Over the next month Lindsey and I stayed in our new home on Coldwater Canyon, trying to leave the stress behind us and doing our best not to speak of the events in Australia, which wasn’t hard. Lindsey refused to speak about what happened between us and honestly, I was afraid to insist. I told myself that we both needed to heal and that what was done was done. And I told myself that it couldn’t possibly happen again.
We spent our days lying by the pool, going out to our favorite restaurants, and trying to keep to a “healthy” lifestyle. We didn’t do blow, we had no all-night parties, and, most importantly, we had no contact whatsoever with the band. The only dark cloud hanging over us was the sales figures for Tusk.
They were very disappointing to Lindsey and it wasn’t just the new direction of the album that had hurt sales. Warner Bros. broadcast the entire album on the radio a week before its release. Fans by the thousands taped the whole thing, thus avoiding having to spend hard-earned money on a double album. Bootlegs were already circulating across the country, and they were a lot cheaper than the $16.98 that the stores were asking.
My experience in bootleg records came in handy this month as I explained to Lindsey, over and over again, the realities of avid fans and collectors when it came to music: taping a radio broadcast of an unreleased album was a fan’s fantasy, an artist’s nightmare, and a record bootlegger’s dream. There was little doubt that people were listening to the record. It was just that, thanks to the radio broadcast, they didn’t have to pay for it.
But we both knew that the band members would blame Lindsey for the sales and not the preemptive radio broadcast that had cut deeply into those numbers. He was the easiest target. Unlike Lindsey, the band wasn’t into the Clash and the Sex Pistols or finding a new direction in their music. They still didn’t seem to get his new music at all. Even so, Lindsey stood by his creative decision to not do another Rumours album. And I was his most ardent supporter.
Lindsey offering his idea for a new stage look.
Two weeks before we left to go back out on the road, Lindsey asked me to design a new stage look for him for the rest of the tour. He was tired of the suit and wanted something completely different. I designed flowing, sheer loose shirts made from silk gauze with gold and silver threads and paste jewels glittering against their sheer fabrics. Once made, they resembled New Wave pirate shirts. I also chose heavy Chinese silk cloth embossed with dragons and symbols for three fitted blazer jackets in silver, blue, and red. He’d wear the shirts and jackets with blue jeans. Armed with Lindsey’s measurements, I took the designs and fabric to a seamstress and by the time we went on the road they were ready. And, just like the Armani suit, the new wardrobe rocked.
A day before we climbed on board the Fleetwood Mac jet we got the news that we had a buyer for our June Street house: Francis Ford Coppola. The director of The Godfather would be moving in as soon as it was out of escrow. Collapsing in hysterical laughter, Lindsey and I spent the day envisioning break-in scenarios where the hapless degenerates of Hollywood came face to face with Marlon Brando, Robert De Niro, and Al Pacino sipping coffee in our living room. And we knew that if that were to happen, Coppola could just turn off the alarm system permanently. Because nobody liked waking up with a decapitated horse’s head under their bed covers, Coppola’s offer on our house was one that we just couldn’t refuse.
The U.S. tour was subdued but successful. The band and the inner circle were walking on eggshells around one another. None of us wanted a repeat of Australia. And slowly but surely the fractured relationships between band members were healing. If anything, the ugly scenes in Australia had shocked all of us into being on our best behavior. We were so polite and solicitous to one another that it was downright sickening. But still, it was a welcome change from the ugly tension and viciousness that had left all of us scarred from the last leg of the tour.
We left for Germany on May 25 and on the first day of June, the band headlined an outdoor show at Munich’s Olympic Horse Riding Stadium. Playing before thirty thousand people in the huge, rainswept stadium was mind-blowing for the entire Fleetwood Mac family. Watching the vast and frenzied German audience made all of us realize just how loved the band’s music had become. It was one thing to know the album sales and the chart numbers, but it was quite another to see with your own eyes thirty thousand young, hip German rockers singing along in English to “Go Your Own Way.” And it was a pretty sensational kick-off for the European Tusk tour.
