The hotel we stayed in was more of a compound arranged by Faisal, who was a bit of a crook with his finger in every pie. It was very raw and rugged, which we learned quickly. Luckily we brought Jim Barnes an old rigging guy for Fleetwood Mac and ex Vietnam veteran who had seen just about everything in his lifetime. He and our guide at the hotel taught Richard and I to properly slice the throat of a goat and how to cut off the head of a chicken. They do, by the way, run around at top speed after you do it. It was dramatic to me, but it was just what the doctor ordered. I needed to get out of the lap of luxury and away from the rockstar life that had me used to someone waiting for me with an 8 ball on the runway wherever I went. On that note, Faisal, as much as he wanted to impress me, never could top that welcoming package. I did ask for more of course, and rather than tell me that he couldn’t do it, he ended up bringing me a bag of what can only be called sugar powder that literally created frosting up your nose.
I learned so much during those seven weeks. I learned that all of the material things that had been so important in my life, particularly on that last Fleetwood Mac tour, meant nothing. I learned that I didn’t need phones or paved roads to be happy–in fact, I needed very little to satisfy my soul on a daily basis. I needed music and food, energy and community. I managed to heal myself and mentally prepared for the financial troubles that I knew awaited me back home. I became sensible, and even kept that Rolex and got it repaired. I wore it for years afterwards, never forgetting how the huge dent in the back had gotten there. Years later that watch was stolen from me by a woman in a whorehouse in Amsterdam. I was so crushed because by then I’d grown so attached to it. Christine McVie heard me talking about how it had been stolen and the next day, without a word she gave me a new one. I have a feeling that she might not have if she knew exactly how I’d lost it.
I also learned a new universe of rhythm in Africa. I was born and raised on the 4/4 beats of blues and rock and roll. The Africans play in a twelve-beat style, one that is buoyed by constant improvisation; in a typical five-man drum circle, one, maybe two talking drums will improvise, while the rest play secondary beats on drums or bell instruments. I was only capable of playing support in that scenario and was happy to do it. By the end of my time there, I felt the spectrum of that rhythm in my soul.
African and rock rhythms intersect in funk, of course, and so most of what we recorded met happily on that common ground. We cut a new version of ‘Rattlesnake Shake’, with a children’s drum ensemble backing us up, and along with a group called Adjo, we cut a few tracks including a cover of Buddy Holly’s ‘Not Fade Away’, and ‘Walk a Thin Line’ from Tusk. The title track to the album was a collaboration with the Ghana Folkloric Group, who were capable of some of the most beautiful vocal harmonies I’ve ever heard.
We made an incredible album and we played a concert to two thousand people that went on all night long, to the point that I thought I might collapse from playing so long. Then we returned to England to mix it all. I wanted to use George Harrison’s studio, but it wasn’t available, so we used Jimmy Page’s and decompressed from our African odyssey. George did contribute some guitar to ‘Walk a Thin Line’, however. I also got in touch with Peter Green, who was in great spirits, and convinced him to sing on the new version of ‘Rattlesnake Shake’, as well as a few other tracks. It was amazing to see Peter and to work with him again, however briefly. It was to be the last time I’d see him for years.
We ended up spending every bit of the half-million-dollar budget we’d been given and the album didn’t earn back one cent. I didn’t care, because I’d learned more about the world and myself than money could ever buy. My record company didn’t feel quite the same way.
Back in England I’d reunited with Jenny once again. She threw a party for me; her brother Boo and his wife were there, as were Eric and Pattie and a few of Eric’s friends, including a very charming, unassuming chap named Phil Collins. It was a great homecoming in true English style. A few nights later we went to a costume party at Pattie and Eric’s, and Jenny and I dressed as schoolchildren, which was an honest reflection of who we really were to each other. I wore grey flannel shorts and a cap and Jenny was in a short skirt; we’d spent the entire day trying to find clothes to fit me.
