Storms (52 page)

John McVie on the European
Tusk
tour.

The elderly and distinguished white-jacketed attendant on board was once the Führer's own servant. It was a little like being on a train from hell. Needless to say, we spent the entire time in the dining car and in our private tiny sleeping rooms, trying to avoid the train's ghastly lounge car and its polite but creepy manservant. We counted the
minutes until we could get off and leave the Twilight Zone for our hotel in the cities scheduled on this leg of the tour.

Two days after Munich, on a hot and sunny day, Fleetwood Mac played before fifteen thousand American GIs on the U.S. Army base an hour outside of West Berlin. All of us had been looking forward to this show. The stage was gigantic and the band started playing before dusk in deference to the soldiers' early-morning wake-up time on the base. I was wearing a cropped white top and long, thin gauze skirt over knee-high boots, and under the klieg lights and the still-smothering heat of the waning sun, I was dying from the heat.

As I stood on the side of the stage I noticed that there were two huge fans set up behind the band to cool them down as they performed and I walked over to stand in front of one. The stage was so large that I assumed that I'd be barely noticeable as Fleetwood Mac swirled and performed in front of me. But I was wrong. As I stood there enjoying the wind on my back, flashbulbs started popping like mad and wolf whistles replaced the cheers that had only moments before been accompanying the band's set.

What the … ? What's going on? Did Stevie's top fall down or something?
I thought in bewilderment. For there was no mistaking the soldiers' reaction—a male roar of approval for a skimpily clad female. Looking in confusion at Stevie still draped in her shawls, I gave a mental shrug and went back to listening to the music.

Suddenly I saw J.C. charging toward me. Laughing so hard that his face was crimson, he grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me frantically toward the side of the stage. “What are you doing, J.C.? Have you lost your mind?” I shouted as I tried to shake off his arm.

“Oh my God, Carol! You have to get off the stage right now!” he shouted back as he stood in front of me, blocking my view of the front of the stage. As the soldiers started booing he doubled over in hysterical guffaws.

“What's happening? I don't understand! What did I do?” I screamed as I peered over J.C.'s shoulders at the thousands of guys in the audience.

“Carol, you're standing in front of lights and a fan. Your skirt is see-through! You look stark naked up here except for your boots! It's like you're a
Playboy
pin-up! It's ruining the show—no one's paying any attention to the band! You gotta get off the stage right now! I'm not kidding, man. Oh my God!” J.C. gasped through his giggles.

Looking down at my skirt in horror, I clamped my hand over my mouth and screamed,
“Jesus
, J.C.! Get me
outta
here!” Grabbing his hand, we both took off running as the soldiers applauded and whistled. With the sound of laughter and cheers ringing behind me, I fled backstage with J.C.

Jeez
, I thought as we scurried through the backstage halls,
I bet more pictures were taken of me than of the band tonight. It could have been worse, I guess. At least my T-shirt isn't see-through.
I felt like banging my head down on the nearest table as I meekly hid in the band's dressing room for the rest of the show. I'd be mercilessly teased for days about my unintentional burlesque performance in front of America's GIs. But at least I did my part by lifting the spirits of American soldiers.

The Third Reich train carried us to Cologne, where two shows were scheduled. At the first I watched the band's entire set standing below the stage. I was still chagrined about making a public spectacle of myself in front of the GIs and I paid penance by standing in the dark wings and watching from afar.

After the show our caravan of seven limousines pulled up in front of our hotel and came to a dead halt. There was nowhere to park—the whole front of the building was already lined with limos. We climbed awkwardly out into traffic as our angry driver cursed the other cars. It was normal for there to be a few other limos at any of the five-star hotels we stayed at on the road, but to see an endless line of long cars was definitely out of the ordinary. And as soon as we entered the lobby we found out whose they were.

Mick Jagger, with his entourage of about thirty people, was sitting in the opulent lobby. He was holding court seated alone on a gold velvet couch and he called out a welcome to us as we stood gaping at his unexpected presence. Gesturing royally for us to enter his abode, he started with a loud, “So sorry I missed your show, mates. Couldn't make it, I'm afraid … but have a quick drink with me.”

