Storms (10 page)

“Hey, unhand that woman and pick up your Les Paul!” he shouted. Lindsey laughed, but picked up the guitar with the same tenderness that he'd just touched me.

“Could you grab me a Myers's and Coke?” he asked me, over his shoulder.

With a shrug and a grin, I left the two guitarists to make sweet music.

As I walked down the hallway J.C.'s voice boomed, “Ten
minutes, everybody. Ten minutes!”

I'd soon learn that this was a ritual. Every show started the same way.

“Nine minutes!
Christine, are you OK, dear?” he asked her as I stepped into the dressing room. The room was buzzing. It was empty of all but Christine, Mick, Stevie, and, of course, me, fixing Lindsey's rum and Coke.
I swear that you could feel the electricity in the air as the band members did their final preparations before taking the stage. I tried to hold the glass steady as I poured.

“Seven minutes!
Mick, you have a question?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two apparitions. One was Stevie, the White Witch, Rhiannon. Over a black leotard top she'd layered black chiffon, falling into points around her feet, then wrapped herself in three shawls, each with a different firework display of sequins, spluttering into rainbow light under the bright glare of the makeup mirror.

Then there was Christine, the Warrior Queen, in silk skirts and a velvet embroidered waistcoat. Neither was quite real. Both were as fictionalized as the fans demanded. But the fans would recognize the legends. And on this night, their stage personas were already beginning to wipe out their real life personalities. Christine's hands shook. Was it only nerves? She grabbed a stray glass and downed the contents.

“Five minutes!
Stevie, are you ready? You look pale!”

“Fine, J.C. You'll make sure of that, won't you?” Stevie croaked.
What did that mean?

“I will indeed, Miss Nicks! Don't you worry!
Four minutes!”

John came into the room, drinking from an almost empty bottle of Scotch, with Lindsey following, his Les Paul guitar strapped around his neck.

“Your drink!” I smiled, handing it to him.

“Perfect!” he whispered. “Thanks, angel.”

Mick was resplendent in a knickerbocker outfit of black velvet with a pair of wooden balls suspended from a cord and hanging between his thighs, just as he'd been photographed on the
Rumours
album cover. He leaped around the room with his drumsticks, hitting every solid surface. Then he held both sticks to his groin, standing proud from his crotch, and wiggled his hips, making the balls bounce and click. It was as crude a sexual gesture as I'd ever seen. Stevie Nicks giggled shrilly and I caught the glance he gave her, then the coy look she returned.
No, surely not?
I thought.
Mick's married, and Stevie has her choice of every available man in the world! But if Lindsey looked at me that way, I'd be left in no doubt what it meant.

“Three minutes!”

Lindsey downed his drink, and glared out of the corner of his eye at Stevie, still giggling at Mick's mimed suggestions. My heart stopped for a second. It really wasn't over between them, was it?

“Line up and let's send you out in style!” J.C. ordered.

They seemed to know what came next. Like obedient schoolchildren, the band formed their line, holding out their fists. J.C. poured a small pile of cocaine onto each wrist.
“Two minutes!
Let's toot and get those roses in your cheeks, Stevie!” he commanded. Lindsey snorted, then looked at me. His blue, blue gaze held mine and for the first time in our relationship, I could see naked fear in his eyes.

“One
minute
and let's go.”

I fought my inner instinct to run to him, and I hung back. Even at this first show I knew they were crossing into territory I could not enter. Once they left the inner sanctum of their dressing room they'd abandon their separate identities and forge themselves into the power that was Fleetwood Mac. Lindsey was gone, his eyes not leaving mine until he was out of sight and into the roar. They were fused. They were one. They still loved and hated in all the most dangerous places, but that was personal. This was different.

Lions and Christians. I'd never heard anything that could shake a floor and a ceiling at the same time—oh, but this noise did. It was human need. It was demand. And it was primal.