It was Mick and J.C.’s genius idea to have us travel by train through Germany and into France and Holland. At least it would have been a genius idea if not for one small macabre fact. The lounge car of our small private train once belonged to Adolf Hitler. When we first boarded we oohed and aahed over the luxurious velvet curtains and sofas, the gilded lighting fixtures and the gleaming wood interior of the perfectly preserved coach. Then we found out who the original owner was and we all felt like vomiting. It was totally sick and no one—not even the Third Reich collector maniac John McVie—could stand spending more than one minute within its walls. And it got worse.
John McVie on the European Tusk tour.
The elderly and distinguished white-jacketed attendant on board was once the Führer’s own servant. It was a little like being on a train from hell. Needless to say, we spent the entire time in the dining car and in our private tiny sleeping rooms, trying to avoid the train’s ghastly lounge car and its polite but creepy manservant. We counted the minutes until we could get off and leave the Twilight Zone for our hotel in the cities scheduled on this leg of the tour.
Two days after Munich, on a hot and sunny day, Fleetwood Mac played before fifteen thousand American GIs on the U.S. Army base an hour outside of West Berlin. All of us had been looking forward to this show. The stage was gigantic and the band started playing before dusk in deference to the soldiers’ early-morning wake-up time on the base. I was wearing a cropped white top and long, thin gauze skirt over knee-high boots, and under the klieg lights and the still-smothering heat of the waning sun, I was dying from the heat.
As I stood on the side of the stage I noticed that there were two huge fans set up behind the band to cool them down as they performed and I walked over to stand in front of one. The stage was so large that I assumed that I’d be barely noticeable as Fleetwood Mac swirled and performed in front of me. But I was wrong. As I stood there enjoying the wind on my back, flashbulbs started popping like mad and wolf whistles replaced the cheers that had only moments before been accompanying the band’s set.
What the … ? What’s going on? Did Stevie’s top fall down or something? I thought in bewilderment. For there was no mistaking the soldiers’ reaction—a male roar of approval for a skimpily clad female. Looking in confusion at Stevie still draped in her shawls, I gave a mental shrug and went back to listening to the music.
Suddenly I saw J.C. charging toward me. Laughing so hard that his face was crimson, he grabbed me by the arm and started pulling me frantically toward the side of the stage. “What are you doing, J.C.? Have you lost your mind?” I shouted as I tried to shake off his arm.
“Oh my God, Carol! You have to get off the stage right now!” he shouted back as he stood in front of me, blocking my view of the front of the stage. As the soldiers started booing he doubled over in hysterical guffaws.
“What’s happening? I don’t understand! What did I do?” I screamed as I peered over J.C.’s shoulders at the thousands of guys in the audience.
“Carol, you’re standing in front of lights and a fan. Your skirt is see-through! You look stark naked up here except for your boots! It’s like you’re a Playboy pin-up! It’s ruining the show—no one’s paying any attention to the band! You gotta get off the stage right now! I’m not kidding, man. Oh my God!” J.C. gasped through his giggles.
Looking down at my skirt in horror, I clamped my hand over my mouth and screamed, “Jesus, J.C.! Get me outta here!” Grabbing his hand, we both took off running as the soldiers applauded and whistled. With the sound of laughter and cheers ringing behind me, I fled backstage with J.C.
Jeez, I thought as we scurried through the backstage halls, I bet more pictures were taken of me than of the band tonight. It could have been worse, I guess. At least my T-shirt isn’t see-through. I felt like banging my head down on the nearest table as I meekly hid in the band’s dressing room for the rest of the show. I’d be mercilessly teased for days about my unintentional burlesque performance in front of America’s GIs. But at least I did my part by lifting the spirits of American soldiers.
The Third Reich train carried us to Cologne, where two shows were scheduled. At the first I watched the band’s entire set standing below the stage. I was still chagrined about making a public spectacle of myself in front of the GIs and I paid penance by standing in the dark wings and watching from afar.
After the show our caravan of seven limousines pulled up in front of our hotel and came to a dead halt. There was nowhere to park—the whole front of the building was already lined with limos. We climbed awkwardly out into traffic as our angry driver cursed the other cars. It was normal for there to be a few other limos at any of the five-star hotels we stayed at on the road, but to see an endless line of long cars was definitely out of the ordinary. And as soon as we entered the lobby we found out whose they were.