Looking diminutive but every inch the rock star that he was, he held up a bottle of champagne and beckoned us to come closer. We did—or at least we tried to. His entourage, except for the empty space next to Jagger on his couch, took every available inch of seating space. As he sat waiting expectantly, it was immediately obvious that the only course of action was to pretty much line up like idiots and pay homage to him one at a time.

And, to Lindsey's dismay, this was exactly what everyone did. It was apparent that to the other four band members and our inner circle Jagger was well worth the wait in line. I saw Lindsey's face darken as first Christine, then Stevie, blushed and giggled in his presence. Each one sat beside him for five minutes and then stood up to let the next person sit down. While Jagger was sitting like the king of cool, offering a limp handshake to the other band members and basking in the attention, I swear I could almost see steam coming out of Lindsey's ears. He pulled me back and muttered that the whole scene was making him sick and he grabbed my arm as he headed to the bar. Once there, he knocked back two shots of Jack Daniel's and gave me an evil grin.

“Let's go pay homage to the king, shall we, Carol?” he slurred as he started walking back to the line of people still waiting for their turn to bow before the great Mick Jagger. Cutting into line in front of Curry, within minutes we were standing in front of the face with the sensual big lips and carefully coiffed hair that had graced a thousand magazine covers and sold millions of records.

Glancing up at Lindsey, I caught my breath as a sense of foreboding washed over me. He had the look on his face that my cat used to get right before he'd knock over the parakeet cage to try to catch and eat the poor fluttering birds as they spilled feathers and careened around our living room in Tulsa.
Uh-oh. This is not good. Please, Lord, don't let Lindsey loose on poor unsuspecting Jagger; he'll never know what hit him. Oh no, here we go
, I thought as I put a restraining hand on Lindsey's arm, but I knew it was no use. Once he got in the mood to knock someone off whatever pedestal they'd foolishly climbed onto in his presence, the result was usually quite unnerving. Add a couple of large shots of Jack Daniel's to Lindsey's sarcastic wit and there was no telling what could happen. I felt sorry for Jagger as Lindsey sat down quietly next to him. Holding my breath, I waited for the inevitable taunts to begin, for I was used to Lindsey's sarcasm and was almost always extremely entertained by it. But even I gasped in horror at what came out of his mouth.

Lindsey threw himself down onto the couch next to Mick and fixed him with a steely gaze. Jagger sat looking expectantly at him, waiting for a handshake or at least a nice “How do you do?” from Lindsey. He didn't get
it. Lindsey waited a full thirty seconds and then proclaimed in a loud voice to Jagger, “I hear you'd like to suck Tom Petty's dick.”

As Lindsey's words rang out into the lounge, a deathly silence fell over the lobby. Jagger's entourage and the Fleetwood Mac inner circle froze, staring in stunned disbelief. Mick's face turned bright red as his eyes rolled wildly in his head. He looked exactly like a trapped animal staring at his executioner.

“What did you say?” Jagger stammered.

“I read
Rolling Stone
a few weeks ago and you were going on and on about how much you liked Tom Petty, Mick. And that's what you said you liked to do, isn't it?” Lindsey said with a wicked smirk. As Jagger stuttered that what he meant was that he just liked Petty's music, Lindsey interrupted him to ask him the same question about doing the nasty with Tom, insisting that he was only repeating a direct quote from Jagger.

And I was dying. I was having a hard time trying to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter, but at the same time I was all too aware of the mutinous mutterings that were beginning to rumble all around us from Mick's loyal entourage. Looking desperately around for help, I saw J.C. getting off the elevator and ran to him. When I whispered into his ear what Lindsey just said to Jagger, he took one look at me and exploded into laughter.

“It's not funny, J.C.! You better help me get him away from Jagger or God only knows what's going to happen next!” I grabbed J.C. by the hand and we both rushed up to Lindsey, who now looked like a very evil cat who'd
killed
a parakeet and was chewing on its bones. J.C. and I started talking to Jagger in a stream of words: “It's nice to meet you … Gotta run … Gotta go … See ya!” We each took one of Lindsey's arms and pulled him away from the stunned and humiliated lead singer of the Rolling Stones.

Lindsey went willingly with us. His mission was done. He'd knocked Mick Jagger flat on his ass. It wasn't that Lindsey had any personal dislike of Mick. We both loved the Stones. He just hated pretentiousness. And I had to admit, the scene in the lounge when we first arrived was the epitome of vain posturing. Happy now that he'd dethroned the king of cool, Lindsey came quietly to our room with me and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Giggling, I climbed into bed and did the same.

