During the first month of the U.S. Rumours tour I stayed behind in L.A., working at Producer’s Workshop, for, unlike everyone else in my new world, I had a “normal” job. The time seemed to fly by, and things once again stabilized for me. I loved my little apartment and I loved my job. I missed Lindsey every minute, but his calls every night helped to ease the loneliness. On show nights he called me at 1 A.M. or later and we would talk for at least an hour.
After being away only a week Lindsey insisted that I fly out on the weekends to join the band. So every Friday night a long, black limousine was waiting for me in the parking lot of Producer’s, attracting stares and attention from the ragtag group of tourists, junkies, and hookers passing by on Hollywood Boulevard. Upon arrival in whatever city Fleetwood Mac was playing that night, I was whisked straight to the venue to meet up with Lindsey and the band.
Just like a reverse Cinderella, when the clock struck six I was off and running to my prince, instead of away from him, for the next three Fridays. As each weekend came to an end, Lindsey and I found it harder and harder to say goodbye.
The tour was going great. The album was selling out in stores, breaking sales records, and getting so much airplay that it seemed that every station across the country had only one artist on their playlist: Fleetwood Mac. Rumours had sold one million copies in the first eleven days of its release, going platinum. Within a month it reached number one on Billboard’s album chart and was on its way to making history, for it would stay at the top for an unprecedented thirty-one weeks. Interviews, magazine cover shoots, and sold-out shows were now an everyday occurrence for the band.
Fleetwood Mac returned to Los Angeles and Lindsey once again appeared in the doorway of Producer’s Workshop to sweep me off my feet and take me home with him. The band had a three-week break before leaving for Europe and the next leg of the tour. I refused to think any further ahead than the next few precious days.
As the first week passed by we resumed our routine of being together every night at either his house or mine. We didn’t speak of the upcoming European tour. I couldn’t bear to think of being separated from Lindsey, and like most people faced with painful dilemmas, I put it out of my mind, hoping that if I ignored it the horrible problem would go away.
During the second week of Lindsey’s break he called and asked me to drive over to his house after work. “I can’t pick you up today, angel. I forgot to tell you, we’re shooting the cover of Rolling Stone with Annie Leibowitz here at my house. Come on over right after work, OK? The band’s driving me insane.”
Although I couldn’t wait to see Lindsey, I looked at my clothes in horror. I was dressed in a short pleated black skirt and a man’s white shirt, with black ankle-strap low heels on my feet. Very Mary Quant and English, but not exactly drop-dead sexy. I looked like a schoolgirl rather than the rock ‘n’ roll femme fatale that I tried to be at all Fleetwood Mac gatherings. The fact that I rarely succeeded in achieving the sophistication I struggled so valiantly for was beside the point. There’s nothing for it, I told myself. If I take the time to go home to change, I’ll be an hour late getting to Lindsey’s and, by the sound of his voice, he wants me there ASAP. The drive itself takes at least thirty minutes! I sighed as I fixed my makeup, adding Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner. Better than nothing, I guess. I giggled as I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Sheesh, I look as though I’m twelve years old … with attitude. In Lindsey’s eyes, that might not be such a bad thing!
When I pulled up in front of his house it was obvious that something big was happening in this modest little neighborhood in West L.A. The street was lined with limousines and Mercedes, and Lindsey’s front yard was littered with photography lights shining in through the windows. Fluffing up my hair, I checked my face in my rearview mirror, jumped out of my little VW Bug, and, walked carefully through the confusion of cables strewn over his lawn.
Taking a deep breath—always wise before an encounter with Fleetwood Mac—I knocked softly. Lindsey threw the door open and yelled, “Thank God you’re here! They’re driving me crazy!” He stopped talking and looked me over slowly. “Hey, little girl, looks like you’re looking for your daddy. I like it, Carol. You should wear this stuff more often.”
I could tell by the gleam in his eye that he meant every word and I felt confidence flood through me as he pulled me into the house. Mick got up from the couch, leered, and began making a few suggestive “schoolgirl” remarks of his own. John and Christine started laughing as Mick and Lindsey each took one of my arms and played a tug of war with me caught in the center. Stevie sat silently, apparently not thrilled by my arrival and the happy reception I was receiving.
After I was finally allowed to sit down, I got a good look at the band. Everyone was dressed in varying outfits of nightgowns, T-shirts, and boxer shorts except for John, who was bare-chested and wearing blue jeans. Stevie had on a beautiful peach gown, a 1930s lace-and-satin boudoir piece. She looked amazing. Leaning over, Lindsey whispered into my ear, “This cover is going to be totally cool. Annie has the five of us lying on my bed … very incestuous.” He looked at my raised eyebrows and laughed. “It’s Fleetwood Mac, Carol—are you surprised?”
Suddenly I heard a loud voice calling out from Lindsey’s spare bedroom. “Come on, you guys, quit fuckin’ around in there. I need you in here now!” The voice was followed by the appearance of a woman with cropped short brown hair, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. It was clear that Annie Leibowitz was used to being obeyed and she carried herself with an authority that spoke of numerous encounters with crazed rock ‘n’ rollers. Famed for her Rolling Stone covers and gorgeous pictorials of models as well as the rich and famous, she had reached a level of fame in photography shared only by Richard Avedon and Francesco Scavullo. For her to be shooting Fleetwood Mac’s first Rolling Stone cover for Rumours was a sign that Fleetwood Mac had truly arrived.
The band members followed Annie meekly into a back bedroom as I made myself comfortable on Lindsey’s couch. Knowing the size of his extra bedroom and the number of people and the amount of equipment that had been crammed into it, there was no way I could follow them. I flipped through magazines and listened to the laughter echoing down the hall. In less than an hour the shoot was finished, and forty-five minutes after that the house was empty except for Lindsey and me.