Mick Jagger, with his entourage of about thirty people, was sitting in the opulent lobby. He was holding court seated alone on a gold velvet couch and he called out a welcome to us as we stood gaping at his unexpected presence. Gesturing royally for us to enter his abode, he started with a loud, “So sorry I missed your show, mates. Couldn’t make it, I’m afraid … but have a quick drink with me.”
Looking diminutive but every inch the rock star that he was, he held up a bottle of champagne and beckoned us to come closer. We did—or at least we tried to. His entourage, except for the empty space next to Jagger on his couch, took every available inch of seating space. As he sat waiting expectantly, it was immediately obvious that the only course of action was to pretty much line up like idiots and pay homage to him one at a time.
And, to Lindsey’s dismay, this was exactly what everyone did. It was apparent that to the other four band members and our inner circle Jagger was well worth the wait in line. I saw Lindsey’s face darken as first Christine, then Stevie, blushed and giggled in his presence. Each one sat beside him for five minutes and then stood up to let the next person sit down. While Jagger was sitting like the king of cool, offering a limp handshake to the other band members and basking in the attention, I swear I could almost see steam coming out of Lindsey’s ears. He pulled me back and muttered that the whole scene was making him sick and he grabbed my arm as he headed to the bar. Once there, he knocked back two shots of Jack Daniel’s and gave me an evil grin.
“Let’s go pay homage to the king, shall we, Carol?” he slurred as he started walking back to the line of people still waiting for their turn to bow before the great Mick Jagger. Cutting into line in front of Curry, within minutes we were standing in front of the face with the sensual big lips and carefully coiffed hair that had graced a thousand magazine covers and sold millions of records.
Glancing up at Lindsey, I caught my breath as a sense of foreboding washed over me. He had the look on his face that my cat used to get right before he’d knock over the parakeet cage to try to catch and eat the poor fluttering birds as they spilled feathers and careened around our living room in Tulsa. Uh-oh. This is not good. Please, Lord, don’t let Lindsey loose on poor unsuspecting Jagger; he’ll never know what hit him. Oh no, here we go, I thought as I put a restraining hand on Lindsey’s arm, but I knew it was no use. Once he got in the mood to knock someone off whatever pedestal they’d foolishly climbed onto in his presence, the result was usually quite unnerving. Add a couple of large shots of Jack Daniel’s to Lindsey’s sarcastic wit and there was no telling what could happen. I felt sorry for Jagger as Lindsey sat down quietly next to him. Holding my breath, I waited for the inevitable taunts to begin, for I was used to Lindsey’s sarcasm and was almost always extremely entertained by it. But even I gasped in horror at what came out of his mouth.
Lindsey threw himself down onto the couch next to Mick and fixed him with a steely gaze. Jagger sat looking expectantly at him, waiting for a handshake or at least a nice “How do you do?” from Lindsey. He didn’t get it. Lindsey waited a full thirty seconds and then proclaimed in a loud voice to Jagger, “I hear you’d like to suck Tom Petty’s dick.”
As Lindsey’s words rang out into the lounge, a deathly silence fell over the lobby. Jagger’s entourage and the Fleetwood Mac inner circle froze, staring in stunned disbelief. Mick’s face turned bright red as his eyes rolled wildly in his head. He looked exactly like a trapped animal staring at his executioner.
“What did you say?” Jagger stammered.
“I read Rolling Stone a few weeks ago and you were going on and on about how much you liked Tom Petty, Mick. And that’s what you said you liked to do, isn’t it?” Lindsey said with a wicked smirk. As Jagger stuttered that what he meant was that he just liked Petty’s music, Lindsey interrupted him to ask him the same question about doing the nasty with Tom, insisting that he was only repeating a direct quote from Jagger.
And I was dying. I was having a hard time trying to keep from bursting into hysterical laughter, but at the same time I was all too aware of the mutinous mutterings that were beginning to rumble all around us from Mick’s loyal entourage. Looking desperately around for help, I saw J.C. getting off the elevator and ran to him. When I whispered into his ear what Lindsey just said to Jagger, he took one look at me and exploded into laughter.
