We moved back in together and set about planning our wedding. At the time I was in the throes of the mini-Mac, and since we were going to be in Europe, Lynn and I decided we’d marry in Italy. She got all the paperwork sorted and we chose a city, but then she came down with a horrible flu and couldn’t fly. So we looked at the tour dates again, and the Blue Whale was booked to play the Harley-Davidson Love Ride Convention at the Colorado Belle Hotel in Laughlin, Nevada. We thought that would be perfect–too kitschy to be true. The hotel had a riverboat for weddings that held eighty people and came complete with a minister, plastic flowers, the works.
Lynn told her family, and her mother and brother made plans to come out, as did her biological father. Lynn thought her father wouldn’t be able to make it, because it was short notice and he was in the middle of a very intense business negotiation. So I called him and asked properly for her hand in marriage, and told him how much it would mean to Lynn to have him walk her down the aisle. He agreed to come and Lynn was incredibly happy.
We got to Laughlin and did the gig to throngs of all these Harley people and it was wild. We made the mistake of checking in under the name Fleetwood, which resulted in calls up to the room all night from fans carrying on downstairs in the hotel bar. Eventually we had to ask the front desk to hold all our calls, so we could get some rest before the ceremony. Everything was in order on the boat and just as we were walking back to the hotel to go to our separate rooms and get dressed, we saw Lynn’s brother out in front of the hotel, crying. Lynn’s father had flown to Vegas the night before, but had suffered a heart attack and passed away during the night. Time stopped. We literally did not believe it to be true.
We were eventually married a few months later, on 26 July 1995 when the mini-Mac came to New York City. We had an afternoon ceremony at Tavern on the Green in Central Park and it was lovely. Then we set about building our life together, which continued to be a non-stop series of adventures that left the two of us both awestruck and giddy.
One such adventure, for which I can thank the Clinton administration, was the trip I took to Cuba with the Music Bridges Foundation. My partner Todd Smallwood who wrote and sang on the Mick Fleetwood Band album Something Big helped organise the event and he did a great job. In the end a really wild and creative bunch went down, everyone from Burt Bacharach, to me, to Bonnie Raitt, Gladys Knight, Woody Harrelson and Don Was. It was truly, as the event intended to be (and probably why the Clinton administration okayed the venture) a bridge between the two countries on a purely artistic level. Art, music, writing and poetry can make those connections regardless of politics, and that is exactly what happened. The premise was that artists from the U.S. and Cuba would meet for two weeks and collaborate, which we did. Lynn and I and the rest of the American cultural emissaries were put up in this fabulous old Havana hotel, a gorgeous place that had retained all the grace of Cuba’s heyday in the 40s and 50s. Each of us musicians were paired with a Cuban counterpart, with whom we wrote music and recorded it in this portable studio they had installed in a few suites at the end of the hall. The culmination of our efforts was a concert, and the celebration of yet another bridge between the US and Cuba: baseball. The Baltimore Orioles were flown in to play against a top Cuban team as part of the festivities.
It was an extension of the olive branch by the Clinton Administration and it was very profound. We got to watch the game, have an audience with Fidel Castro, the whole lot, and my wife Lynn was there with me through all of it. She was the greatest partner in that way: no matter what kind of crazy scenario I volunteered myself for, she was my co-pilot all the way, ready to pack her bag and go with me at the drop of a hat.
Cuba is just 80 miles away from the US and it amazed me how much their culture has remained untouched, even after the United States’ direct influence and intervention into their country. Somehow it’s all survived, perhaps a little worse for wear, but completely intact and out of time. It’s one of the most romantic and musical places I’ve ever been and the spirit of the people there nearly took my breath away. Havana was full of old and glamorous hotels, gorgeous classic cars from the 50s and music literally oozed from every nook and cranny. I’d drive by school kids, impeccable in their uniforms, waiting for their bus, all of them singing songs together, some of them banging on whatever bit of metal or wood lay nearby by way of percussion.