He pulled me up from the couch and led me into his bedroom. As he showed me the Polaroids that Annie’d left for him, I could see that the cover shot was amazing. Rolling Stone was going to be thrilled. Mick had Stevie curled up beside him, looking like a child next to his gangling frame. Lindsey and Christine were wrapped around each other and John, shirtless and barefoot in jeans, was reading Playboy off on the right side of the bed. It was a classic shot which really did tell the story of the Rumours album. I knew the underlying big message as I looked at it: incest!
Lindsey took the pictures out of my hands and laid them on the battered little table beside his bed. Brushing my hair out of my eyes, he said, “Carol, I have two things I need to talk to you about.”
I looked up at him and saw with a start how unusually pale and gaunt his face looked, his cheekbones sharp. “What is it? Is something wrong?” I asked fearfully.
“I want you to come to Europe with me”, Lindsey replied quietly.
I started to speak, but before I could say anything he placed two fingers over my mouth. I sat stunned as he told me how much he’d missed me over the past month and that he felt another month was far too long for us to be separated. So, he finished, I had to go with him to Europe.
Without hesitating I answered, “God, Lindsey, of course I want to come. I haven’t even been able to think about what it would be like for me when you leave again. I hope I can take a leave of absence from Producer’s—”
Lindsey cut in quickly. “You have to. I want you there and that’s that.”
I felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I wouldn’t have to say goodbye to Lindsey in a week and a half! At the back of my mind, though, nagging doubts tried to force their way to the surface. We’ve only been together five months, and for the first time we’re going to be with each other twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, in a foreign country. Is it too soon for us to handle that? I pushed the thought away as hard as I could, but still it lingered inside my head. I’d been to Europe with John twice, and Japan once, before I met Lindsey. I knew how hard it could be on a relationship when you’re jet-lagged, eating bad food, and dealing with winter weather. And it wouldn’t be just Lindsey and me. We’d be with the entire entourage of band, roadies, and technicians. Not to mention Stevie Nicks.
Will my being there with him make the uneasy truce between them break down and become an all-out war? I thought nervously. I knew from talking to Julie that Lindsey had never taken another woman on the road with him. I’d be the first. I thought back to the vow I made during rehearsals: I’ll never do anything that will come between Lindsey and his music. Biting my lip, I wondered how hard it would actually be for me to keep that vow if I went on tour with him.
I knew that the working relationship between Lindsey and Stevie was very precarious, and thus the balance within the band itself. Of course, I told myself, with or without me on the road, that’s a storm waiting to break. One look at Lindsey’s pale, gaunt face and the wistful look in his eyes made me lock my fears away and cover his face in kisses as I said, “Yes, yes, yes … I’ll come!”
Almost as an aside, Lindsey casually informed me that his wisdom teeth were impacted and he had to have oral surgery. I looked at him in concern. That’s why he looks so pale! Why didn’t he tell me sooner that his mouth was hurting him? I wondered.
“‘I’m obviously not looking forward to it—I just hope that it goes well. I’ve been warned that getting your wisdom teeth out is a major deal. Richard will take me tomorrow, but can you come over after work? I’ll try not to be too boring.” I quickly nodded yes and for the rest of the night we tried not to think about hypodermic needles and drills.
For the first few days Lindsey seemed to weather the surgery well. The dentist had given him Percodan for the pain and he was stoned but happy when I arrived to spend every night with him. We lay in his bed and watched TV, talked about the upcoming European tour, and listened to his collection of the Beach Boys. Lindsey idolized their music. He played each song for me, pointing out the harmonies, the beautiful arrangements, and the sheer genius of Brian Wilson. I listened quietly as he told me stories about Brian’s life as a tortured musician. Lindsey believed it was just the sheer weight of Brian’s genius that was his greatest enemy.
And as he said these words I felt an inner chill. Lindsey was also a musical genius—and even in this early stage of our relationship I had seen a glimpse of his own tortured side. Every time he played “So Afraid” on stage, it was there for everyone to see. But I kept this to myself as I listened to him and tried not to think of it. Instead we listened to Pet Sounds in the darkness of his bedroom and fell asleep to the haunting sound of Brian’s voice.
On the fourth day after Lindsey’s surgery, I let myself into the Putney house and walked into the guitar-strewn living room. “You better go check on Lindsey, Carol. I think something’s wrong! He wouldn’t let me do anything for him …” Richard said in a rush of words as soon as he saw me. “He’s been curled up in a ball for most of the day and won’t talk. I think he’s in a lot of pain.” Looking at Richard in surprise, I rushed into the back bedroom and sank down onto the bed by Lindsey’s side. His face glistening with beads of sweat, he was lying with his eyes closed, the bedclothes twisted around him.
As I called his name softly, he opened his eyes and grabbed my hand. “It hurts, Carol, really bad. I feel like shit. I’ve taken three Percodan, and it’s not helping. Call Dr. Silvers for me, OK?” I ran to the bathroom to get a cold washcloth for his face and then frantically looked around for his dentist’s number. Finding it, I clumsily dialed the phone with one hand while holding Lindsey’s clammy palm with the other. After the answering service put me through to the dentist, I told him about how much pain Lindsey was in and that he seemed to be running a fever.
Alarmed, Dr. Silvers told me to ice Lindsey’s jaw, give him painkillers, and, above all, keep him in bed. I scheduled an 8 A.M. appointment, hung up, and called my boss to tell him why I wouldn’t be coming to work the next day. Ed, as usual, was wonderful and told me to stay by Lindsey’s side.
At the dentist’s office we were given very bad news. Lindsey had dry socket, which essentially meant that the sites on both sides of his lower jaw where his wisdom teeth had been extracted weren’t healing; bone was exposed and it was infected. The pain was made worse by air hitting the wounds every time he opened his mouth.