“It’s not funny, J.C.! You better help me get him away from Jagger or God only knows what’s going to happen next!” I grabbed J.C. by the hand and we both rushed up to Lindsey, who now looked like a very evil cat who’d killed a parakeet and was chewing on its bones. J.C. and I started talking to Jagger in a stream of words: “It’s nice to meet you … Gotta run … Gotta go … See ya!” We each took one of Lindsey’s arms and pulled him away from the stunned and humiliated lead singer of the Rolling Stones.
Lindsey went willingly with us. His mission was done. He’d knocked Mick Jagger flat on his ass. It wasn’t that Lindsey had any personal dislike of Mick. We both loved the Stones. He just hated pretentiousness. And I had to admit, the scene in the lounge when we first arrived was the epitome of vain posturing. Happy now that he’d dethroned the king of cool, Lindsey came quietly to our room with me and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Giggling, I climbed into bed and did the same.
In the Sportshalle dressing room the next night, it was thirty minutes before showtime and J.C. was freaking out. No one knew where Mick Fleetwood was. He’d vanished. As he was usually the first to arrive at every single show, for him to be this late was enough to put him on a missing person’s list at police headquarters. Frantic phone calls were going back and forth to the hotel and every member of the band and crew had been questioned over and over again about the last time he was present and accounted for.
J.C.’s face was blanched and pinched with the knowledge that all was not well in the land of Fleetwood Mac. The last reported sighting of Mick had been in Jagger’s hotel suite and that was at 6 A.M. Nobody was answering the door and the hotel was refusing to forcibly enter the domain of the legendary Jagger to look for a missing drummer. Meanwhile the band was growing increasing irritated and worried.
Suddenly, like an apparition from hell, Mick appeared like a six-foot six zombie in the doorway of the dressing room and, as one, we gasped. For as he stood there clutching the doorframe, not only did he have dark circles under eyes in a chalk-white face, he was wearing dirty jeans and a T-shirt that was inside out! Nobody had ever seen Mick dressed in anything that even sported a wrinkle, much less dirt. As soon as I saw that T-shirt I knew that we were in deep trouble. Mick’s everyday sartorial splendor was his trademark. He wore a gold pocket watch in his tailor-made waistcoats even on a day off.
As Mick took a few halting steps into the room, J.C. grabbed his arm before he fell onto the floor like a giant tree. Moaning, Mick threw a hand over his mouth and we all knew that he was going to spew. With a strangled cry he wrenched himself from J.C.’s grasp and ran to a bathroom that was, thank God, just a few feet away. As we listened to him vomit violently into the toilet we stared at the bathroom in dismay.
No one said a word. We were all too shocked. J.C. walked grimly into the bathroom and walked back out looking as ill as Mick sounded. “Grab your purses and wallets and go straight to the limos. Mick’s as sick as a dog—as you can hear. There’s not gonna be a show tonight. I want the band out of here before we announce it. It’s too dangerous to have any of you still in the hall when we tell the punters that the show’s been cancelled. Goddammit!” he screamed as he glared over his shoulder at Mick, who was still vomiting.
We all sprang into action, grabbing our bags and taking off at a run down the long hallway back to the loading dock where our cars were waiting. It was past showtime already and we could hear stomping and frenzied shouts coming from inside the theater. The crowd was growing impatient for Fleetwood Mac to take the stage and it was already turning ugly. And it was scary. Still dressed in their stage clothes, the band was grim-faced as we reached the limousines. Mick was half-walked, half-carried by two huge venue bodyguards and pushed none too gently into his car. The smell of vomit followed in his wake and I felt nauseous as the smell enveloped me.
There was a sense of fear and urgency in the air as we threw ourselves into the cars. I heard Stevie’s wail of frustration as one of her shawls slipped off her shoulders and landed on the dirty ground. Greg grabbed it and threw the sparkling silk garment into the car, slamming the door behind her. Screaming, “Go, Go, Go!” at the chauffeurs, he stood with his arms crossed and a worried look on his face as we went speeding by him.
As we raced away I looked back over my shoulder to the still-full parking lot of the arena and worriedly asked Lindsey what he thought would happen when the cancellation was announced. He grabbed my hand and reassured me that it was going to be OK. “They’ll reschedule the show”, he said, but he was clearly angry and upset about having to disappoint over fifteen thousand fans. He was very quiet on the ride back to the hotel and paced the room for an hour waiting for J.C.’s phone call.
It wasn’t good news. The fans rioted after the announcement. Chairs were thrown as fights broke out in an apparent rush for both the stage and the exit. And Fleetwood Mac would have to pay for the damages. Luckily none of the crew or fans were hurt and everyone got out—but it was an ugly scene. I knew that Mick was on everyone’s shit list for his twenty-four hour party with Mick Jagger. Lindsey and I both agreed that we were glad that Jagger was knocked off his pedestal the night before. But then again, he got his revenge. The band lost a show and their drummer his dignity—but it was only rock ‘n’ roll, as the Stones would say.
The rest of the tour through Europe seemed tame compared with Germany. The finale was six sold-out shows in Wembley Stadium in London. Like the Forum in L.A. and Madison Square Garden in New York, playing Wembley was the epitome of success for a rock band. And Fleetwood Mac gave amazing performances at each of the shows.
Carol Ann and Lindsey playing Monopoly on a day off.
But it wasn’t the Fleetwood Mac shows that had Lindsey and I so excited about being in London. We were going to see the Clash play in a small hall on the outskirts of the city. This band had inspired Lindsey to walk down a new path with his music and both of us had memorized all the lyrics from their double album London Calling. We’d played it nonstop on this tour. So it was a nice change for Lindsey to be the one feeling the excitement of being a fan instead of the adored artist. And I was every bit as thrilled.
The concert was held in an old decrepit hall. Stark and dirty, it was absolutely perfect as a backdrop for the band. Dressed in ripped jeans and T-shirts, we managed to slip unnoticed into the upstairs balcony, Lindsey keeping his head down.
When the Clash took the stage, the punked-out audience went mad. The music hit us like a wall of unpolished sound and raw emotion. The acoustics and almost nonexistent mixing board erased the subtle nuances of the recorded versions, but still, it was the Clash, and that was all that mattered. They were the antithesis of Fleetwood Mac—gangling blue-collar boys singing rage-infused melodies. It was dripping with feeling and Lindsey listened in rapt attention as he downed pint after pint of beer.
Once the show was over I almost had to carry him out to the car. Thinking all my troubles were over as soon as Lindsey and I were seated in the limo, I settled in for a nice ride back to the hotel. Just as the car got on the freeway, Lindsey announced in a loud voice that he had to pee. Looking in dismay at the road, I could see that there were no exits in sight. None. “Lindsey, you can wait, right? I mean, there’s nowhere the driver can pull over!”
With a shrug and shrill giggle Lindsey said, “Too bad”—he had to go and that was that. The driver was watching us in his rearview mirror with a stunned expression on his face as Lindsey started unzipping his jeans.
“Oh, hell no, Lindsey! You can’t just pee in here!” I said as I, too, started to giggle hysterically. “Wait! Take off your boot! Use that!” By this time we were both laughing so hard that I was about to pee my own pants as I struggled to get Lindsey’s cowboy boot off his foot. And within thirty seconds he was pissing away inside his boot as our driver looked on in horror.
We rode the rest of the way into London with the sound of urine sloshing around in a $600 Tony Lama cowboy boot. I think Joe Strummer would approve, I told Lindsey as we tossed it into the gutter before the scowling face of our driver. As he ambled through the plush lobby of our hotel Lindsey looked arrogant, drunk, and a bit lopsided. Actually, he looked like he belonged on stage with the Clash.
The band returned to the States for a four-week break. But when I got back, instead of a peaceful month off, I began to experience terrifying attacks of illness that struck me out of the blue. First I’d break out in a cold sweat, which would be quickly followed by nausea, chest pains, and room-spinning disorientation. When the room stopped whirling, a severe headache was the signal that, for the time being, all that was left was pain, and then the episode would be over. The attacks lasted for over an hour, leaving me so weak that I couldn’t even walk across the room without Lindsey’s help.
