaited interview with the Ford Modeling Agency with Bjorn by my side.

Tusk
summer tour itinerary.

Lindsey had flown Bjorn in for the duration, not only to help me but also to do his makeup for the Manhattan shows. Playing Madison Square Garden was a dream come true for any artist and Fleetwood Mac was pulling out all the stops for this one. Press conferences, photographers, drug suppliers, and designer clothes were all in place for the highlight of this leg of the tour. Because, let's face it, being in the center of Manhattan as the hottest ticket in town was a little more exciting than being in Cincinnati, Ohio, even if the band was just as popular there. Manhattan was the shit—and all of us felt breathless with anticipation of the days ahead.

After playing three shows at the Veterans Coliseum, the band and the inner circle were en route to Studio 54. We couldn't wait to see the disco so long associated with Andy Warhol and 1970s decadence. As we pulled up in front of the club, I looked in wonder at the mob of hundreds of people clamoring to get beyond the red velvet ropes. A path cleared for us as we stepped out of our cars like royalty. It was Fleetwood Mac night and the band was the guest of honor. As paparazzi's cameras flashed and the crowd screamed, we entered the legendary Studio 54.

The music was blasting, the loud bass hitting my chest like a fist. Lavish bars surrounded a gigantic dance floor that held a raised platform dead center with couches behind silver velvet ropes and VIP signs. Studio 54 security men led us through the mass of sweaty, dancing bodies to this section and by the time we sat down I felt completely overwhelmed. We were used to big crowds, but we were used to seeing them from the distance and safety of a stage. On the long walk through the club I'd been pushed, shoved, scratched, and bruised by the huge mob of people in our way—and it was terrifying.

Lindsey grabbed my hand and shouted to make himself heard, asking if I was OK. Nodding, I clung to his arm as I looked in amazement at the chaos surrounding us. Under pulsing red strobe lights, drunk, drugged, and delirious patrons were either frenziedly dancing or literally stepping over the bodies of people lying on the floor. The unconscious unfortunates looked like they had either overdosed or just collapsed from the heat and the ear-splitting disco music pounding through the air—and no one was
doing a thing to help them. I'd never seen anything like it. To me, it looked like a scene from Dante's
Inferno
—and I hated it.

Suddenly Steve Rubell appeared in front of us and, grinning from ear to ear, asked if we'd like to accompany him to the basement. With his unruly dark hair and little-boy smile, he looked more like a disheveled college boy than one of the owners of the world's most famous nightclubs. Ready at this point to be anywhere but in the middle of the club, Lindsey grabbed my hand as the rest of the band followed Rubell through the mob and into the lower recesses of Studio 54.

Grey walls dripped with moisture as we walked down gloomy hallways into a plain room where we saw a huge mound of cocaine piled in the center of a table. Steve gestured grandly for all of us to step up and have our fill, and we gathered around the pile of blow like vultures, needing every bit of false energy we could get just to survive the party. I looked at the faces of the band and it seemed that they too were feeling exactly as I was—and I just wanted to get out of there and back to the hotel in one piece.

“Lindsey, I don't think I can go back up there!” I said desperately. With a nod of his head he pulled me close and asked Rubell to show us the way out. Shrugging, the club owner pointed to a back door and Lindsey and I sprinted for our limo and the hotel.

Once there, I sank down onto a chair and looked at Lindsey, as tears began coursing down my face. Reaching for my hand, he asked what was wrong and I tried to put into words what I was feeling. I told him that as excited as I was about my interview, I hated the world we'd just left. And to me, the world at Studio 54 was symbolic of Manhattan and the life I'd be leading if I joined the Ford Modeling Agency. As silly as it might sound, I said, I knew that I didn't belong here. I belonged in L.A. and with him. I loved New York but I didn't want to live there. Ever.

Kneeling before me, Lindsey took my face into his hands and told me that he didn't want me to accept an offer in New York. He, too, was shaken by what he'd just experienced and there was no way he wanted me to be in Manhattan on my own. As I threw myself into his arms I felt overcome with relief. No matter how much I might have wanted a career, I wasn't willing to enter a world where I instinctively knew I didn't belong.
I'll find another way
, I told myself. And I did.

During my interview the next day, Eileen Ford told me that while she loved “my look”, I was just too short for her agency. She offered to make a call for me to Elite Modeling—John Casablanca's agency. As she told me that Elite also had an office in Los Angeles, I felt weak with relief. I went straight to their offices and got signed. My nightmare had once again become a dream. I was now a professional model signed to a top agency.