“I’ve given him numbing shots of Novocain and another one of Demerol”, said Dr. Silvers. “I want Lindsey to gargle at least five or six times a day with saltwater, take antibiotics, and I’ll give him more Percodan. Stay on a liquid diet, use straws—absolutely no chewing or smoking. With rest, in a few weeks he should be fine.”
“Um, sir?” I asked as the full impact of what he’d just told us started to sink in. “Lindsey is supposed to leave in a week for a monthlong tour of Europe with his band. He has to sing and play guitar for two hours at every show. Is he going to be able to?”
Aghast at my words, Dr. Silvers sharply told us that we were running a huge risk with Lindsey’s health and he wouldn’t be responsible for what happened. Lindsey and I looked at each other, rolling our eyes as soon as the dentist’s back was turned. We took the prescriptions and left.
As soon as we were in the car Lindsey lit a joint. He stared at me steadily and, by the look in his eyes, I knew better than to say anything about the warning about smoking. I mentally shrugged as I turned the key in the ignition and drove out of the parking lot. Lindsey would do what he wanted, regardless of his dentist’s warning. At least I can make sure he takes his antibiotics, I told myself. Since Lindsey was now truly stoned out of his mind on Demerol and weed, I took him home first and then ran to the pharmacy for his prescriptions.
In the car I started to freak as my mind raced. How is he going to be able to perform? He’s in agony, can’t eat, has a fever, and can’t rest after this week. I don’t know how he’s going to be able to manage! I felt a fierce protectiveness consume me as I drove at twenty miles over the speed limit to get back to him. Tomorrow I’ll talk to Ed about Europe, I told myself. It’s no longer just about us not wanting to be separated: Lindsey’s going to need me to take care of him. Ed will understand.
I had a feeling, though, that he might not be so willing to let me take off from work and go with Fleetwood Mac on the road. I’d been putting off asking him for exactly that reason. Not only would it interrupt my training as a sound engineer, but Ed didn’t seem that keen on my relationship with Lindsey. I wasn’t sure why, but I could sense it. Well, nothing for it, girl. You’re going to talk to Ed in the morning and that’s that, I said firmly to myself as I pulled into Lindsey’s driveway. Grabbing his prescription, I ran into the house to take care of the man I loved.
Giving Lindsey strict instructions to follow his dentist’s orders, I left him drowsing in bed the next morning and drove from West L.A. to Producer’s Workshop. I checked that day’s bookings and waited nervously for Ed to arrive. As if my thinking of him had made him materialize, he was suddenly there, looming over my shoulder.
“How’s Lindsey feeling?” He asked as he walked over and poured himself some coffee.
At six foot four, with longish sandy-brown hair and a handlebar mustache, Ed Cobb cut an imposing figure. I could tell that he’d ridden his new Harley to work that day. His hair was completely windblown as he stood in the office in cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a denim shirt, cigar smoke billowing around his head—the exact image of Tom Selleck as the Marlboro Man.
Ed carried himself as someone who was used to getting respect. He’d been a teenage music sensation when he sang in a folk group called the Four Preps. They’d had a string of top 100 hits in the late 1950s and early ‘60s. After that, Ed had gone on to produce, coproduce, or write records with total sales of forty million. Famous as the writer of such classics as “Tainted Love”, “Good Guys Don’t Wear White”, and “Dirty Water”, he’d been nominated for three Grammys and received two Record of the Year Awards for sound. Ed’s outstanding career had brought him a total of thirty-two gold and platinum records to hang on his wall, for producing and/or sound engineering Pink Floyd, Steely Dan, and Fleetwood Mac, to name just a few.
“Not good, Ed.”
I told him about Lindsey’s dental nightmare and then asked him if he had a few minutes to talk to me. I quickly told him about Lindsey’s invitation to me to join him on the road in Europe and tried to explain why I wanted and needed to go. He looked down at me from his imposing height, his eyes gentle and questioning. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nodded and he sighed, leaning back against the doorframe, letting an uncomfortable silence hang in the air. And then he shook his head wearily and started to speak. He told me that he was worried that I might not realize what I was getting into: the lifestyle, the drugs, the press, the fans—all part of the rock ‘n’ roll world that I was about to enter. He reminded me that Fleetwood Mac was on the verge of becoming a very big band, and anyone with them had better be ready for the glare of a huge spotlight.
“I can handle it, Ed”, I said firmly.
He looked at me, smiling slightly, and asked simply, “Do you love this guy?”
“More than anything in the world”, I answered ferociously.
“Well, then, I won’t say no. Your job will be here when you get back. Don’t worry about that. Listen, hon, if you change your mind once you’re over there and want to come home—call me. I’ll wire you the money and get you back home safe. I’m here. Remember that, Carol. If you need me, I’m here.”
I walked the few steps between us and gave him a long hug, feeling that I might start to cry. I was feeling as though I’d disappointed him somehow, but also knew that he understood why I felt the need to go with Lindsey. I was in love and my guy needed and wanted me with him. I really didn’t feel that anything else mattered.
Relieved but subdued, I followed Ed back into the office. Once I was alone, I phoned Lindsey to tell him that Ed had given me a leave of absence. Speaking like his mouth was full of cotton balls, he told me to start packing my suitcases right away. I hung up the phone and went back to work. At exactly 6 P.M. I grabbed my jacket and walked out into the dark night.
It started to rain again as I pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. Suddenly, there was a crack of thunder as a jagged bolt of lightning lit the sky. The buildings along Hollywood Boulevard looked stark and gray, like monoliths from an ancient time. The figures moving along the sidewalk in dark coats, heads aimed at the ground, seemed sinister and solitary, sharing only the cold, hard rain falling from a sky that had turned L.A. into an unfamiliar landscape of moving shadows and wet terrain.
