Play On: Now, Then, and Fleetwood Mac: The Autobiography

by Mick Fleetwood

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Photographs

  Newsletters

  Copyright Page

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  For my children, Tessa, Lucy, Ruby and Amelia

  START CLOSE IN

  Start close in,

  don’t take the second step or the third,

  start with the first

  thing

  close in,

  the step

  you don’t want to take.

  Start with

  the ground

  you know,

  the pale ground

  beneath your feet,

  your own

  way of starting

  the conversation.

  Start with your own

  question,

  give up on other

  people’s questions,

  don’t let them

  smother something

  simple.

  To find

  another’s voice,

  follow

  your own voice,

  wait until

  that voice

  becomes a

  private ear

  listening

  to another.

  Start right now

  take a small step

  you can call your own

  don’t follow

  someone else’s

  heroics, be humble

  and focused,

  start close in,

  don’t mistake

  that other

  for your own.

  Start close in,

  don’t take

  the second step

  or the third,

  start with the first

  thing

  close in,

  the step

  you don’t want to take

  David Whyte

  INTRODUCTION

  IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE…

  Play on. Two words, no more, but they’ve said it all to me.

  They’ve been, at different times, a simple direct order, a call to action, a mantra and a comforting concept that promised rebirth. I first read them in the most beautiful and romantic couplet in Twelfth Night, my favourite of Shakespeare’s works. I’ve never forgotten it; in fact I took it to heart immediately because it spoke to me. When things have moved me so profoundly in this life, be they people, places or things, no matter how they’ve come to me, I’ve made them forever a part of me. I’ve signed countless autographs with the phrase ‘Play on’. I’ve said it to many people in many contexts. As I’ve made my way through life, as intricate and difficult as it has often been, as ecstatic and debauched as it has too often been, those words have always been with me. What they’ve come to mean to me has been a rock when the rest of my world was set adrift.

  The entire couplet is the inspiration behind the title of Fleetwood Mac’s fourth studio album, Then Play On, released in 1969, which I still count as my favourite record. My second favourite is easy to choose: it’s Tusk, released ten years later by a very different incarnation of the band–the only one that many of our fans are familiar with. To those fans reading these words, please do stick around, you’ll be amazed to learn how many roads we travelled before we met you.

  On the surface, Then Play On and Tusk have little in common sonically, but listen deeper and you’ll hear a band with its back against the creative wall, recording music at the brink of its existence. Both of those albums were made when we would either play on or cease to be, and when the idea of overcoming the insurmountable through creating anew was the only way out for us. I can’t say that I saw it as a solution, but I felt it as my faith, and I preached to my compatriots to play on–and that’s what we did.

  I’m still here, lucky enough to be partnered with the greatest musical comrades I could ever hope to have. We have been through so many ups and downs, and though I denied it for years, particularly to my loved ones, I know now that since this band began, I have devoted my entire life to it. In every incarnation Fleetwood Mac has brought me so much joy that I hope whatever our fans have taken from the music is a fraction of what I’ve got from it. I’ve also realised, through trial, lots of error, growing older and hopefully wiser, how much that choice has weighed on my family. It’s hard to devote yourself to a musical family of our magnitude while trying to nurture one of your own; it’s an unfair tug-of-war I am still working out.

  Music is a beautiful language, one that anyone with a beating heart can understand, no matter where they’re from. We need to share that, we need to honour that; it’s one of the only things that defies the boundaries humans love to erect. Music has seen me through everything–because when all else failed me, it remained the one thing I could rely on. It was, literally, the only thing I knew I could do with some degree of skill. More than that, it has always brought me joy and allowed me to find my centre. When I’ve felt lost in life, if I’ve lost myself in music, I’ve always found my way again.

  I am sixty-five years old at the time of this writing, looking back at forty years in rock and roll. My first gig as a drummer took place in London in the 1960s when I was still a teenager too young to be legally drinking, even in England. I had no proper training, just a desire to be a part of the culture I saw evolving, combined with an innate attraction to rhythm. I went after a dream and found it backing some of the best English blues players of my generation during a time that changed history. I didn’t plan any of it, but I did believe that if I stayed true to my muse, I would find my way. And I have–though it’s never been easy.

  On my farm in Maui, Hawaii, an island that I’ve been visiting regularly since the 1970s, and of which I’ve been a full-time resident for over a decade, I have a weather-sealed barn full of memorabilia: photographs, journals, clothes, cars, endless video tapes, concert recordings, all of it bits of Fleetwood Mac and my life. As much as I’ve always been driven creatively to move forward toward something bigger, brighter and unknown, I’m also a deeply-rooted nostalgic. I adore photos, mementoes, all bits of ephemera that represent each and every time and space I traverse. I’m a hoarder when it comes to these things. I love to document the moment, as much as I realise how much that moment is transient, nothing but a stop on the road.