Jenny has reminded me of Pattie and Eric’s costumes. Pattie was Minnie Mouse, in a short red-and-white polka-dotted skirt with black stockings, and black gloves she held to her mouth as she giggled, and Eric was something else, in one of Pattie’s see-through dresses with his Y-fronts showing underneath and short black socks and shoes. He had a sponge on his head, made to look like an old lady’s tight perm, and he had lipstick spread across his face. Phil Collins had something equally daft on, wearing knee-length trousers, braces and a knotted handkerchief on his head. It was a great time and a warm welcome home. I loved being with my family, but it was all just for the moment–our happy time together was as joyous and as short-lived as putting on that costume for the party.
CHAPTER 16
ISN’T IT MIDNIGHT?
By this point, there was much media speculation about the state of Fleetwood Mac, mostly saying that we were through. But that couldn’t have been further from the truth. In fact, after The Visitor was completed, it was time for me to meet the band in France to begin recording our next album. My bandmates were empathetic to my tax issues in America, and they’d agreed to record abroad so I could avoid the IRS coming after my earnings. We settled on a mansion in Herouville, about sixty miles from Paris, where Elton John had recorded Honky Chateau. The setting was beautiful, and in typical Fleetwood Mac fashion, we did everything top-notch, including redecorating the rooms occupied by the girls to their specifications.
We were back and ready to recreate the Rumours groove, which we did in a modernised style on the album that came to be called Mirage. Our writers showed up in France in 1981 with great material. Christine already had ‘Hold Me’, which became our first single. She’d written the song about her relationship with Dennis Wilson, which had ended a few months earlier. Chris had loved him with all her heart, but she couldn’t keep up with him and couldn’t make it work and she’d had to part from him, because it would have been the end of her if she hadn’t.
Stevie had ‘Gypsy’, a song that she’d saved for us during the recording of her solo album Belladonna, which at that point had sold ten million records. That was one of her leftover tracks, and some leftover it was–it’s a perfect portrait of the people we were at the dawn of the 1980s. It has a wise world-weary melancholy that’s as poignant as anything off Rumours.
Lindsey had songs too: ‘Can’t Go Back’ and ‘Eyes of the World’, and he quickly wrote ‘Book of Love’, ‘Empire State’ and ‘Oh, Diane’, shortly after arriving in France. He was different; he’d done what he’d needed to do on Tusk and was eager to get back to recording as a band, with the band. His new-wave stylings were gone as well, in fact his playing and approach was back to basics and called to mind his appreciation for early rock and rollers. For me, the return to the fold was invigorating to my very core.
We recorded everything as a band, much of it live, then spent the next seven months perfecting and overdubbing. That was our tried and true process. In the meantime I moved back to America, into a house in Ramirez Canyon in Malibu, with Sara. I dubbed the place the Blue Whale, because it had a huge pool and was something I’d fantasised about owning since the first time I laid eyes on it. It was just down the way from the little house I’d found for Jenny three years before and I had watched it being built at the time, complete with a guesthouse that I thought made it the perfect spot for entertaining friends. I wasn’t even sure I could afford it, but my business manager said I could, and that was all the encouragement I needed when in pursuit of a dream. So I bought it and over the next few years turned it into a decadent playground that suitably reflected my life.
Mirage was a commercial, critical and artistic success; we had two huge hit singles in ‘Hold Me’ and ‘Gypsy’ and we qui
ckly sold five million albums. The success of Stevie’s solo career did much to boost our sales and the birth of MTV in 1981 didn’t hurt us at all. If American fans had forgotten about us, or a new generation had never heard of us, a channel broadcasting our videos regularly twenty-four hours a day made up for lost time. Our album went to number 1 and, as it always was, it was good to be back.
This was the first time that the band did not tour extensively in support of our new material, however, and I can’t say I was happy about it. Stevie’s solo career was in full swing and she didn’t want to commit to a marathon Fleetwood Mac tour while her star approached its apex. As a compromise, we did an eighteen-date run, centred by our headlining slots at two big outdoor dates, one of them being the historic US Festival. All in all, we toured Mirage for about a month.