A head shot of Carol Ann for an Elite Modeling card.

That night Fleetwood Mac was playing Madison Square Garden. Despite reports of countless celebrities in the audience, the band had its strict “no access” policy firmly in place. They didn't care who you were—this show was too important to let anyone distract them from the impending concert. After the unsavory episode with Rod Stewart at the Forum on the
Rumours
tour, it was a policy that they'd followed for every single show. Family and close friends were welcome for a short time, but after that it was the band's inner circle and crew whose footfalls echoed through the backstage area.

John McVie pulled me aside minutes before the concert. Shuffling his feet, he told me that he personally wanted to thank me for everything I'd done to change Lindsey's stage persona. The makeup and new wardrobe, he told me, seemed to have had a huge impact on Lindsey's stage performance, and speaking for himself and the band, it was much appreciated. I stood before him speechless at this unexpected thank you, and then he kissed me gently and walked away to join the rest of the waiting band.

Standing there silently, I realized just how much it meant to me to be finally acknowledged by Fleetwood Mac. Since meeting Lindsey I'd sworn vows, out of love for him, to help him in any way that I could with his music. I'd lived for him and his career. And it hadn't been all that easy: dealing with Stevie and her history with Lindsey; learning how to nurture a
musical genius and coping with the ups and downs of his personality; navigating the creative process and the mood swings—the blackest of which I knew only too well; dealing with the way that his music seemed to rule our daily lives.

Lindsey constantly had music going through his head. Sometimes, late at night, the unrelenting mental music drove him to the verge of desperation. With hands clasped to his head as he lay next to me in our bed, he would scream that he just wanted it to stop and leave him in silent peace. But it never did—and after three years by Lindsey's side I knew I was grateful that I wasn't born with the gift of musical genius.

It meant the world to me that I was able to find a way to not only give him emotional support but also do something tangible to help him: creating a stage persona that seemed to be succeeding beyond my wildest dreams. In under a minute John had given me a reward in just a few heartfelt words. And it was enough, because I never expected to get any thanks at all. But now that I had, I treasured the moment as I happily ran up the stage stairs to watch the man I loved perform.

Over the next few weeks the whole world would begin to acknowledge Lindsey and his new stage persona. Without fail, a review of the band's show would appear in the pages of the local city newspapers. And as the band played shows in Boston, Rochester, Philadelphia, Washington, D.C., and Pittsburgh, slowly but surely the critics' focus seemed to be changing. For the first time since Stevie and Lindsey joined the band, the reviews were not centered on Stevie. They were focused on Lindsey.

When the
Tusk
tour first began, the critics didn't know what to make of Lindsey's new persona and music. It wasn't that they didn't like it—they just seem puzzled by his stiff-legged guitar playing and wailing, screaming vocals on his new songs. Not to mention his satanic stage presence. They didn't get it. But it seemed that was changing. Now the reviews raved about Lindsey's performance, with Stevie and the rest of the band members mentioned almost as an afterthought.

No one on the morning-after plane rides knew what to say as they read the reviews of their shows. To congratulate Lindsey would be insulting to the rest of the band and especially to Stevie, who had, up until this point, been the “leader of the pack” as far as the journalists were concerned. So no one said anything. But the silence said it all. A new Fleetwood Mac
had been born with
Tusk
and Lindsey was a serious contender for the new darling of the media. In city after city after city, the same rave reviews appeared in the next day's local papers and Lindsey and I were ecstatic. His guitar playing was described as brilliant, his voice was “powerful”, and the consensus was:

“Buckingham dominates the stage and the performance!”

“Thanks to Buckingham, Fleetwood Mac reaches a new level of achievement unlike any we've ever seen!”

“Buckingham brings a fresh New Wave approach to an already superstar band!”

Buckingham … Buckingham … Buckingham …

It wasn't as if the reviewers were trashing the rest of the band. Everyone was receiving applause and recognition from the media, and Stevie was always mentioned and applauded for her performance, but it was Lindsey who was now getting his day in the sun.

And if the band had any negative reaction to this, they were keeping it to themselves, for no one wanted to mess with success. After all, the truth was staring everyone in the face: so far these shows had been the most successful, in terms of media and audience response, of any tour since Stevie and Lindsey joined Fleetwood Mac.