Palm trees bent as their fronds were ripped from their tops, blowing haphazardly in front of my car and onto rooftops. I strained to see the street, afraid to drive faster than fifteen miles per hour or turn on the radio, as I always did, to listen for Fleetwood Mac’s songs. I’ve never seen it rain this much in L.A., I said to myself. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that God was trying to tell me something. I shivered as the cold and dampness seeped through the windows into the car.
I don’t believe in omens anyway, I told myself fiercely. Yet I knew that I did, and with Ed’s warning words repeating in my head, it was with an uneasy mind that I pulled into Lindsey’s driveway. I was leaving in six days and I had no time for doubts or omens. I’ll take it one day at a time and it’s going to be great, I said firmly to myself. Ignoring the thunder and lightning, I opened the car door and ran toward Lindsey and the warm, safe haven by his side.
The past few days had been a whirlwind for us, packing, picking up prescriptions, keeping our heads down whenever we were out and about. I was glad for Lindsey’s sake that he’d be leaving the country. People were starting to stare at us whenever we ventured out and it was a bit disconcerting, especially because he was still feeling so bad after his surgery. He’d lost at least ten pounds over the past week and was in constant pain. It was a relief to climb on board the 747 and take off for the start of the European Rumours tour.
During the long flight I got to know Judy Wong, Fleetwood Mac’s secretary. I’d seen her countless times at rehearsals, but really didn’t know her history with the band. She was only too happy to fill me in. Judy had long been a member of the Fleetwood Mac family. The ex-wife of Jethro Tull’s bass player, Glenn Cornick, she’d arranged the introduction of Bob Welch to Fleetwood Mac and was instrumental in bringing about his four-year stint with the band. Immortalized in the Kiln House album by the song “Jewel Eyed Judy”, she’d been indispensable to Fleetwood Mac. She was bright, funny, and had the energy of a thousand people. You’d swear she was a speed freak, but she never did drugs. Always moving, always talking, and always happy—it was like having an Asian Mary Poppins in our midst. I felt drained as she flitted away to visit with Mick, and I laid my head on Lindsey’s shoulder for the rest of the flight.
As the 747 landed in Birmingham, England, every member of the band’s entourage groaned with relief. All of us felt like death. Lindsey was sick and in pain from his mouth infection and I felt ill from exhaustion. And everyone else looked as bad as we felt. Luckily, we cleared customs quickly and climbed into our separate limousines to drive in a convoy through the gray, fog-shrouded industrial city.
Our cars pulled up in front of a drab square building that was, to our dismay, our “luxury” hotel for the next two days. We gathered in the tiny lobby, huddled like refugees in the cold, plain entry hall and waited for J.C. to give us our keys to our suites.
Lindsey let out a loud “Fuck! I hate this!” and kicked the wall with his cowboy boot. Like cross, bedraggled children, we wearily trooped into the dark, cold elevators and proceeded to our rooms. The “suite” was a large bedroom furnished with threadbare carpet and a single lamp on the bedside table next to a sagging bed. It was freezing cold, with the radiator against the wall giving off only tepid heat. Among the shadows in the corners, I saw a spider making its way across the floor. As Lindsey and I looked at each other in dismay, there were no words to express how much we absolutely hated the hotel, even though, for fifteen minutes, Lindsey gave it the old “college try”—using his entire vocabulary of swear words. If the hotel was any indication, the tour was not off to an auspicious start.
The mood was not lightened the next evening when we arrived at the venue. Fleetwood Mac was booked into an old, decrepit theater that looked at least a hundred years old. The chandeliered interior resembled a Gothic stage set from Phantom of the Opera. Heavy, red velvet curtains covered with dust were pulled back over balcony boxes that circled the second tier. The seats in front of the stage were narrow and wooden, so small that they seemed as if they wouldn’t hold anyone over the age of ten. The theater had a seating capacity of roughly four thousand. While it was true that Rumours only opened at number thirty-four in the British charts, the band had been playing for sellout crowds of twenty thousand back in the States. It seemed strange to be in such a small hall for the first European show. And the band was not pleased.
Lindsey and Carol Ann backstage during the European Rumours tour.
Backstage in the tiny, cramped dressing rooms, each member of Fleetwood Mac was letting J.C. know their displeasure in their own special way. Christine was bitching about the “nasty” theater; Lindsey was pissed off about the audience size; John was cold and couldn’t get the radiator to work in the tuning room; and Stevie, whose wardrobe changes during the show were too numerous to count, was almost in tears over the one stingy hanging rack she had been given. Last, but not least, Mick was in a churlish mood over the lack of cocaine.
I felt sorry for J.C. as he ran around in circles trying to soothe, solve, and explain his way before the show started. “Stevie, I’ll get you another rack … Chris, Lindsey, sorry, but this is the biggest hall in Birmingham … Mick, you know how hard it is to get blow over here. Even if I can eventually get my hands on some, it’s going to take days, not hours. This isn’t the U.S., mate. I feel your pain. I’d kill for a line right now, believe me. Don’t you think I could use one, having to deal with you lot?”
Mick stared at him belligerently. “That’s crap. Totally unacceptable, I’m afraid. You know I play better with it. Don’t blame me if the show sucks tonight.” As he finished he pointed his finger directly in J.C.’s face.
“What about weed, J.C.?” Lindsey asked in a surly tone matching Mick’s. “You don’t expect me just to drink my way through the show, do you? Jesus!”