I felt like a fish out of water when those dates ended. It wasn’t that I felt more comfortable touring; I just had a very hard time accepting that my band’s album was in the top of the charts and selling well but we weren’t on the road. Without that effort on our part, Mirage died after just five weeks at number 1.
My bandmates were preoccupied with their solo projects, so I dived into my own. I had a deal for a few solo records with Warner Brothers, so I made my house a crashpad for all of my musician friends, with the intention that something would come out of it. The place became a rock-and-roll boarding house where ten people lived at any given time. Dave Mason of Traffic (and so many other bands) lived in my guesthouse for a while, and I recorded the album I’m Not Me in the Blue Whale. That record inspired what I came to call Mick Fleetwood’s Zoo–a coalition of my friends that I took on tour throughout the next few years. The Zoo was George Hawkins on bass, Steve Ross on guitar, and Billy Burnette on vocals, with a few others coming in and out. It all began with the grand idea of going to Brazil as a follow-up to The Visitor. I bought a portable studio for that purpose but in the end used it to record at the Blue Whale. Both Christine and Lindsey played on the album, which was a mix of oldies, covers and new songs. I liked the final result a lot but it stiffed completely. I wasn’t really sure what I was doing wrong, because the players and the music were great, we just weren’t connecting with the record-buying public.
That didn’t keep us from touring throughout America in the old-fashioned way, by bus, wearing tuxedos and sometimes playing bars. It was a lot of fun but it wasn’t glamorous; we’d arrive to small, nearly empty rooms and often it felt like we were there just playing for ourselves. I didn’t care, because living on the road in my comfort zone kept me from facing the cold hard facts of life. I was in dire straits financially, I wasn’t doing my job as a father to my daughters, and the band that bore my name was in flux. I didn’t worry if no one showed up to the Zoo shows, because in my mind if I was playing, I had a purpose. My band, however, was embarrassed for me.
Despite the severe change in scale, there were highlights. At one gig Stevie came down and did ‘Rhiannon’ to a dinner theatre, and after a radio station found out she was coming, three thousand people showed up, mobbing the streets. That was a rare show for the Zoo, however, so after those two albums, RCA released me from my contract. I’d earned nothing in sales so they’d earned nothing as well and as much as they liked me, I don’t think they wanted to see me have another go. I didn’t either, really.
By 1984 I had to file for bankruptcy for the second time and though I knew things weren’t on the up, it still came as a surprise. I’d hired a young, eager business manager who had a ‘live for now’ strategy which of course was fine for me, but didn’t seem to plan enough for the future. Then somehow it all fell apart. I was forced to sell the Blue Whale as well as all of my cars and my recording equipment. I lost Sara in the process: she moved out, broke it off with me and went back to work in the ‘real world’, because I couldn’t support her. Meanwhile I moved into a house with Richard Dashut and laboured to put my life back in order. Thankfully no matter how dire things seemed, I was never in danger of being completely on the street. I was grateful to always have the royalty income stream from Fleetwood Mac to keep me afloat. That is essentially how I settled all of my financial problems. At first that left me little else to get by on, but eventually it caught up and the monies I received from record sales of the catalogue enabled me to be comfortable. Cosmetically most people never even realised that I’d gone broke, not once but twice, because the thing I’d devoted my life to developing had served to save me.
I continued to play gigs with the Zoo but all I cared about was getting Fleetwood Mac together again. The problem was that I was the only one eager to do so at the time. Stevie was enjoying a huge solo career and her second solo album The Wild Heart had sold into the millions. Lindsey was working on his third solo release and Christine had scored a hit with ‘Got a Hold on Me’. Meanwhile John was relishing his semiretirement, sailing his boat wherever he pleased and playing the occasional gig with John Mayall and the Bluesbreakers.
