There was this summer of my life where I sang Fleetwood Mac everywhere I went and listened to tons of Jethro Tull and tried to convince my fellow 16-year-olds that it was the best music ever made and OMG Don’t! Stop! Thinking about tomorrow! It was basically as awkward and ostracizing as that time I made my school group use the Joni Mitchell song “Chelsea Morning” in our video project when everybody else set theirs to N’Sync and TLC singles. Didn’t win myself any friends with that one. (I’m really hoping Glee decides to do a Fleetwood song at some point so that I will have some sort of retroactive pop culture validation.)
As the child of two rock concert promoters, I guess it was my own special brand of formative teen experience, feeling generally misunderstood for my love of 70s folk rock. And that’s where Stevie Nicks enters the equation. Once I figured out that she was Stevie and her ex-husband was Lindsey (and not the other way around), I was totally the biggest Fleetwood Mac fan born a decade after their musical heyday. I love the grit of Stevie’s voice, and the particularly profound hurt and devotion that it seems designed to convey. I love how she spins around on stage and has elevated the fraying cat lady shawl to some sort of musical trademark. I just love her.