“Look, lads”, J.C. thundered through the tiny dressing room, “there are no drugs here! I’ll do the best I can, but don’t count on it for at least a few more days. Drink vodka! Drink champagne! Drink whatever the hell you need to get you through it … I mean, what are you thinking, boys? That I can fucking call a Colombian cartel? By the way, as for this theater, how the fuck could I know that Rumours would be a fucking monster record? Mick and I booked this tour five months ago, based on the results of your friggin’ last album, not this one! Shit!” Muttering to himself, J.C. stomped out of the main dressing room and slammed the door behind him.
John Courage, a.k.a. J.C.
As soon as he was gone the whole room exploded in laughter. It was almost impossible to get J.C. rattled, but Fleetwood Mac’s bitching and moaning had managed to break him down, destroying his cool demeanor, at the very first British show. Sadistically, the band felt better as a result. Now that someone had paid for their discomfort, they could get over it and go on with the show.
Despite the lack of drugs and the Vampire Lestat-style theater, the show was one of their best. The acoustics of the old hall were brilliant and the band sounded tight and energized. Gratified by the show and the reaction of the audience, albeit small in numbers, the band was in much better spirits when we all met up again backstage. Having recovered from his earlier lapse of decorum, a cool and calm J.C. ushered them to their limos and, with relief, left the theater with his ruffled feathers back in place and his silver Halliburton briefcase clutched firmly under his arm. It was time to move on.
After a show in Manchester, the band finally arrived in London. We were thrilled. Our hotel was large and, by English standards, very modern. We still had radiators and old wallpaper, but the beds didn’t sag and the furniture was halfway decent. On our third night, everyone in the Fleetwood Mac entourage gathered in the bar, desperate for entertainment.
Decorated in traditional English pub style, the place was dark, smoky, and loud. Lindsey and I sat down on bar stools and as he ordered a pint of beer I looked around at the scene. John and Christine were laughing uproariously with their heads bent like conspirators over their mugs of beer. The band roadies were trying to pick up the few Englishwomen who mistakenly wandered into their paths, scaring them off with loud, off-color remarks that would make even the most jaded girl blush. Mick and his wife Jenny were nowhere in sight and J.C. was holed up in a corner with a couple of drunken English promoters. Stevie was holding court at a table with Robin Snyder. As though sensing my gaze, Stevie looked up and stared at me with no trace of emotion on her face, yet that one look said it all: I don’t like you and I don’t want you here, Carol. She then turned her back on me and rejoined the conversation around her table.
Tell me that there’s a stare more intimidating than that of a woman who has transferred her feelings of rage from her past lover onto you and I’ll tell you that obviously you’re not a woman caught between Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. To Stevie at that time, it obviously made no difference that I had no part in the breakup of their relationship. I was the new woman in his life and although her feelings about me personally were to remain unspoken—on that tour—it was obvious to me that they hovered somewhere below the sub-zero freezing point.
Whether I deserved it or not, her dark look made me feel as though I’d just had a black hole burned through me. And it made me sad, for I admired Stevie a great deal. Who wouldn’t? She was beautiful, talented, and mysterious. With a sigh, I shrank back against the bar, thinking maybe it was not going to work out between her and me, and maybe I’d better watch my step. I looked over at Lindsey and saw that he too had seen the look that Stevie had thrown at me. As he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek in a show of support, Richard and Ken appeared from out of nowhere, almost jumping up and down in their excitement. They’d managed to score some weed! Lindsey told me to sit tight and leaped off his bar stool, disappearing like smoke.
So I sat by myself, feeling conspicuous, lonely, and completely out of place. The thought of beer made me want to gag, and with no one to talk to I had absolutely no reason to stay. I knew that Lindsey could be anywhere from twenty minutes to two hours, depending on exactly what was waiting for him to smoke in the boys’ den of iniquity. Picking up my purse, I dug out my room key and went back upstairs.
Opening the door, I was hit with the overwhelming odor of unwashed laundry. The hotels in Birmingham, Manchester, and Liverpool had been so substandard that the idea of turning over our clothes to them to wash was ludicrous. I sighed as I looked at the jumble of garments spilling out of our suitcases. Might as well do something useful, I thought forlornly. I sank down onto my knees and started pulling out clothes and sorting them into piles, feeling exactly like a much put-upon Cinderella. An internal dialogue kept me company as I worked. This is not exactly how I pictured being on the road with Fleetwood Mac. Actually, so far, none of the past week has been what I imagined it would be: crappy food, crappy hotels, Lindsey still sick … I miss L.A.—even if it is raining there constantly this year, it’s better than the thirtytwo degree winter weather over here! Surrounded by towering piles of clothes, I felt myself gearing up for a real pout.
Suddenly the door burst open and Lindsey came running into the room. “Oh my God! Get dressed in something sexy! Put on some makeup! Get ready!” Startled, I dropped the handful of dirty socks I’d been sorting and looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.
“What are you talking about? It’s almost midnight! What’s going on?”
Lindsey grabbed me and pulled me up from the floor. “We’re going to Eric Clapton’s castle! Mick and Jenny already have two cars waiting for all of us downstairs! Where are my good jeans? My black cowboy boots? Jesus! I can’t believe I’m going to meet Eric Clapton tonight!”
“Lindsey, you’re kidding, right? We’re meeting Eric Clapton?” I had loved Derek and the Dominoes since high school. Not to mention Cream and Blind Faith. I knew, of course, that Jenny’s sister Pattie was married to Eric, but if anything, I thought he might come to one of the shows. I never in a million years expected that we would be going to his castle.
For the American contingent of the Fleetwood Mac family, meeting Clapton was on a par with meeting John Lennon. We weren’t groupies, but who in their right mind wouldn’t want to spend time with a musician who was a living legend? And thanks to Mick and Jenny, we were about to do just that.