The lights dimmed in the auditorium as I drifted into the wings, then the stage lit up in brilliant colors and “You Make Loving Fun” made a deafening irony out of the frenzy. The audience response to this sound was a physical force so powerful that I took an involuntary step backward as though warding off an attack. It hit me and I felt as though I couldn't breathe, while onstage jeweled silk and black chiffon swirled and shimmered hypnotically to Lindsey's melodic spell of sound.

I was stunned. Until this precise moment I hadn't completely understood who Lindsey was. I knew he was a member of a well-known band. I'd been there with him in the last stages of producing the album. I knew he was special and talented. But up to now I'd felt, warmed there with him in bed at nights, laughing, being with him during the days, that I was the only person who could shower him with love. I thought that was all he needed to make him happy. I had no real comprehension of what it was
that drove an artist to put himself through fire. Lindsey the man was happy enough with me. But his talent demanded the recognition of this mass of open mouths, open arms, open desire. His talent was a separate entity, an energy that fed off and into this voltage.

I was totally unprepared. I was sharing him with something that I could never match.

Just then I felt an arm on my elbow: J.C., pulling me toward the stage. “Lindsey wants you to come up”, he said. “Come on. Come over. Inspire him!” I found myself pushed into the edge of that audience glare, face to face.

I stood helpless, panic-stricken, as the spotlight caught my stage appearance. Lindsey was no more than five feet away from me, playing to me,
to me
, as well as to that fan mass. His fingers were bleeding all over the guitar. He'd opened up the calluses on his fingertips, but didn't seem to notice. He smiled brightly at me, stepped toward his captive girlfriend, ice-cold with stage fright as I was. But in the roar of approval from the audience I felt like Alice in Wonderland, in a mirror image of the world I'd always inhabited. This was to be my new world, this strange, deafening, chaotic otherness that Lindsey was lovingly exposing me to.

And then, as I trembled back to my place in the wings, I heard sounds that would haunt me each and every time I heard them. It was the opening chords of Lindsey's song “I'm So Afraid” and the aching loneliness of his clear, tear-drenched voice. A supernatural quiet descended. This was just Lindsey, on guitar, picked out by a solitary spotlight, Mick on drums in the darkness behind, and a man crying out in pain and fury.

Why had I never heard it this way before? In rehearsal it was just a sad, beautiful song. Now it was uncomprehending, plaintive rage. The words spoke of his fear of his own demons and his loneliness. He was begging the world to break through to save him from darkness. His anguish was raw. He was terrified that he'd slip, fall, and die. He let his guitar speak for him now, as he moved to the edge of the front of the stage, playing notes of pure despair.

I didn't dare breathe. The man and the myth fused into a presence that was awe-inspiring. I stood with my palms pressed hard against a black speaker, in the song with him, living through it, whether I wanted to or not, along with all those hushed thousands who knew that he was speaking for them, just for them, each one of them stranded in separate emptiness.

Lindsey Buckingham was taking us all into black, black magic in each touched guitar string.

Silence greeted the final echoing note. I let out my breath. So did the audience, so clearly that I could hear the rush. Spontaneously everyone leaped to their feet for an almost unending standing ovation.

As I listened to the screams of the crowd, I felt pride that it was Lindsey and Lindsey alone who had inspired the audience to react in uncontrolled awe. Love for him swept over me as I watched him wipe away the sweat that was pouring down his face and slowly walk toward the darkness of the back of the stage.

I also felt fear. For the first time in our relationship, I felt dread descend upon me as I looked at him—and all I wanted to do was run from what I'd just experienced.

So I did. Turning blindly, I ran toward the curtain that opened into the backstage area, past the stares and calls of people who looked at me in surprise and concern, and I didn't stop until I hit the door of our dressing room. I threw it open and slammed it shut behind me. Leaning against it, I tried to catch my breath.

