Storms (41 page)

A short time later, the Warner executives were seated around a large conference table in a boardroom at company headquarters, anxiously waiting to hear the new album in its entirety. As we walked into the large room at the record company I held tightly on to Lindsey's hand. He'd said little on the drive there, but I could feel nervous excitement radiating from him as we took our seats among the already assembled members of Fleetwood Mac and Warner's top brass. After a few minutes of small talk, the first track, “Over and Over”, blasted out of the hidden speakers in the room, and then the rest of the nineteen songs were played straight through. No one in the room said a word. After the final note faded away I looked around at the businessmen and every single one of them looked stunned.

A few had weak smiles plastered on their faces, but all in all it was obvious that, as Lindsey would so succinctly put it once we were on our way back home, “They're seeing their Christmas bonuses fly out of the window.”
The Warner Bros. executives, who told the band that they liked the record, gave hasty and subdued congratulations to Fleetwood Mac. But no one was fooled. The record company was sorely disappointed that it didn't get another
Rumours
-type album and it seemed that its executives simply didn't know what to say.

The meeting adjourned quickly, and as Lindsey and I headed home he made a few other choice remarks as he laughed bitterly over their reaction. As we stopped for a red light I leaned over and kissed him passionately.

“Lindsey, I am so proud of you”, I told him. “I think your songs are absolutely brilliant! I can't wait for the release of
Tusk!
Just wait and see—everyone is going to be blown away by your music. Your music is like the Clash and Talking Heads—and that's exactly what you wanted. You did it, baby.

You did it.”

With a rueful laugh Lindsey smiled brightly for the first time that day. “Yeah, I guess I did, didn't I? I don't know about the world, but I'm happy with my music … and as you and I always said, that's all that matters to me.”

“Let's hope that Christine makes it to the shoot without being pulled over by the LAPD”, I said with a smirk as Lindsey and I stood in front of the large antique mirror hanging above the dressing table in our bedroom.

Lindsey rolled his eyes at the memory of Christine's encounter with the NYPD a few weeks before and let out a loud guffaw as I gave him a glimpse of my lace underwear. After that unfortunate but undeniably funny event at the Richard Avedon shoot in New York, I'd been meticulous about wearing my best undies every single day of the week.

Christine with photographer Ed Roach.

As Christine's misadventure proved, you just never knew what could happen to a girl innocently on her way to an album cover shoot trying to have a little wake-me-up in the back of a limo. Her close call and humiliating body search by the coppers in Manhattan wreaked havoc during the first album cover shoot for
Tusk.
Her neararrest for possession of an illegal substance—which led to the now-infamous “granny knickers” being on display at NYPD headquarters—had now become yet another private band legend. And a warning to us all to never, ever get caught without your Sunday best lingerie.

Today's shoot was with the renowned photographer Norman Seeff. The band would be shot in an oceanfront house in Malibu with a call time at noon. It was 11
A.M.
, and I reeled in horror as Lindsey stomped out of our walk-in closet.

“I don't have a damn thing to wear. Nothin', Carol. I don't want to wear just the same old shit I've been wearing in the studio all year. What am I gonna do?”

Oh, I don't believe it! I thought he was going to wear jeans and a white shirt! That's what he said a few days ago! It's Sunday! Maxfield's isn't open! It's not like I can go to a friggin' department store and find a cool look for him in the men's section. Dammit!
I said to myself, as I struggled to keep my frustration hidden. I narrowed my eyes as I looked over Lindsey's clothes, now tossed haphazardly all over the closet. “Your white shirts are totally trashed! You're right, you don't have one shitty thing to wear!”

Chewing my fingernail, I suddenly got an idea. “Here's what we can do, Lindsey. You take the limo to the beach and I'll take my car and go to Country Club Fashions. I mean, it's a women's store, but they carry a lot of designer labels and I know I'll find something that will work for the shoot. Don't worry—as long as it looks cool and fits, that's all that matters, right?”

With a smile Lindsey nodded in agreement just as the doorbell rang. The limo had arrived and as Lindsey climbed into the back seat I jumped into my car and raced off to Century City and my third-favorite store in L.A., Country Club Fashions. I quickly told the manager my predicament and we raced around the racks and found two jackets that were perfect: one single-breasted in tweed, the other a short, dark-green satin, military-style jacket in size forty-six. Unable to resist, I grabbed two jackets that matched them, in my size. Throwing all four items on the counter, I grabbed a couple of satin pirate shirts in silver and green and looked desperately at the clock. It was after one and I was still forty-five minutes from the shoot location.
Please let the clothes fit!
I chanted as I ran to my car and hit the gas.

The house in Malibu that was being used for the shoot was large and mostly unfurnished. Outside there was a beautiful gazebo overlooking the ocean and it was here that Norman wanted to do the pictures. Lindsey loved his new clothes and they fit perfectly. It was barely noticeable that
they buttoned on the wrong side, and who cared? He looked great and that was all that mattered.

The day raced by and all of us were having a good time. Except, of course, for poor Norman Seeff. Every single time he got the band in position for a picture, he turned his back and one of them slipped away. Each had their own private agenda: they needed a drink, a toot, or a pee. By the end of the long shoot he was about to tear his hair out. The band was happy when they saw the pictures and Seeff had retained his status as genius photographer—even if the day had been complete bedlam.

Mick and Lindsey on set at a Tusk photo shoot.

The next week saw the third and final shoot for
Tusk
, with photographer Jayme Odgers doing the honors. The set was a room with furniture fixed to the ceiling and floor. It was a great concept and thanks to darkroom tricks and band contortions, the pictures were great. The work of all three photographers—Beard, Seeff, and Odgers—combined for the sleeve of
Tusk
and it was a masterpiece. Everyone agreed, however, that it was the shot of a visiting random dog biting a hapless second engineer's pant leg in Studio D that was the best shot of them all, and it was chosen for the front cover of the new double album.

After the shoots the band was notified that it was to receive a star on the Hollywood Boulevard Walk of Fame. Not only would they get a star, but Los Angeles Mayor Tom Bradley had declared that that day would officially be Fleetwood Mac Day. The USC Trojan Marching band would be there; Mo Ostin, chairman of Warner Bros., would give a speech at the presentation; and hundreds of fans were expected. It was a great honor, of course, but there was one tiny embarrassing detail. