Buckingham, casually passing by Fleetwood, stops to ask him what he did after the record company party last night.

"We definitely transcended. Ended up jamming with Curry [Grant, the lighting director] till the wee hours. Actually, we were playing one of your songs; from Buckingham Nicks," Fleetwood says, mentioning the album that prompted him to ask Lindsey and Stevie to join the band five years ago.

"Oh, really?" Buckingham says, suddenly interested. "Which song?"

"Uh . . . I forget the name," says Fleetwood sheepishly.

"Was it 'Don't Let Me Down Again'?"

"Noooo. . . ."

"Without a Leg to Stand On'?"

"Nooo . . . well, I'm not sure," Fleetwood answers. "It could've been. Yeah."

They smile politely and Buckingham goes his way, Fleetwood his.


Stevie takes me downstairs to her music room because she wants to show me what her songs sound like before they are arranged by Buckingham. "I write my songs, but Lindsey puts the magic in, and there's no way . . . well, I could pay him ten percent. I could walk up to him and thank him. If I were to play you a song the way I wrote it and gave it to them, and then play you the way it is on the album, you would see what Lindsey did."


When the tape ends, she rummages in a drawer and pulls out a collection of photographs, her "private stash." "This is Rhiannon, without a doubt." The picture is of Nicks, onstage with the rest of Fleetwood Mac, in her witch costume. But it does not look like her, and I say so.

"Well, you see, it turns. It goes right into. . ."

She pulls out another photograph, of herself onstage with Lindsey.

"This is the killer. And the pale shadow of Dragon Boy, always behind me, always behind me." She is speaking almost to herself, in a hoarse whisper.


In an hour or so, things are edgy again. New material isn't working out. Serious drinking is under way. Stevie Nicks comes over during a short break.

"That song!" She is talking about "Go Your Own Way," Buckingham's song.

"The harmony part is too high and I have to hurt and strain every time I sing it." She is upset, a little tipsy. She leans forward and whispers something to me in a voice that seems too silly to be serious.

"Now, I want you to know – that line about 'shacking up'? I never shacked up with anybody when I was with him! People will hear the song and think that! I was the one who broke up with him."

She smiles conspiratorially.

"All he wanted to do was fall asleep with that guitar."

Stevie drifts away to a far corner of the hall to talk to Sharon and some other friends. Over in the opposite corner, Buckingham's girlfriend, Carol, is sitting on a couch, looking very sad, being consoled by Christine. Fleetwood paces the perimeter of the stage, visibly worried about something. What's going on? Do all these emotional currents add up to anything? The band, back onstage now, plays another song. I don't want to know the reason why I love you. Stevie, smiling, shares a mike with Lindsey; what can they be thinking? Christine looks sharply at McVie. I don't want to know. . . . Fifteen million people bought the album with this song on it. Maybe because part of the fascination of Fleetwood Mac is that you do want to know.

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