  I am thankful for that preservationist instinct because, having moved houses so many times, across continents, from the UK to Australia to Europe and the States, it’s a minor miracle that so much of this stuff is still in my possession. I’m not sure how to accurately convey what it’s like to open a photo album and find a Polaroid of a friend who has passed away, or pages of handwritten lyrics of songs, all of them with edits by my bandmates, from decades previous. A flood of memories wash over me when I find these treasures, all of them new again, focused by the perspective I’ve gained in the years since. It’s a beautiful kind of limbo, seeing yourself, your past alongside your present, through a new set of eyes.

  I share this by way of an explanation of how this book began. My co-writer and collaborator, Anthony Bozza, interviewed me on my farm in Maui for Playboy magazine in March 2012, at a time when I’d just unearthed over fifty hours of footage of Fleetwood Mac touring Ja
pan in 1977; the culmination of the Rumours tour. We were in our prime and it was the finale of the band’s highest high to date, so I hired a film crew to travel with us, giving them free rein to capture us both on stage and off. My intention was to edit the film and release it as a feature to run in cinemas the year after we wrapped the tour. That never happened; so many things got in the way, and I forgot about that little film for thirty years. I wasn’t even looking for it when I found it: I was trying to locate home movies my parents had shot of my siblings and me when we were kids. Instead I found a pile of tins in a box that had somehow made its way intact through the various storage units I’ve had over the years.

  I had all of it converted to digital, preserving the saturated colours of the original work as much as possible, then I hired an editor and set about doing an organisational rough cut of what I decided would be a film, a DVD, who knew–I just knew it had to be shared. I was reviewing the first edit of those forty hours of history when Anthony arrived. It was wonderful to relive those all-but-forgotten moments with Anthony, a life long Fleetwood Mac fan. It refreshed my zeal and excitement and so began our journey. Over the course of the next two years, during trips to Maui, and time on the road during our 2013 tour, he and I relived the past. The result is what you now hold in your hand.

  This book will not be a definitive history of Fleetwood Mac; you can find the facts and figures and plenty of rumours elsewhere. This is much more personal. It is the story of all that has ever mattered to me, the moments, the people, the time. It’s the story of my life in rock and roll and the blues and how the band that has meant everything to me came to define me. I used to say that wasn’t the case, but I know now that it’s true.

  I see things with wonder each and every day. Sometimes I wonder how the hell I got here. I love drumming and I know I’ve never been suited to do much else, but truth be told, I regard myself as a guy who happens to drum, not as a guy who is a drummer. It’s a strange and subtle contradiction, but it’s part and parcel of how I see things and how I’m just now learning who I am. I’ve always valued progress over reflection, and romanticised drama and chaos more than I should have. I don’t feel that way anymore. I’m taking the time to look inside now. I’m still a student. I’m still ‘in process’.

  It reminds me of another philosophy of mine that I rely on when the going gets tough. When it all becomes too much, pick yourself up and go somewhere. Go somewhere you’ve never been, somewhere you’ve dreamed of going, somewhere romantic and mysterious. Go anywhere you can, because a journey is an adventure and adventures are how we learn who we really are. Writing this memoir has been a journey for me and I invite you to join in my adventure. It’s time now and I’m ready, so if you’re coming with me, off we go.

  CHAPTER 1

  THE OLD MILL

  Windmill, Norfolk, 1939 (an excerpt):

  We stayed a week and awoke each dawning to the mournful cry of the curlew.

  The old mill echoed to our youthful laughter

  And we lived, oh how we lived.

  Every minute was savoured as something special, something rare, As if we knew the sand was running out

  And each second should be cherished with infinite care.

  My sweetheart looked at me with fear in her eyes,

  ‘That telegram that arrived today,

  ‘Tell me my darling, what did it say?’

  It said, ‘Rejoin squadron without delay’.

  Wing Commander Fleetwood

  I come from a very warm family. My father, John Joseph Kells Fleetwood, my mother Bridget Maureen, and my sisters Susan and Sally, and me, we were always close. We were the type of family that did everything together and always had dinner together, usually my mum’s homemade healthy food: lots of soup and roasted chickens, green beans and potatoes. There was always an abundance of huge belly laughs round the Fleetwood dinner table all our lives.

