Storms (51 page)

Jim was happy with the shoot, as was I—until he told me what he assumed would be an amusing anecdote. Jim laughingly told me that one of Glenn Frey's friends had asked for my phone number from him—
and I gasped in horror. Glenn's band opened for a small part of the
Rumours
tour and one of his band members shadowed my every move on the road. And Lindsey was not pleased. It led to an apology from Glenn to me (even though it wasn't his fault) and I was more than relieved when his band's stint with the tour was over. With all that was happening in the unhappy world of Fleetwood Mac, all I needed was to start receiving phone calls from an obsessed male admirer. The very thought made my blood run cold.

When I landed in Oahu two days later, Lindsey was waiting for me at the airport. He looked wan and thin as he threw his arms around me. There was a haunted expression in his eyes now that wasn't there before Australia. It reminded me of a photograph I saw once of a soldier standing alone in the jungles of Vietnam, looking lost and at war with his own demons—demons that he never realized existed. And as I held Lindsey a wave of empathy and concern washed over me. And I knew that my appearance was the mirror image of his. For the first time in my life I was having horrible headaches that lasted for hours and nightmares that lasted all night. The Far East
Tusk
tour had taken its toll on both of us.

The band was playing three shows on Oahu, and then taking a month off before the next leg of the tour. I took a deep breath as I climbed out of the limo and headed toward the backstage dressing room. With all of the ugly, sordid events of Australia weighing heavily on everyone's shoulders, it was a tense and cold atmosphere that greeted me as I entered the room. The usual banter, ribald joking, and excitement was now replaced with uneasy glances, resentment, and a heavy silence as the five members of the band went about their pre-show rituals.

But you know what? For the first time since meeting Lindsey I really didn't give a damn about the intrigues and soap-opera dramas that were ebbing and surging around the backstage and its inhabitants. I'd had enough. It seemed almost childish and definitely self-indulgent of the band members to walk around with their alternating tragic, angry, and martyred expressions.
Why don't they just sit down and talk to each other?
I thought in frustration.
Why is everything always allowed to simmer and fester until the inevitable explosion? I understand why Stevie can't do it with Lindsey—but maybe if the rest of the band did that then none of this would have happened. I really believe that they thrive on it. Enough already.

I had my own personal trauma to deal with and the usual Fleetwood Mac soap opera just couldn't compare with what I experienced in Australia during my fight with Lindsey in our hotel room. I just wanted to go home and put the past weeks behind me. And I was not alone.

Richard Dashut had quit. Those three shows in Hawaii would be his last on the
Tusk
tour. He was tired of touring, he told me. He needed a break and he didn't know when, if ever, he'd tour with the band again. Even though I was surprised and saddened to hear that Richard would no longer be on the road, I completely understood. Touring with Fleetwood Mac was insane at the best of times. It was hell on earth during the worst.

Despite the storm clouds hanging over all of us, the shows passed without incident. Everyone was just too tired and emotionally drained to do any more damage to the fragile ties that were keeping the band together. But in the middle of the grimness a little light shone—even if it was unintentional satire at my expense.

Backstage after the first show, I looked up in surprise as I heard Stevie calling my name as she beckoned me into the small makeup room. Surprised and curious, I followed her into the brightly lit room. Stevie threw her arms around me and gave me a brief hug and then stood with both of her hands resting on my shoulders. She told me that she wanted to talk to me about Lindsey and my relationship with him.
Please no
, I thought desperately.
I can't deal with another scene right now. I really can't.
I started to pull away from her but found that her slim fingers were holding me tightly. Trapped, I waited with resignation for whatever was coming.

I got a thirty-minute lecture about how to be the perfect woman for Lindsey. She told me that she was aware of how difficult it must be to live with him. She should know, she said. We both began laughing and I started to relax. She went on and on about how perfect Lindsey and I were for each other. After fifteen minutes she started talking about auras and visions and for the life of me I couldn't really make sense of what she was saying. I mean, Stevie's philosophy about “Life with Lindsey Buckingham” was so mystical and otherworldly that a mere mortal had no hope of understanding it.

After twenty-five minutes head was spinning. I knew that Lindsey must be wondering where I was, and just when I was about to make my excuses to Stevie and tell her thanks for the talk but I gotta go, I heard a voice
behind me say, “OK. That's great. It's a wrap in here.” Turning in shock, I saw that a camera crew had filmed the entire discussion. With my back to them, I had no idea they were there—but Stevie knew. As soon as they said, “It's a wrap”, she smiled sweetly at me and swept out of the room.

Unh! I can't believe what just happened! She just used me for one of her “crystal vision” speeches and it's all on fucking tape! I can't friggin' believe it! How embarrassing is this? Oh my God.
Grabbing the camera operator by the arm, I demanded an explanation. “It's for the documentary we started in Japan. I thought you knew we were taping! It's a great piece. I'm sure we'll use some of it. We'll send you a copy when it's finished.”

“Don't bother. You might have Stevie's permission to use this, but you don't have mine. If you have a problem with that, take it up with Lindsey!” I said sharply. With a not too pleased nod the camera operator looked balefully at me as I stomped past him and went in search of Lindsey. After I told him what just happened, he laughed.

“It's just Stevie doing her high-priestess act, Carol. I'll tell the director to cut it. Too bad you had your back to the camera, though. It could have been your big break into the movies!” he sniggered. With a roll of my eyes, I followed him out to our waiting limo.