I threw on my favorite velvet top, put on lipstick, and laughed at Lindsey hopping around the room with one boot on and one off as he desperately hunted for a matching sock. Swearing, he grabbed a dirty sock that was at least the same color as the one on his shod foot and collapsed onto the bed. Boots on, he shrugged into his black velvet jacket, wrapped his maroon wool scarf around his neck, and threw me my long, black, antique coat from the closet. “This looks great on you, baby. You have to wear it!”
Sighing, I took the coat from him, knowing that I was going to absolutely freeze in it. With a last longing look at my heavier coat thrown over the bed, I grabbed my purse and ducked under Lindsey’s arm as he impatiently held the door open for me. He slammed it behind us and we raced downstairs to the waiting limousines. I could see that the two limos were crammed full with the entire band, along with J.C., Robin Snyder, Judy Wong, Jenny, Richard, and Ken. I sat on Lindsey’s lap for the entire hourlong ride to Eric Clapton’s home in the Surrey countryside.
When we finally drove slowly through the gates of Clapton’s estate, we saw a huge stone house that did, indeed, resemble a castle. The weather had turned bitterly cold and even the short walk to Pattie and Eric’s massive front door left me shivering in my thin coat. The door suddenly opened, spilling light and incense smoke and revealing the face of a rock ‘n’ roll legend haloed in candlelight.
Mick and Eric pounded each other on the back and we followed them into Clapton’s large entry hall, where Jenny’s famous sister, Pattie Boyd, stood waiting, wrapped in a cashmere shawl. Slender, with dark blonde hair and wearing pale pink lipstick and Brigitte Bardot-style eyeliner, she oozed sexuality. Pattie, of course, had had two of the most famous men in the world madly in love with her. She was married to George Harrison when she met and fell in love with Eric. No matter what else she might do in her life, she would forever be a part of rock ‘n’ roll history just because of that, as well as for the classic songs “Something” and “Layla” that she inspired.
After Mick and Jenny made hasty introductions, we were shown into a shabby-chic Gothic sitting room that was decorated with faded velvet couches, floor-to-ceiling brocade drapes, and wonderful little tables full of knickknacks and pictures of Pattie and Eric with just about every wellknown musician in the world. Incense sticks trailed smoke while candles burned on every available surface, and velvet pillows were tossed haphazardly around the floor over an ancient Oriental carpet.
Lindsey grinned at me as we looked at each other. It was exactly how one would expect a rock star’s “castle” to be. We were beyond thrilled. We were soon to find out that two-thirds of the twenty or so rooms had no furnishings whatsoever, but we didn’t care. What counted was the ambience, and Clapton’s home had that in spades.
We made ourselves comfortable on couches and pillows and Mick and Eric disappeared into the hall, returning within minutes with gleeful expressions and a silver platter. In the middle of the beautifully etched tarnished plate was a mound of white powder. Mick’s shadow loomed on the wall as he slowly, ceremoniously showed the platter to one and all, reciting, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and we have miles to go before we sleep.” It was the ritual call for the Fleetwood Mac family to gather around for a line of blow and a cheer went up as thirteen pairs of eyes glittered with anticipation. No one had had cocaine since we left America and there was a sense of bloodlust in the air as we impatiently waited our turn to sniff up a line. I was surprised to realize that I craved a line as much as everyone else in the room, who had all been doing blow far longer than I had.
Unlike the other members of the Fleetwood Mac family, I disliked alcohol, hated weed, and didn’t take pills. Before meeting Lindsey, my only vice had been cigarettes, so I was pretty much a babe in the woods in the company of my new family. Christine told me during rehearsals that my almost total sobriety made everyone a little uncomfortable. Not to worry, I thought to myself, I have found something that I can do right along with everyone else—and I like it! Nice to fit in! I smothered a giggle, trying my best to maintain a cool composure. As though reading my thoughts, Chris winked as she held the plate in front of me, handing me a rolled-up pound note. I smiled back at her, feeling the familiar rush hit me as the blow went up my nose.
After everyone had finished off all the powder on the platter, Eric and Pattie told us to follow them upstairs to their “pub” room. As one, we all got up from our various corners and followed them up a sweeping staircase to the third floor. As I trailed behind Lindsey, I lingered to glance into darkened rooms within sight of the staircase. Eric’s home looked very, very old and the empty bedrooms and sitting rooms that we passed seemed ghostly, filled with shadows and faint echoes of past occupants. Grabbing Lindsey’s hand, I clung to him until we reached Eric’s warm, bright den.
John, J.C., and Mick immediately challenged Eric to a game of darts. Christine, Stevie, Robin, Jenny, and Pattie headed off to Pattie’s bedroom for “girl talk”, leaving Judy and me behind with the guys. I mentally shrugged, glad to stay with my man and where the action was. Soon Lindsey joined in the game, and for the next hour the noise was incredible. More cocaine was brought out and snorted up immediately by one and all, and by 3 A.M. everyone was so wasted that I worried that one of the boys would throw a dart in someone’s eye.
Every man in the room was falling-down drunk and, sure enough, they started throwing darts at one another—trying their best to make my prediction come true. Pattie and Jenny swept into the room just in time, grabbing the darts out of their hands and ordering everyone to behave. Like chastened children, we meekly followed them downstairs to the sitting room, stumbling a bit on the now too-steep staircase.
It was close to four in the morning and the room was painfully cold. The fire had gone out in the stone fireplace and the candles were rapidly melting into shapeless forms. Lindsey sat down in a chair and I pulled a pillow over by his feet, leaning against his legs as I shivered in the icy chill, still wearing my light coat. Outside the wind was howling and the air felt damp. Suddenly the front door echoed with the pounding of a heavy fist and Eric ran into the entry hall, to return with yet another legend on his arm.