Looking wildly around the room, I was more than grateful to see that I was alone. Walking shakily toward the bar, I caught a glimpse of myself in the makeup mirror and I gasped. My hair was wild and tangled, my shirt had come untucked and the neckline was plunging much more than it should have. My image drew me closer. My face was so white it was almost translucent. A sheet of sweat on my skin glistened in the light and gave me an otherworldly look—an apparition dressed in black velvet. My eyes were huge and as I stared, I saw a very terrified girl looking back at me.

Shocked, I turned away and sank down onto the couch, the night's images playing through my mind. Lindsey and I kissing in the tuning room … the terror in his eyes as he gave me one last look before heading on stage … the crazed audience … Stevie's swirling black chiffon … the glare of white spotlights during the final notes of “So Afraid”—blood on a guitar, tears on faces, silence exploding into chaos … small white hands pressed against the blackness of a speaker … faces blurring as I ran and ran …

I laid my head down on my knees and tried to will the pictures out of my mind.

“Are you OK, sweetheart?” J.C. asked.

His was the face I saw through swirling black chiffon mist. His was the voice I heard, more distant than the sound of my furious heartbeat. I blinked. Whatever I'd been was now obliterated. What I thought I owned, Lindsey's total devotion, I'd lost to the masses.

“What happened? Carol, talk to me. I'm here to help you. I can take care of anything.”

I gasped for air, struggling to find a small voice. “It's just”, I whispered, “it's just the song. Never heard it that way before.”

That was the easiest explanation, for me, as well as for him. How could I hope to put into words the initiation I'd just experienced? The bloodlust of the crowd—demands that can't be satisfied. Our love wasn't enough, and never would be.

“Look, I'm sorry”, I sobbed. “Maybe it's all been a bit too much for me. Do I belong here? I just want us to be like everyone else!”

“But you're not. You're the lady of a very special man. And he has this job to do. And he chose you because you're special, too.” J.C. tucked a stray lock of my wet hair behind my ear.

“Carol”, he murmured, “you're one of us now. D'you know what that means? You're part of the Fleetwood Mac family, and we're a small tight band of people. It's a link stronger than blood. With or without Lindsey, you're one of us! Lindsey adores you. We all do. Except perhaps Stevie. And she'll adapt. Listen: Fleetwood Mac takes care of our own!”

He paused, wiped my tear-stained face. “Now next time you're upset or nervous, you come looking for me, no matter what. Lindsey'll be onstage, but I'm always here. You'll get used to this, trust me, you will. There's a long road tour ahead but after a while it'll feel as normal to you as living in L.A. It's going to be a great year, and Lindsey loves you and needs you with him. Understand? Now, watch this magic trick!”

J.C. pulled out a small glass vial half full of cocaine and poured some on the yellow plastic table next to me.

“Let's line that up and get it down you. Come on, Carol Ann, didn't I tell you you can trust me? Hey, I know what's best for you, and right now, this is! Just do it.”

Just do it.

Why not? I couldn't feel any worse.

I nodded, took the rolled-up note he handed me, and did it like Julie had shown me once in rehearsals. And I could do it! It was so easy!

My heart pounded. The room was brighter. I wasn't small, I wasn't scared. I was so, so happy. A rush of exhilaration hit my bloodstream. Incredible. In one second I could go from being the scared waif from Oklahoma to feeling like I could do absolutely anything.

“Now, that's good, huh? So, freshen up, darlin', and let's have you back where you belong!” J.C. laughed. “And there's much more where that came from, so no need ever to feel anxious again, is there?”

I laughed with him. “None at all, J.C.!”

I quickly freshened up, as he waited, then, giggling quietly, walked back with him to my proper place in the wings.

“Gotta go!” J.C. said. “But here's a little toot if you find yourself getting tearful again!” He pushed a paper wrap into my hand. “You stay here, and remember, when you hear ‘Go Your Own Way', that's the last song, so stand next to the platform stairs. I want you safely back in the dressing room before the first encore's over. Got all that?”

I nodded. God, I felt great—energized, happy, and, most of all, like I could handle anything.
Is this what Julie meant in rehearsals? She's right, I totally love this feeling!