In the Sportshalle dressing room the next night, it was thirty minutes before showtime and J.C. was freaking out. No one knew where Mick Fleetwood was. He'd vanished. As he was usually the first to arrive at every single show, for him to be this late was enough to put him on a missing person's list at police headquarters. Frantic phone calls were going back and forth to the hotel and every member of the band and crew had been questioned over and over again about the last time he was present and accounted for.

J.C.'s face was blanched and pinched with the knowledge that all was not well in the land of Fleetwood Mac. The last reported sighting of Mick had been in Jagger's hotel suite and that was at 6
A.M.
Nobody was answering the door and the hotel was refusing to forcibly enter the domain of the legendary Jagger to look for a missing drummer. Meanwhile the band was growing increasing irritated and worried.

Suddenly, like an apparition from hell, Mick appeared like a six-foot six zombie in the doorway of the dressing room and, as one, we gasped. For as he stood there clutching the doorframe, not only did he have dark circles under eyes in a chalk-white face, he was wearing dirty jeans and a T-shirt that was
inside out!
Nobody had ever seen Mick dressed in anything that even sported a wrinkle, much less dirt. As soon as I saw that T-shirt I knew that we were in deep trouble. Mick's everyday sartorial splendor was his trademark. He wore a gold pocket watch in his tailor-made waistcoats even on a day off.

As Mick took a few halting steps into the room, J.C. grabbed his arm before he fell onto the floor like a giant tree. Moaning, Mick threw a hand over his mouth and we all knew that he was going to spew. With a strangled cry he wrenched himself from J.C.'s grasp and ran to a bathroom that was, thank God, just a few feet away. As we listened to him vomit violently into the toilet we stared at the bathroom in dismay.

No one said a word. We were all too shocked. J.C. walked grimly into the bathroom and walked back out looking as ill as Mick sounded. “Grab your purses and wallets and go straight to the limos. Mick's as sick as a dog—as you can hear. There's not gonna be a show tonight. I want the band out of here before we announce it. It's too dangerous to have any of you still in the hall when we tell the punters that the show's been cancelled.
Goddammit!”
he screamed as he glared over his shoulder at Mick, who was still vomiting.

We all sprang into action, grabbing our bags and taking off at a run down the long hallway back to the loading dock where our cars were waiting. It was past showtime already and we could hear stomping and frenzied shouts coming from inside the theater. The crowd was growing impatient for Fleetwood Mac to take the stage and it was already turning ugly. And it was scary. Still dressed in their stage clothes, the band was grim-faced as we reached the limousines. Mick was half-walked, half-carried by two huge venue bodyguards and pushed none too gently into his car. The smell of vomit followed in his wake and I felt nauseous as the smell enveloped me.

There was a sense of fear and urgency in the air as we threw ourselves into the cars. I heard Stevie's wail of frustration as one of her shawls slipped off her shoulders and landed on the dirty ground. Greg grabbed it and threw the sparkling silk garment into the car, slamming the door behind her. Screaming,
“Go, Go, Go!”
at the chauffeurs, he stood with his arms crossed and a worried look on his face as we went speeding by him.

As we raced away I looked back over my shoulder to the still-full parking lot of the arena and worriedly asked Lindsey what he thought would happen when the cancellation was announced. He grabbed my hand and reassured me that it was going to be OK. “They'll reschedule the show”, he said, but he was clearly angry and upset about having to disappoint over fifteen thousand fans. He was very quiet on the ride back to the hotel and paced the room for an hour waiting for J.C.'s phone call.

It wasn't good news. The fans rioted after the announcement. Chairs were thrown as fights broke out in an apparent rush for both the stage and the exit. And Fleetwood Mac would have to pay for the damages. Luckily none of the crew or fans were hurt and everyone got out—but it was an ugly scene. I knew that Mick was on
everyone's
shit list for his twenty-four hour party with Mick Jagger. Lindsey and I both agreed that we were glad that Jagger was knocked off his pedestal the night before. But then again, he got his revenge. The band lost a show and their drummer his dignity—but it was only rock ‘n' roll, as the Stones would say.