After a battery of blood tests, neurological MRIs, and electrocardiograms, the specialists could find no real cause for the attacks. Since leaving the road I hadn’t touched cocaine and since I never drank alcohol, the doctors were completely baffled by my symptoms. But they had plenty of medications to treat them. I was given an arsenal of pain medication, heart medication, and antianxiety drugs. I had so many pills to take at specific times that I had to keep a time sheet in my purse to remind me when and how to take them all. And I hated it, but the attacks were so bad that I’d do anything to make them stop.
While both Lindsey and I were worried about my health, we were too busy to dwell on it. The band had the last leg of the Tusk tour yet to complete and I didn’t have time to be sick. And I didn’t want Lindsey to worry about me. So I started hiding my pain, my nausea, and my fear about what was happening to me. He needs me to be strong for him. There’s a lot of shows left to do and his health is what’s important, not mine, I told myself. I packed my medications along with my clothes and left with Lindsey for the summer Tusk tour.
Lindsey and Jeff Buckingham playing Risk on the road.
It was the last six weeks of a grueling yearlong tour and everything had a sameness to it now. The cities went by in a blur of chaotic hotel rooms, limos, and sold-out shows. The fights between band members were repeats of the ones that had gone before: the same words, same accusations, same anger, same everything. The drug and alcohol consumption had increased alarmingly, but everyone was so exhausted that no one even noticed. At this point, whatever it took to get the band and its inner circle through the days and nights of life on the road was done without thought or concern over anything as mundane as health or worry over being wasted in front of fans and reporters. We just didn’t care.
Greg Thomason offering advice.
To fill the boring hours, the Fleetwood Mac family entertained themselves with “all in the family” sex. There were so many “affairs” going on that I couldn’t keep track of who was sleeping with whom. Curry was spending long nights “visiting” Stevie; Sharon Celani, Stevie’s wardrobe girl, was ending her relationship with our latest security man, Jet, and beginning a new one with Lindsey’s faithful roadie, Ray Lindsey; Christie, the makeup artist, not only had an on-again, off-again “friendship” with Curry but was falling in love with Greg; John McVie (who was still in the doghouse with his wife Julie after spending lovely evenings with one of the band’s personal assistants at the beginning of the tour) was once again making cow eyes at the assistant. And Mick was prowling around again, having a mysterious “affair” with a woman no one had even seen but with whom he swore he was “in love.” But at least this unknown woman wasn’t a member of the Fleetwood Mac sixteen—and I gave him credit for that.
It had gotten so bad that people couldn’t even be bothered to hide their sex toys. One morning I opened the door of our room to place our breakfast dishes outside and glanced down at the breakfast tray sitting on the floor next to mine. On it was a tall, thin cardboard box with a picture of a vibrator emblazoned on the side—and thrown on top of that was an empty battery package. Screaming with hysterical laughter, I rushed inside to drag Lindsey out into the hall for a look, and we both almost gagged as we realized that the room belonged to a member of our personal security who’d spent the night with one of Stevie’s crew members. We were completely grossed out. It was the kind of information we didn’t need. Lindsey and I didn’t care what people did behind closed doors, but Jesus, don’t leave your nasty, giant vibrator box outside the door of your boss’s room. It was very trashy, very uncool, and very, very icky.
Not surprisingly, everyone’s health was deteriorating rapidly. Mick was having severe problems with his hypoglycemia; extra doses of Dilantin were slipped to Lindsey during the performances to counteract any warning signs of another seizure; I was taking my prescription drugs precisely as ordered while chasing them with cocaine to offset the drowsiness they caused; and Christine, Stevie, and John were self-medicating with any and every available substance backstage. We were just trying to get through it at that point, trying to survive the last exhausting weeks in any way we could.
“Tell Your Story Walkin’” button.
If one thing summed up the summer tour for Tusk it was the badge-like buttons that J.C. had ordered for the band, inner circle, and crew. They read: “Tell Your Story Walkin’.” It was exactly how we were feeling inside: “Get the fuck away from me. Don’t talk to me, don’t bother me, just get the hell away. I don’t give a shit about what your ‘story’ was, will be, or is. Just leave me the fuck alone.”