  My parents moved house nearly every three years because of my father’s career as a wing commander in the Royal Air Force, so for most of my early childhood we were freshly arrived in a new country. Our family unit was the only thing that was familiar and constant, and I believe the ever-changing backdrop and the feeling that we were strangers bound us even closer. I can recall the wonder of it all quite easily, because as a young boy I was fascinated, as were my sisters, by the exotic places where we lived. Norway and Egypt were wonderlands quite different from the UK, which we considered our true home. They instilled within me the idea that the world was a vast place full of amazing and very different people. It was also a great rock-and-roll training camp for me because I became used to travel and being a stranger just passing through. Both sets of my children travelled a lot as kids and inherited the same comfort with moving around.

  My earliest memories are of learning to fit in wherever I was, which served me in ways I had yet to understand in my future life as a musician. I have a few vivid memories of those days before my teens. I remember nearly drowning in Egypt; I’m not sure how or why I got into water too deep for my abilities, but I was pulled out by a man in a flowing blue cloak and when I looked up at him I thought he was a magician. He was very much another type of being, which is how my time in Egypt and in Norway left me feeling overall. This was a good thing: I realised, even at my age, that there was something special about their culture and that I should learn from the people who lived there. It was the proper way to do things, which was how my parents taught us.

  My parents had a warm and wonderful relationship with each other and seeing that throughout my formative years affected my concept of love and what a romantic relationship should be. They cherished each other; they were best friends, always laughing together and completely in love and, aside from us children, they valued their time alone together above all. My mother was an anchor for my dad and supported all of his pipe dreams. He pursued his writing for three years after he left the Royal Air Force and before he rejoined civilian working life. Mum supported him by moving the family onto a sailing barge to cut costs and to allow him a sanctuary in which to create. She didn’t for one minute question him nor complain about living on this odd little boat. Dad did his thing and though it didn’t work out, there was no resentment or love lost between them.

  My mum had a knack for both keeping my dad’s feet on the ground and finding a way to make his dreams a reality. They’d planned, well ahead, how they would spend their later years, blissfully on their own in the South of France after we kids had flown the coop and Dad had retired from the RAF. The problem was that Dad didn’t have the money to buy a house in the south of France, so the two of them came up with a plan they could afford. They leased a small parcel of land in Le Muy in the Provence region, near some farmland just a short ride from the Mediterranean coast. They put a caravan on it, the non-motorised camper type that gypsies would live in, and installed plumbing, and every summer they would go down there and have their time to themselves. Later on, when I had the means, I bought a parcel of land next to theirs and a second caravan to go with it so that my sisters and I might visit them. It was a gorgeous piece of land with a view of the ocean and I hoped to build them a house on it eventually. It was such fun to live there like gypsies. My parents loved it and planned to live out their years there.

  Dad was always well turned out. It was a holdover from his military days, because that expression meant your appearance was impeccable: a perfect spit and polish on your shoes, down to the soles, and with your hair and collar perfect. He had been in the Household Cavalry in addition to the RAF so he knew how to present himself properly. He had style and I really liked that. My mother did too, she loved to dress up and they always checked themselves in the mirror before they went out to a cocktail party. We weren’t brought up surrounded by wealth and luxury, but my parents did a lot with a little and they always looked great. They also had fun up until the very end. I’d bought Dad his dream car, a red convertible Mercedes, and the two of them talked about driving it to their place in the S
outh of France with the wind in their hair.

  Unfortunately my father was taken from us too early, well before he and Mum had time to properly enjoy their golden years. When he became ill, at the age of sixty-two, I endeavoured to get them down there for at least one more week, but sadly that wasn’t to be.

  My father was an Irish storyteller and a wonderful, generous soul; the type that still believed he hadn’t done enough at the end of his life, even though his list of achievements outshines most. He was a gentleman and a dreamer and I’ve done my best to live my life as I imagine he would have, because he was a true role model. I know that I’m very lucky in this regard, because so many people go through life without a guide, and without parents who led by example. My father flew planes, he led men in wartime, and along with Mum he taught my sisters and me how to live and how to love, and I’m proud that I truly knew him. So many men never know their fathers as men, but not me. As adults, before he passed away, we really got to know each other.

  I attended quite a few schools in my youth, not only because we moved frequently but also because I was a terrible student. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to learn, I did and still do. I have a curious mind and I enjoy all manner of history, science and philosophy. I’m also fascinated by what would be considered ‘fringe’ subjects–the occult, conspiracy theories, and so on–as much as I am by traditional fields of study. The desire was there, but it was disproportionate to my abilities. I have what would be diagnosed easily today as severe dyslexia, so reading, reading comprehension, and most of the basic skills required to stay afloat in school without major assistance are absent in me. Back then, particularly in the UK, learning disabilities weren’t understood or even accepted, so students like me were simply left behind. My parents only knew I had problems at school.