Joe (C15 H21 NO2 HCl Rules) Fernbacher, Creem, 9/87
Yowling lackadaisically, scowlingly, unexpressively and prismatically--even adverbally--into the soft metal breeze that’s been shakin’ hands with the night, 2 + 2 is firmly on my mind along with a wild and complex plan to bump off the Beastie Boys and any of their collegiate clones that might get in my way, I rise from my sweat-hardened white Corinthian leather hammock, caress Misrilou, my fave nymphette, who’s seated adoringly at my Puma-encased feet, watch as the red dingle balls nestled in her void-black cornrows sway gently, and ponderously (well, hell, if you’d just drank yourself into a manic stupor so weird that you think of yourself as a 350 lb. iguana stoned on liquid paper, trying--desperately, I might add--to get MTV on your stove, then you too might feel a bit prodigious) try to focus what’s left of my...m...y...my attention span onto these latest wispy intoxications of sound from the Mac...Fleetwood Mac, that is!
Never bastions of extreme rock’n’roll, the Mac have been nonetheless unflinchingly chameleon-like in their approach to every new musical trend, changing as it changed. Therein lies their Dorian Greyish longevity. And therein lies the fact that, even though four of the five have gone the wacky way of the dreaded “solo project” the last few years, they’ve still got enough internal cohesion as a “group” to pool up every once in awhile and let loose with a collective effort. What? Fernbacher’s saying he LIKES Fleetwood Mac! Holy sh...!
Lissen, my children. Besides gray hair, bad knees, and a penchant for nostalgia, age gives you tolerance, perspective and a lack of fear to express either one.
So within the ground the Mac have staked out for themselves in the ever-expanding rock wasteland--a nice, grassy knoll with spreading chestnut trees full of flickering fireflies and ethereal fairy-like creatures dancing over the heads of young girls in virginal white dresses--ARGGGHHH!--they do excel and they do satisfy an audience content with lolling on that grassy knoll. Hey, what the hell. The rock wasteland is a big place with lots of wandering tribes.
Tango In The Night, taken from the perspective and context of that grassy-knolled audience, opens its trenchcoat with a thrumming, thumping quintessentional Macaholic daydream entitled “Big Love.” The song is resplendent with all of the Mac-magic: Mick Fleetwood’s deathlessly unerring backbeat, Lindsey Buckingham’s strong guitar and near-perfect production, Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks both doing vocal dervishes way up there in the sky where the air is thin and ghosts play canasta with the clouds. The LP next dissolves into yet another showcase for Stevie Nicks, the acknowledged kittenish dryad of rockdom, entitled “Seven Wonders.” Next it’s Christine McVie’s turn on “Everywhere,” and her consistency is almost frightening. Side one ends with two strong Buckingham forehead slappers, “Caroline”--which is OK Buckingham with a lot of Mick Fleetwood Tusk-isms in it, but really nothing out of the ordinary--and the title toon, which, even out of the (context) of the grassy knoll theory, is hauntingly delicious and (for those of you who remember) a close kissin’ cousin to the Beau Brummels song, “Wolf Of Velvet Fortune” from that band’s Triangle days.
All in all, about as satisfying a side for this sort of musical malmsey as you’ll hear all year. Side two is more of the same, yet somewhat weaker, with no Macathons really leaping outta the trees at ya.
Overall, it’s an almost sublime collection of air. And everyone needs air.
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