Already antisocial before the tour, we’d become isolationists—and anyone not inside the inner circle was viewed at best with distaste and boredom, and at worst with hostility bordering on hate. During the Rumours tour and the beginning of this one Fleetwood Mac would always stop and sign autographs for the fans. They’d always smile even when they felt like shit, always do their best to answer questions and pose for pictures when they’d rather be doing anything but catering to the public. And always, always, they tried to present a united front to show that they were warm, friendly, and approachable.
Summer Tusk tour schedule.
But that was ancient history. For almost a year now photographers, reporters, sycophants, and fans had surrounded us—and the family couldn’t bear another minute of it. We just wanted to be left the hell alone. We wanted the tour to be over. And finally we were down to the last two shows.
Fleetwood Mac checked into the L’Ermitage hotel in Beverly Hills for the two-show finale of the Tusk tour at the world-famous Hollywood Bowl. J.C. forbade any of us to go to our respective homes. Like a nanny with unruly children under his supervision, he didn’t trust us to run around loose in L.A. He had a well-founded fear that if he let the band out of his sight, there was a clear and present danger that one or all of them might go missing in action and not make it to their own concerts. With a sigh of relief he got us into our limos for the first night’s show. After a year on the road Fleetwood Mac would end the tour under the starlight in their hometown.
Day page from Tusk tour schedule.
As we climbed out of our long black car in the summer twilight I could see hundreds of fans lined up with their bodies and faces pressed against a six-foot chain-link fence that separated them from their idols. Lindsey laughed and waved, but the pleas for autographs went unheeded as we walked quickly toward J.C., who was beckoning us at the door of the backstage dressing rooms. Even though we weren’t wearing our buttons that night, the urge to flee the sea of strange faces was ever-present as we stepped into the band’s inner sanctum.
A few steps inside the door, J.C. handed each of us a vial of cocaine and explained that it was a “welcome to the end” gift. Beaming, he gestured to a large room at the end of the hall and told us that the party had started without us. As we walked in I saw the already-wasted and terminally handsome Dennis Wilson sitting on the floor talking earnestly to Gary Busey, a new addition to the band’s celebrity friends. Gary had shot to fame with his amazing performance as Buddy Holly in the movie of the same name. With his caustic wit and good looks, he’d been welcomed with open arms into the band’s exclusive circle. All of our friends were backstage—but no family members were. Tonight was for intense partying, and having parents present tended to put a damper on the festivities.
During the show Julie, Dennis, Gary, and I watched the band give one of the best performances of the tour. Stevie was bewitching, Lindsey was raging, Mick was insane, Christine and John were laughing—and the L.A. crowd went mad.
After their encore the band raced backstage and the party resumed. J.C. had hired a video cameraman to shoot footage not of the show, but of the band and inner circle celebrating Fleetwood Mac style with blow, vodka tonics, and Dom Pérignon flowing. The video was for our eyes only—a tape of the band doing lines of blow was not something they wanted leaked to the press. So far, there had been only rumors of the band’s drug use and nobody wanted documented proof. But we did enjoy the idea of a personal “diary” for ourselves, and now we’d have one.
Tonight everyone was happy. And as vials and packets were passed around, crazed laughter and heart-to-heart, alcohol-induced maudlin speeches were flying fast and furious. Before we left the venue to continue the party at L’Ermitage, Lindsey, Mick, and I found ourselves in a small side room with Don Fox, one of the main promoters for the past year’s tour. As the celebration continued in the next room Don told us that he had a bit of bad news.
“Let’s have it”, Mick said as we all took seats on a small couch and a couple of chairs and looked at Don expectantly. Looking a bit sheepish, Don told the three of us that it appeared that the Tusk tour had barely finished in the black. With a shrug he said that he couldn’t really explain it, but the facts were the facts. Fleetwood Mac had toured for a year, grossed millions, and not turned a profit.
“You’re kidding. Tell us you’re kidding, Don”, I said in a low voice, looking worriedly at Lindsey out of the corner of my eye. He was staring at Don with a blank look on his face. As Don assured all of us that he wasn’t kidding, I waited for one of them to explode, or ask questions, or say something, anything, about the shocking piece of news that Don had just tossed out into the room as though he was informing us there was no room service back at the hotel.
