By Nick Baines
As an introductory disclaimer let me just say that this article could well have been turned into an essay, a dissertation, an anthology. I paid the majority of my student loan on tickets to go see The Mac twice, have been constantly considering getting Rumours tattooed on my thigh and would without a doubt select them as my specialist category on Mastermind. My friends and family have attempted an intervention but I uphold the mantra “Don’t Stop”.
Now that you have heard my confession I can get on with writing this anything but objective review of their gig at the 02 Arena. It marked the halfway point in their world tour, an impressive undertaking for a group whose average age stands at 64 years. Yet there was none of the elderly lethargy one might expect. Armed to the teeth with Botox and (probably) mountains of cocaine the band roared through a 2 and a half hour show with the exuberance of children on Christmas Eve.
It is important to note that Fleetwood Mac eat the phrase “sex, drugs and rock and roll” for breakfast. A bubbling cauldron of incestuous narcotic abuse has allowed the band to write songs with meaning, a phenomenon lost on the gormless X-factor robots of the modern day. Their most successful album, Rumours, was named so because of the dramatic goings on within the group. Childhood sweethearts Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks were fighting (the latter eventually bumping uglies with drummer Mick Fleetwood) whilst John and Christine Mcvie (bassist and keyboard player respectively) were going through a messy divorce. But somehow they got through all this emotional carnage and played the best gig of my life.
Buckingham stole the show. I had recently seen Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits play and his performance was lazy and unskilled in comparison to the American. His rendition of Big Love had everyone on their feet. A puddle of sweat revealed the effort he put in as he combined intricate guitar riffs with passionate grunting to mesmerise everyone present. He spoke candidly of his love for Nicks and how the band had evolved, and more importantly survived, the powdered and romantic anarchy of previous years. The man did not leave the stage for the entire set; a testament to his skill and endurance.
Nicks was her usual haunting self, limbs flailing in a gracefully messy style. Her voice was still magnificent and through those plastic lips she serenaded us with the tear jerking Dreams (a reflection on her broken relationship with Buckingham) as well as twanging out the hippy numbers from the psychedelic album Tusk. The gold dust woman played her muted tambourine with poise and with that seductively dysfunctional loveliness all fans adore.
The tickets were expensive and so it was no surprise that the crowd were not hard to motivate. Mick Fleetwood took centre stage at various occasions to work the audience. With his Jack Sparrow swagger, royal English accent and dubious pantaloons he caused raucous laughter as well as sombre appreciation. John Mcvie didn’t move from his spot at all. Cemented next to the drum kit, one could barely see his expression underneath his hat. He was what every bassist should be; understated, humble but brilliantly integral to every song he was part of.
I was lucky enough to see Christine Mcvie come onto the stage for the 1st encore (yes there were 2!) to play Don’t Stop. This was the first time the entire band had played together for 14 years and the applause aptly didn’t stop. The song Landslide was dedicated to a certain Peter Green who was in the audience. Green was the original founder of the band before hallucinogenics led him to wonder off into the woods and never return. Nicks said a heartfelt thank you to him for providing the platform for a band which had defined all their lives. This was a gig with history and you could tell they were playing as much for themselves as for the 20,000 sell-out crowd.
It was a religious experience and I know I will never again enjoy a concert this much. Any doubts I had about age holding them back were blown away. They were outstanding and endearing performers who fortunately had a collection of the best music ever created in their arsenal. The Mac bring out weird music fans from all generations and I was happy to boogie with my parents, for the first time ever in my life. But when Nicks and Buckingham locked eyes to sing the final song (Say Goodbye) we were able to taste the emotion which encapsulated 40 years of success, suffering and perfection. Tears were shed.
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