After the last show Richard was given a royal send-off—Fleetwood Mac style, of course. He was made to crawl and grovel through the debris of a huge cake to find a gold Rolex watch given as a parting gift by the band. Cream pies were thrown like confetti by the crew at each other, the band, and the inner circle before a cheering crowd of fans gathered in the backstage area.

But, despite the surface appearance of camaraderie and celebration, there was an underlying tension that showed in the subdued but still malevolent glances between Christine, Stevie, and Lindsey. And as soon as Richard found his watch the band members departed in their separate limos in an unseemly rush to be rid of each other. With half-hearted goodbyes we scattered to the four winds to take our month off to recover from the Far East
Tusk
tour.

Over the next month Lindsey and I stayed in our new home on Coldwater Canyon, trying to leave the stress behind us and doing our best not to speak of the events in Australia, which wasn't hard. Lindsey refused to speak about what happened between us and honestly, I was afraid to insist. I told myself that we both needed to heal and that what was done was done. And I told myself that it couldn't possibly happen again.

We spent our days lying by the pool, going out to our favorite restaurants, and trying to keep to a “healthy” lifestyle. We didn't do blow, we had no all-night parties, and, most importantly, we had no contact whatsoever with the band. The only dark cloud hanging over us was the sales figures for
Tusk.

They were very disappointing to Lindsey and it wasn't just the new direction of the album that had hurt sales. Warner Bros. broadcast the entire album on the radio a week before its release. Fans by the thousands taped the whole thing, thus avoiding having to spend hard-earned money on a double album. Bootlegs were already circulating across the country, and they were a lot cheaper than the $16.98 that the stores were asking.

My experience in bootleg records came in handy this month as I explained to Lindsey, over and over again, the realities of avid fans and collectors when it came to music: taping a radio broadcast of an unreleased album was a fan's fantasy, an artist's nightmare, and a record bootlegger's dream. There was little doubt that people were listening to the record. It was just that, thanks to the radio broadcast, they didn't have to pay for it.

But we both knew that the band members would blame Lindsey for the sales and not the preemptive radio broadcast that had cut deeply into those numbers. He was the easiest target. Unlike Lindsey, the band wasn't into the Clash and the Sex Pistols or finding a new direction in their music. They still didn't seem to get his new music at all. Even so, Lindsey stood by his
creative decision to not do another
Rumours
album. And I was his most ardent supporter.

Lindsey offering his idea for a new stage look.

Two weeks before we left to go back out on the road, Lindsey asked me to design a new stage look for him for the rest of the tour. He was tired of the suit and wanted something completely different. I designed flowing, sheer loose shirts made from silk gauze with gold and silver threads and paste jewels glittering against their sheer fabrics. Once made, they resembled New Wave pirate shirts. I also chose heavy Chinese silk cloth embossed with dragons and symbols for three fitted blazer jackets in silver, blue, and red. He'd wear the shirts and jackets with blue jeans. Armed with Lindsey's measurements, I took the designs and fabric to a seamstress and by the time we went on the road they were ready. And, just like the Armani suit, the new wardrobe rocked.

A day before we climbed on board the Fleetwood Mac jet we got the news that we had a buyer for our June Street house: Francis Ford Coppola. The director of
The Godfather
would be moving in as soon as it was out of escrow. Collapsing in hysterical laughter, Lindsey and I spent the day envisioning break-in scenarios where the hapless degenerates of Hollywood came face to face with Marlon Brando, Robert De Niro, and Al Pacino sipping coffee in our living room. And we knew that if that were to happen, Coppola could just turn off the alarm system permanently. Because nobody liked waking up with a decapitated horse's head under their bed covers, Coppola's offer on our house was one that we just couldn't refuse.

The U.S. tour was subdued but successful. The band and the inner circle were walking on eggshells around one another. None of us wanted a repeat of Australia. And slowly but surely the fractured relationships between band members were healing. If anything, the ugly scenes in Australia had shocked all of us into being on our best behavior. We were so polite and
solicitous to one another that it was downright sickening. But still, it was a welcome change from the ugly tension and viciousness that had left all of us scarred from the last leg of the tour.

We left for Germany on May 25 and on the first day of June, the band headlined an outdoor show at Munich's Olympic Horse Riding Stadium. Playing before thirty thousand people in the huge, rainswept stadium was mind-blowing for the entire Fleetwood Mac family. Watching the vast and frenzied German audience made all of us realize just how loved the band's music had become. It was one thing to know the album sales and the chart numbers, but it was quite another to see with your own eyes thirty thousand young, hip
German
rockers singing along in English to “Go Your Own Way.” And it was a pretty sensational kick-off for the European
Tusk
tour.

It was Mick and J.C.'s genius idea to have us travel by train through Germany and into France and Holland. At least it would have been a genius idea if not for one small macabre fact. The lounge car of our small private train once belonged to Adolf Hitler. When we first boarded we oohed and aahed over the luxurious velvet curtains and sofas, the gilded lighting fixtures and the gleaming wood interior of the perfectly preserved coach. Then we found out who the original owner was and we all felt like vomiting. It was totally sick and no one—not even the Third Reich collector maniac John McVie—could stand spending more than one minute within its walls. And it got worse.