It was everything I’d imagined it to be, and what I’d envisioned when I read Ernest Hemingway’s works. I made a point to visit the hotel where he lived while writing in Cuba and I was allowed to see his actual room, which is closed off from the public. My guide even left me there for a few minutes. I closed the door, looked out the window at Ernest’s view, then lay on his bed and did my best to absorb that moment. Of all the things I’ve been allowed to do on account of my renown with Fleetwood Mac, I consider that one of the greatest.
Again, that trip wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for President Clinton, with whom Fleetwood Mac has had a longstanding and wonderful relationship. When President Clinton left office in 2001, Fleetwood Mac was asked to play a surprise going away party that the First Lady had planned for him. I’ll never know if he knew about it or not but it seemed like he didn’t. We agreed to play of course, since we’d played the inauguration, and we were meant to be yet another surprise on top of the surprise party.
We arrived that afternoon with our touring crew and friends, all in all an entourage of about 30, and to keep us out of sight, we were escorted to the West Wing and given complete run of the place. It was a huge honor, too much fun, and to say the least quite surreal. We were allowed to wander all over ostensibly the most important and powerful halls of any building in the world. The lot of us couldn’t believe it; we took pictures of bedrooms, meeting rooms, and my manager Carl and I snuck around and opened every single door we encountered. Behind one of them was a remarkable library-like sitting room lined in portraits of all of the former Presidents. We had to take a moment and sit in there, just soaking in all of the history and majesty of where we were.
Our group being a traveling rock band, I have to admit that events occurred that I’m quite sure do not fall within the White House code of conduct for guests. Rest assured that nothing was damaged, defaced or stolen, but suffice to say that some good-natured naughtiness was had by a few of our troupe. And though we felt like we had complete freedom and were utterly on our own, we most certainly were not. Spend any time at all in the White House and you’ll learn quickly that there are cameras everywhere and everything is observed–if tolerated–at all times. There’s no knowing what else those cameras recorded, and I for one will never tell.
The tents and tables for the festivities were set up outside on the lawn, and after we got dressed in the West Wing we were brought around behind the main tent so that no one would see us. The party got under way, there were speeches and we were kept out of sight, our instruments hidden behind a second curtain that concealed the stage. The proceedings were running behind schedule which was fine, we were all ready, me looking like Mr. Rumours with my balls and my tights on. Then a bit more time passed, until finally we were told that stage time was just a few minutes off. The only problem was that I’d had a few drinks during the delay and suddenly realised that I’d never make it through the set without first taking a pee. I looked around for a portable toilet but saw none, and gathered that returning to the White House, which was a few hundred yards away, wasn’t an option.
The closest toilet was only accessible through the audience, but that was an impossibility because Fleetwood Mac playing was intended to be a surprise and no one was going to miss me, at my height, winding through the audience like a wandering minstrel with wooden balls hanging off my crotch.
Not knowing what else to do, my manager Carl walked over to the nearest guard, who was in fatigues armed with a machine gun.
‘Sorry to bother you, but Mr. Fleetwood has to pee and we don’t see a bathroom back here,’ he said. ‘Do you have any ideas?�
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It didn’t look like it but clearly the guy was mic’ed, and home base was listening. He never acknowledged Carl, just looked at him briefly. Then he put his finger to his ear, and said: ‘Mr. Fleetwood is clear to piss on the White House lawn, sir.’
The guard then escorted me to the back of the tent, took me outside and let me do my business, free as a bird in the wind, out into the night on the most famous lawn in America.