It all came down to me pushing the buttons again but my efforts to do so didn’t work. In the end, Christine was the accidental catalyst. When her single did well, she called John Courage out of retirement to assist her in making an album in Switzerland and also to manage her solo career. Christine had been asked to cover Elvis’s ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love’ for the film A Fine Mess and she wanted Richard Dashut to produce it. Richard knew how huge an Elvis fan Lindsey was, so he suggested that Christine ask him to play on it. Then John Courage asked John and me to play rhythm and so, in August 1985, all of us aside from Stevie found ourselves working on this song for Chris. We had fun, we really did. I don’t think any of us, besides me, showed up thinking about making another Fleetwood Mac record, but once we were in the same room how couldn’t we? That is how our next album, Tango in the Night, began.
Time apart had created distance, and the ways we used to come together were gone. Now there was a committee of lawyers and managers whose approval must be sought. Lindsey was deep into recording an album with Richard Dashut, so we thought it best to hire an outside producer to allow Linds to feel that he wouldn’t be diverting his career for the band. We met with Nile Rodgers but that didn’t work, then Mo Ostin sent us Jason Casaro, who had just produced a huge hit album for the Power Station, but after a week or so we realised that he wasn’t right either. We needed to find our groove again, but an outsider wasn’t going to get us there; only we could.
In the end Lindsey and Richard decided that they would produce the album themselves, because we weren’t going to be happy with anyone else. It took eighteen months, which was in the ballpark of our typical recording schedule, but this time the working conditions were drastically different. We started out in a studio in the Valley but soon moved into the studio Lindsey had built in the garage of his house. That is where we mixed and did our overdubs, and truthfully, it was the nexus of where that album was made. It wasn’t a proper studio by any means, but it was where Lindsey felt at home, and he was in charge. There were no lounges and secluded corners to hang out in, because Lindsey’s house was his home, so John Courage brought in a trailer and parked it in the driveway, enabling us to carry on as usual without disturbing the peace. He had to, because I was still very much drinking and drugging and out of deference to Lindsey, needed a place to carry on.
That said, it was clear from the start that Lindsey had changed. He was all about the music and had no intention of tolerating any indulgent late nights. But it was more than that, the whole thing was a very different session for us. First of all it wasn’t really a studio; it was Lindsey’s home studio. There were a lot of drum machines and it was all a bit clinical and boring. I always hung around during recording so I spent a lot of time with Lindsey but more often than not I’d find myself holed up in that trailer in his driveway, waiting for drug dealers to pay me a visit. I’d go to work and be lonely because there was no partying going on, then I’d go back to Malibu and have these wild times with a collection of characters I’d befriended, from Gary Busey to
Robin Williams to Nick Nolte. I found it ironic that my “day job” of being in a rock and roll band had become boring and my extracurricular socialising more exciting. It was a different experience. In the end I became a fly on the wall watching a brilliant mad scientist working in his laboratory, and that I really enjoyed.
It was fine once we all settled in, but it took the rest of us a while to adjust. John, for one, had barely played in the past two years, so it took him a short while to get his chops back. Christine gave us some of the best work she’s ever done: ‘Everywhere’ and ‘Little Lies’, which became huge hit singles. Lindsey played his role as producer as well as he did band member, contributing ‘Big Love’, ‘Caroline’ and ‘Tango in the Night’ from his now-postponed solo album.
When we started recording, Stevie was on tour in support of her album Rock a Little, and in the summer of 1986 I joined her touring band, alongside heavy hitters such as Waddy Wachtel on guitar. I could see that she was working herself into the ground, between the drinking, the cocaine and her relentless schedule, and I worried for her health more than I ever had before. She had been walking a taut high wire for years and had always managed to keep from falling. But now she was in serious danger, and she knew it, too. After her tour wrapped up, Stevie checked herself into the Betty Ford Center and detoxed, and after that, she joined the rest of us in the studio in early 1987. Her nerves were understandably raw, and she felt distant from the proceedings, which in truth she was, because she’d barely been there during the creation of the album. But we worked it out and she managed to join the party just in time, contributing ‘Seven Wonders’ and ‘Welcome to the Room, Sara’, to the final cut.
Play On: Now, Then, and Fleetwood Mac: The Autobiography Page 24