But Mick and Lindsey didn’t ask questions. They assured Don that it wasn’t his fault and with a shrug got up from their seats and prepared to leave the room. I was stunned. First of all, I couldn’t believe that it was true. Second, I couldn’t for the life of me understand how two band members who’d just finished a yearlong tour could take news like this so calmly. But they did. They didn’t seem to care! I kept my mouth shut. Who was I to call Don Fox on the carpet? It wasn’t my place, or my responsibility, to make sense of the band’s finances.
Maybe Mick and Lindsey are just too out of it right now to understand what Fox just told them. I’m sure that in a while it’s going to hit them and then they’re going to freak, I told myself as I took one last look at Don’s relieved face as we left him standing alone in the small room. I’d look relieved too, if I were Don. He just dodged a bullet in there—for now, I thought. But I knew without a doubt that a bullet would be fired. And when it was, there was going to be blood. It just remained to be seen who was going to get shot.
Back at the hotel, the all-night party continued all over the building. We jumped from room to room reminiscing about the past year while each and every one of us ricocheted from tears to laughter to tears again. We were all semi-hysterical and very high and as dawn approached, the “transcending” showed no sign of slowing down. Around 4 A.M. I was invited to come up to Greg’s room to have a toast with all of the security guys that were our own personal band of brothers on the road. I was greeted with more drugs, champagne, and speeches. After twenty minutes Dwayne threw his arm around my shoulder and told me how glad he was that I’d been “allowed” to come up and spend time with them.
“What are you talking about, Dwayne? I know that I don’t get much chance to hang out with you guys on the road—you’re always so busy when I’m around. But what do you mean by ‘allowed’?”
“Oh shit, I’m going to get in trouble”, Dwayne told me as Greg and Jet glared at him. “Fuck it. It’s not that we were so ‘busy’ whenever you’re around us, Carol. We’re under strict orders to talk to you as little as possible. J.C. told us that Lindsey doesn’t like it when we spend too much time around you. I thought you knew!”
Why am I surprised? I thought to myself. I know that Lindsey watches over me, but this is so insulting. What does he think? I’m going to fall for one of the roadies? My God! With a bright smile I changed the subject, but I no longer felt like celebrating. I could see the guys glancing at their watches and at one another. And in their eyes I saw a sense of fear that I recognized—fear of Lindsey’s anger. Nobody wanted to be the target of Lindsey’s fury—and this, I understood.
With a sigh, I told them they should run back downstairs and they left with an air of relief—and worry. They were afraid, I was sure, that I was going to confront Lindsey and J.C. about their “hands off” orders concerning me. But I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to cause problems for them or myself, and anyway, the tour was almost over. So what difference would it make now? Instead of going back to the party, I went straight to our room. I didn’t feel in a party mood any longer. I felt humiliated and sad. I’d given Lindsey no reason not to trust me, and to find out that my friendships on the road were not only carefully watched but also dictated was more than I could deal with on this night.
Things were calmer backstage at the last concert of the tour. The band was eager to play but just as eager to finish. I watched them walk through the night and up metal stairs as J.C.’s voice cried out, “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Fleetwood Mac!”
The smell of endless summer was in the air as I took my place by the side of the stage. Night-blooming jasmine competed with the pungent odors of cigarettes, joints, and burning electricity from massive banks of overhead lights and the ever-present hot power cables that propelled the sound of Fleetwood Mac’s music into the open-air seating of the Hollywood Bowl.
I closed my eyes and let the music wash over me. When I closed my eyes it was easy to forget the bad memories of the past year. It was easy to forget the fights, the vicious words, and the ugly scenes of Australia. Easy to forget the venomous relationships between the band members and the seething anger that permeated the atmosphere backstage at the shows.
And it was easy to remember the smiles, the soft words, and the sarcastic jokes. Easy to remember nights spent in effortless camaraderie with those same band members singing in harmony to 1950s blues songs as dawn was breaking outside the closed curtains of a hotel room. Nights when a bond of love between them broke down the old anger of broken relationships and wrapped itself around all of us. And it was easy to remember that, in bad times and good, we were a family. And it seemed we always would be.