It was Ronnie Lane, guitarist of the Small Faces and the Faces. With his black T-shirt and jeans and tousled dark hair, he looked more like a rebellious teenager than the respected, world-renowned artist that he was. He smiled shyly at all of us, saying, “Welcome to England, mates!” then walked quickly toward an acoustic guitar in a corner of the room, lifting it off its stand. There was a childlike quality to him, like a kid holding a piece of treasure, as he cradled the instrument in his arms. Looking straight at Lindsey, he smiled and said, “Wanna jam?” I felt Lindsey jump nervously and I placed my hand on his knee, looking up to see excitement shining from his eyes.
Eric grabbed Pattie by the hand, pulling her with him as he shouted over his shoulder, “I’m going up to my studio for some guitars … We’ll be right back!” A murmur of excitement went around the room when Clapton returned with three acoustic guitars and handed one to Lindsey and one to John McVie. He settled down on a stool with the other well-worn, scarred guitar lying across his knees.
Pattie and Jenny raced around the room, lighting new candles, throwing more wood onto the fire, and pulling open the heavy brocade drapes to reveal a flurry of snowflakes outside. Jumping up, I ran to the window. I hadn’t seen snow for at least three years and I was now looking at not just snow, but the beginning of a major winter storm. No wonder the wind sounds like it’s going to tear the house apart, I thought as I stared through the smudged window. Hearing each of the guitars being tuned behind me, and excited whispers coming from everyone, I tore myself away from the window and walked quickly back to my place on the floor beside Lindsey.
Silence descended upon us all as Ronnie began to play, the snowflakes falling behind him creating a Christmas card backdrop. The opening chords of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” filled the room and, as one, we all held our breath as Lindsey and Eric joined in on their guitars. Eric began to sing and Stevie and Christine joined in with perfect harmony, singing one of the most beautiful songs ever written by George Harrison—or anyone, for that matter.
Looking at Lindsey’s face, I saw bliss shining in his eyes: he was living a dream that any musician in the world would give their weight in gold to experience. And the dream continued when Eric launched into “Layla”, making everyone smile as Pattie stood up and took a little bow during the song. “The Sounds of Silence” followed, Simon and Garfunkel’s words coloring the room in shades of dark blue and silver as Stevie’s beautiful, husky voice gave them a plaintive longing that touched us all to the depth of our souls.
I sat on my velvet pillow, leaning my head on my hand, listening to the music in wonder while studying the faces of Lindsey, Eric, John, and Ronnie. Each one was filled with the special look of joy that master musicians have when they are lost in the music, playing with their peers and aware of one another as only musicians can be. Yet each man, for that short moment in time, was also lost in his own individual ecstasy as he played his heart out just for the sake of the music. And I knew with certainty that I was experiencing a moment so perfect that it would stay with me for the rest of my life.
Dawn broke as the music continued, fingers of weak light penetrating the dark sitting room, replacing the muted candlelight. The spell was broken by the crash of a large branch falling from a tree outside, making everyone jump up in fright, so lost were we in our world of music. Outside, the snow was now forming an opaque blanket of white, while the howling winds of a blizzard accompanied the guitars. The room was icy cold and I felt as though I’d been woken from a dream as I looked in surprise at Lindsey’s face, blue with cold, and realized that I was absolutely freezing.
Nervous laughter replaced the singing, and Ronnie abruptly got up and placed Eric’s guitar lovingly back on its stand. He looked so happy, so healthy standing there. A few years later, he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and had to fight a long, losing battle with that horrific disease. But this morning he seemed at peace with himself and with his friends both old and new. Looking back today, I believe that Ronnie treasured those few hours of music shared during Fleetwood Mac’s first Rumours tour as much as we did.
Dazed and tired, we began to get up from our various pillows and sofas and walk in groups to the windows, staring in shock at the ferocity of the blizzard raging outside. As we watched, another branch was ripped from a tree and flung across the road in front of the house. “There’s no way you’re going to make it back to London in this”, Eric declared.
“No shit, Sherlock”, Mick sniggered, hitting him on the arm.
Ignoring him, Eric continued, “We’ve got plenty of bedrooms … everyone just wander around until you find one. See you in a few hours. If you need anything, don’t bother me. I’m going to bed with m’lady here and I’m locking my door!”
Lindsey looked at me, shrugged, and took my hand. We trudged upstairs, looking into room after room, trying hopelessly to find a room with a bed. At last we found one that had a narrow mattress on the floor and, surmising that we were lucky to have that, we went in and closed the door. Exhausted and cold to the bone, we laid down in the little room with our clothes on and pulled up the thin sheet—the only cover that was anywhere in sight and huddled together for warmth.
Our sleep was fitful. With the blizzard still howling outside, the twentydegree temperature in our room, and the stone floor under our thin mattress, we were both pretty miserable as we lay there. I tried to focus on the hours that I’d just spent in Eric Clapton’s sitting room, desperate to keep my mind off how brutally cold I was. Eventually Mick knocked on the door, looking as haggard as we felt, and told us that it was time to go. With no sign of Pattie or Eric, we trudged through the knee-deep snow, wet clothes adding to our morning misery, and climbed into the limo for the ride back to London.
The next day we flew to Paris, arriving only to find that the blizzard had followed us. I loved Paris and, having been there twice before, I happily pointed out my favorite shops along the Champs-Elysées and chattered about the impressionist museum that sat in a beautiful park across from the Louvre as Lindsey and I rode through the snow-shrouded streets.
We were booked for four days into a beautiful hotel overlooking a park with a black wrought-iron fence and gaslights mounted on lampposts. It was completely nineteenth-century and I adored it. I blithely made plans for shopping and sightseeing around the band’s concert, which would be in three days.