We went on stage as soon as I returned and it was a great evening. President Clinton was thrilled and that time along with every other experience I’ve had with the Clintons has been fantastic. They came to see us in St. Louis on our last tour and before the show ended I made sure to acknowledge them and say goodnight because I knew they planned to leave before the encores. Over the years, Bill Clinton has sent things to us to sign and we sent him some gold records to decorate his office after he left the White House. He always responded with gracious letters of thanks in return, which I treasure. Several times over the years I’ve also sent him drum skins that I’ve asked him to sign, and he always has, returning them with another little letter. We book ended his administration and I could not be prouder to have done so for such a great man. Above and beyond him being President, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as intelligent, focused and charming. He is the type of person who always remembered everyone’s name, the names of their children, and details of the last time that he has seen you. It goes above and beyond any preparation that his staff can do for him, it is just who he is. As a parting gift, the Clintons sent everyone in the Fleetwood Mac family a framed platinum record plaque that contained every single album that the band ever put out, with a notation of total sales and a letter from Hilary, Chelsea and Bill thanking us for being a part of the Clinton White House. I can’t think of anything more indicative of who they are as people than that.
As much as we loved our adventures, Lynn and I wanted to settle in one place and start a family, so we moved from L.A. to Maui and in 2002, we had two beautiful twin daughters, Ruby and Tessa. Though we are parting now, Lynn and I, as much as we possibly can, remain the best of friends, with our gorgeous girls as our main priority. We were partners and co-conspirators and the times we had were unbelievably and impossibly fun. The stories I’ve shared here are but a small sample, believe me. And though what we are going through now is hard, I hope that the best of us is what we both carry forth in our hearts in the years to come, because what we were together deserves that.
CHAPTER 19
IT’S GOOD TO BE BACK
As of now, the most famous line-up of Fleetwood Mac is together and creating again. And it’s different this time. It’s better. It really is. If you don’t believe me, take it from John. Unlike me, my dear friend is a man of few words. He chooses them wisely and well, and he isn’t one to gush. That said, after we got together in April 2014 to work on music with Chris and Lindsey, and after John had successfully undergone treatment for colon cancer, he sent me a very uncharacteristic email. He had received a clean bill of health from his doctor and was excited to get his boat all outfitted to sail from LA to Honolulu. He planned to captain it himself and couldn’t wait to get going. He emailed me this note before he went: ‘Hey Mick, how you doing? I hope well. Don’t get too stressed out. Listen… it’s all different now… isn’t it? It’s fun.’
But wait, before I get ahead of myself, let me tell you how we got here.
It was Christine’s return to the group that changed everything. After she left us in 1998, she made one solo album that she will be the first to say was the wrong idea. Not musically, but because she was unable to promote it due to a paralysing fear of flying. In fact, none of us realised just how deep-seated her phobia had become by the end of her tenure with Fleetwood Mac. For years afterwards she would not go near a plane. She ended her time in the music business altogether, because that meant air travel, and spent the better part of seventeen years in the English countryside. That was part of her plan, to have a gorgeous country house and spend her days hunting and fishing and driving her Rover and raising her dogs.
We would see her from time to time; I probably kept in touch more than anyone else. We’d go out to dinner whenever I was in England and we would talk about what she was doing. She was detached; she’d made a concerted effort to leave music and all that she’d known, but in the process she became alienated from life itself. She spent a lot of her time on her own, alone in her gorgeous house. After a while, she found that lifestyle investment was paying her no dividends. People missed her, not just us, and when we toured her absence loomed large. Whenever any of us did an interview we’d be asked about her. All of us in our way would paraphrase what we knew: ‘Chris is living the life she wants to live and we all wish she were here with us but she doesn’t want to be.’
I’d be open about saying that I didn’t understand how she was okay with not writing or performing music. Truthfully, I didn’t know how that was possible for someone like Chris. She didn’t have to rejoin us, but I couldn’t comprehend how someone so connected to her musicality could simply turn that off. I thought she’d miss it and though it was none of my business, I didn’t think it was good for her. Now that she’s come round, Chris agrees with me. She’s basically said, ‘What was I thinking?’
