Posts Tagged ‘Fleetwood Mac

11
Sep
18

Fleetwood Mac “Tango in the Night”

Now, I know better than to ever put the needle on ANY album released in 1987 (unless I already know it’s one of the very few good ones), but I thought I’d take a chance and against all odds this would be the underrated Fleetwood Mac record of all time. And it is quite remarkable, but not in the way I’d hoped; it is maybe the worst thing I’ve ever heard. How can this even exist? It’s the same lineup on those two classic F.Mac records—there is a picture of them on the back cover looking like they stepped out of the movie, St. Elmo’s Fire (except for Mick Fleetwood, who seems to have grown another foot and is wearing a hat that looks like it’s about to fly off to its home planet)—interesting, because the stoner cover painting of a tropical paradise also features a UFO, no bigger than half a Valium, indeed so small that the same pic reproduced on the CD cover would reduce the UFO to microscopic size.

After suffering through an eternity of songs—each one a punishing barrage of what I guess is the 1980s production style (which reminds me why I stopped listening to ANY popular music in the 1980s)—the last song was actually halfway catchy and kind of pretty, and so against my better judgment I’m putting it on again and taking a look at the lyrics sheet; after all, these are what must be interesting and decent people who wrote some great classic songs, and maybe there is something revealed in the lyrics about what they are going through here—whether it be insanity, drug impairment, or some kind of cultish trip we need to know about. Oh, no—that was a mistake. I won’t get through a second listening. Any record that makes me get up from my chair and remove it from the turntable isn’t likely to see daylight in this lifetime. Right now I’m regretting this brutal sound memory of the most horrible decade, culturally, I’ve yet endured.

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18
Jul
18

Fleetwood Mac “Mystery to Me”

This is a record that should be woefully familiar to record collectors because its heinous cover will at some point assault you during your journeys; it’s a giant stoner drawing of some kind of baboon eating a cake, and it folds out to show him in conversation with an equally hideous, bald, bearded, scholarly man. I don’t know what it all means, but being hungry, the cake with the candied red and green cherries actually looks pretty good. The inside photo is much nicer, of five hairy hippies in a pyramid huddle looking slightly upward at the camera. I recognize Christine and John McVie, the “Mac” part of the band, and Mick Fleetwood, who I believe is like eight feet tall; he’s one of those guys who makes whatever drums he’s playing look like a kids’ drum-set, and like he should probably be out slaying dragons instead. The other two are the guitarists, Bob Welch and Bob Weston (I wish they were called Bob W.1 and Bob W.2) who I don’t recognize, even though I do remember a prominent Bob Welch solo record from, I think, the Seventies, with him on the cover with those big, graduated rose lens glasses, and an open shirt, generally reeking of coke. Like many people, I first came upon Fleetwood Mac with those two records with black and white covers (I think) around the time that Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham became prominent members (I think—it’s been a few years since I’ve gone back to those records, though songs from them will be over-played into the unforeseeable future).

Actually, I’m kind of glad I’m in this cabin in the “North Woods” because I could easily go into a Fleetwood Mac rabbit hole if I had free use of the internet—and I could find the marijuana I know is around here somewhere. In fact, had they known when they formed the band, Rabbithole would have been a better name. Was this the band that had two couples that eventually broke up and dated each other? 1973 was a good year for music and movies, one of my favorite years, but there is not a lot on first listening to this record that’s producing mental notes to go back for a second listening; it’s already sounding like a chore, and choosing between this and doing the dishes… About half the songs are written by Bob Welch, and he is also singing on half or more—I’m assuming that’s him. Even when Christine McVie sings there isn’t much of a glimmer of the later Fleetwood Mac (to me, I’m sure purists would disagree). I wonder if someone has written a decent biography of the band—that might be kind of fascinating. Hey, here’s a cover song, “For Your Love”—which I recognize, of course, from the Yardbirds; I’m afraid it’s weak, especially the wanky guitar. Oh well, some paths in the woods circle right back to the cabin after about five minutes and you realize you’d rather just be making pancakes.




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