By that evening I had a sore throat, a headache, and a cough. Lindsey gave me one of his Percodan and I took half of it, hoping against hope that I’d be miraculously cured. It knocked me out and the next morning, feeling light-headed and a bit shaky, I knew that my plans for shopping that day were gone. I couldn’t seem to get warm even after turning up the radiator full blast and wrapping myself in the hotel’s heavy chenille robe. It was obvious that my hours spent in Eric’s freezing house had taken their toll. I spent the rest of the day under a mound of blankets, drinking hot tea and holding onto Lindsey’s hand.
By morning I couldn’t stop coughing. I could see by Lindsey’s eyes that he was scared as he called the front desk and asked for a doctor. His pale face turned even paler as he listened to the clerk on the other end of the line. Hanging up, he rushed over to the window and pulled the drapes. It was a total whiteout outside. Another blizzard had hit Paris and even though our room overlooked the park, the shapes of the trees and the iron fence that I’d so admired the day before were lost in the haze of snow. “Carol, darlin’, I know you’re really sick. I’ve asked the hotel to call a doctor, but he can’t make it here through the storm. He’s calling in some prescriptions for you. Don’t worry, I’m going to take care of you.”
I tried to smile and nodded as I listlessly turned on the television. There was an Easter service on TV, with the pope on the steps of the Vatican. My throat burning, I whispered, “It’s Easter, Lindsey! I can’t believe I forgot that today is Easter!” As if by signal, church bells started ringing, echoing across the park outside our room and, together with my fever and the choirs singing on TV, I felt as though I were in a dream.
Lindsey leaned over and stroked my hair as he told me that he had to go out to pick up the medicine for me. Nodding, unable to speak again, I watched as he threw on a black overcoat and left the room. I turned on my side and felt the tears that I’d been trying to hide from him run down my face.
I couldn’t remember ever feeling this ill, and I was scared. Right then I would have given anything to be in my bedroom in Tulsa with my mother watching over me. I stared out the window and suddenly I saw Lindsey walking through the park. My view of him became hazy as the snowflakes obscured his shape, and he grew smaller and smaller as he braved the blizzard for me. I had an otherworldly feeling as I listened to the choral music and watched the man I loved disappear in a swirl of white. Yet even in my fever-induced delirium, I could see that the balance in my relationship with Lindsey had shifted.
Until that day I had been the one taking care of him, feeling I had to be a rock for his musical genius and his needs, both emotional and physical, after his awful dental surgery. Now, suddenly, I was helpless and he was taking care of me. And I knew that, for both of us, our relationship would never be the same again. We had proved that, no matter what, we were there for each other. Until then I’d felt that I was his shelter in a storm, and that day he was braving one for me. As ill as I was, I fell asleep with a smile on my face. No longer afraid in a French hotel room so far away from home, I felt secure that Lindsey would do everything he could to keep me safe.
He returned, dusted with snow, holding a vial of pills and a large bottle of codeine-laced cough syrup. Spilling it over the bed covers as he tried to measure it into a teaspoon, he talked in a soothing tone to me, but in my fever the meaning of his words became lost.
The following day I was diagnosed with “walking pneumonia” by the hotel doctor and given more prescriptions. Between us, Lindsey and I had about seven bottles of different pills and syrups on the bedside table in our hotel room. By the night of the band’s concert I was tired of being ill and determined to go to Fleetwood Mac’s show, no matter what. And I did.
To everyone’s disgust, a bullfight had taken place in the concert venue the previous day and the smell of blood permeated the arena. Everyone bitched and moaned, but this time it was with good reason. The stench was so strong that I felt my stomach churning as I laid on a couch watching Fleetwood Mac prepare for the show. And, by the looks on the band’s faces, they were faring little better than I. Stevie was positively green under the fluorescent lighting and I knew that I must have looked the same. Still, everyone managed to make it to the stage and the roar of the crowd greeted them as they began to play.
Lindsey Buckingham on the European Rumours tour.
Following slowly, I walked through the curtains into the arena. As I looked at the audience I could see that they didn’t seem bothered whatsoever by the smell of carnage in the air and the reddish-stained sawdust on the floor. The Parisian crowd was clapping and screaming, every single one of them on their feet as Fleetwood Mac launched into the set, pressing closer and closer to the stage in a frenzy as the music washed over them. I shrank back from the crush of fans and climbed onto the metal stairs to stay within reach of Lindsey should I need him. It looked as though the crowd might swarm the stage in their rapture.
The audiences in Britain had been good, but not like this. With the whole ground level of the venue open and without chairs, the kids were going insane. I saw a few of them fall, only to be picked up off the sawdust and surge toward the stage again as soon as they were on their feet. The band was possessed, reacting to the audience’s crazed adulation as they performed. I stood silently, watching, accepting.
As I stood in the relative darkness of the stage stairs, I thought back to the band sweating out the final mixes of Rumours at Producer’s Workshop and their first shaky rehearsal; to Lindsey’s middle-of-the-night fears and that first bad review of the album; and to when Fleetwood Mac had barely dared to dream of the success that was unfolding before them that night in a blood-soaked arena in Paris. It was obvious that Fleetwood Mac was now an international sensation. And there was no going back.
John McVie and Lindsey Buckingham.
The snow accompanied the band as it swept across Germany and Holland, leaving rave reviews and crazed audiences in its wake. Fleetwood Mac’s fame was growing by the day and it was putting pressure on everyone. The punishing schedule, the brutal weather, and the intensity of performing to ever-greater adulation had, by the end of the tour, exhausted every member of the Fleetwood Mac family. Lindsey had lost so much weight on the road from the aftereffects of his surgery that he looked skeletal, and I was still recovering from my walking pneumonia. Christine, John, Stevie, and Mick were hollow-eyed, cranky, and ready for a break.
The European Rumours tour had been a phenomenal success for Fleetwood Mac, but it had taken its toll on us all. It was time to go home—time to go back to the States and the superstardom that was waiting for the band.