She came back to herself through a deep desire to travel and only by confronting her fear was she able to find herself again. After a few years fulfilling her idyllic English country dream, Chris began to fantasise about visiting China and other places, all of them feasibly accessible only by plane. At that time, she was like a fly in a wine glass, buzzing around, hitting the four walls of her house. Over the years her world had grown increasingly small, so much so that she finally sought help. She got a therapist who specialised in the fear of flying and they began to go to work. In one of their early sessions he asked her where she would like to go first.
‘I’d like to go to Maui,’ she said. ‘I’d like to visit Mick and John.’
‘Well, book a ticket, then,’ he said.
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You can’t do that now and I don’t want you to book a ticket to go tomorrow. I want you to book a ticket for six months from now.’
She worked every day to be able to get on that flight, because it had been a long time coming. She’d been bullshitting me for years that she was going to come and visit John and me, so when she referred to it again during our conversations I tried not to get my hopes up; by then I knew how hard it was for her to even contemplate boarding a plane.
Time wore on and just before the date for her promised trip to Hawaii, I flew to London to do some press in advance of our shows at the O2 arena. I was there for a week, and I saw Chris and asked her if she’d rather move her holiday forward and come back with me to Hawaii. I was well aware that this would be her first flight in over fifteen years, and England to Hawaii is a long haul, so I told her we’d make it fun and I’d be her roadie. I’d sit with her, tend to her, and do whatever it took to make the journey a smooth one for her. I wasn’t sure she’d go for it, but she did and we had a ball. She’d done the work for all those months and though she wasn’t without apprehension, she was mentally prepared to face the fear that had held her landlocked for over a decade.
She had the greatest time in Hawaii, I mean, she really fucking loved it. She stayed down in Lahaina at a great hotel and she came up to my farm to hang out while I rehearsed with Rick Vito and my blues band for an annual fundraiser that I do. I knew Steven Tyler was off tour, relaxing at his house on the island at the time, so I’d called him in to join us. Chris hadn’t seen Rick in years and they had a proper reunion and she and Steven got on smashingly.
I would be a liar if I said I didn’t hope that Chris would play with us but I honoured my vow to her and never brought it up. The main room at my farm has high, vaulted ceilings and is acoustically a dream to play in; it has been my music retreat for many years and where I always rehearse. At the back of it is a quiet sitt
ing room, where you can watch the proceedings without being in the thick of it. That’s where Chris sat, with the splendour of Maui Harbor laid out behind her through the big bay windows. She didn’t once approach the grand piano, sitting there just a few feet away, although it begged for her.
After one rehearsal, Rick joked to me that he was going to play ‘I’d Rather Go Blind’, the Etta James tune that Chris covered in Chicken Shack, earning them a Top 20 hit in England back in the day. He did and launched into it without warning, thinking that surely that siren song would draw Chris to the piano. No such luck. She sat there unfazed. Unbeknownst to me, when I was out of the room, Steven and Rick even asked Chris flat out if she’d like to do a song or two at the gig, and from what I understand now, she replied with an unconvincing ‘yes’.
With four days to go before the gig, I was up in my bedroom, lying there early in the morning, when the house phone rang. That was uncommon, because not many people have that line. I picked it up thinking something was wrong.
‘Hello, Mick? It’s Chris.’
There is no other way to describe this than to say she sounded tiny. Tiny like a nervous schoolgirl asking to use the toilet.
‘Chris? Is everything okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah sure,’ she said. ‘Um, I’ve been thinking, um, would you like me to play at this gig?’
‘What? Yes! Sweetheart! Of course I would! Are you kidding me?’
‘I thought it might be fun.’
I had no words–I was overjoyed.
We’ve spoken about it since, and everything she’s done in terms of playing music again hinged on that moment; it literally all started there. I’ve known Chris a long time and played with her for over forty years so I can say without a doubt that the timbre of her voice expressed just how tentatively she took that first step.
Play On: Now, Then, and Fleetwood Mac: The Autobiography Page 28
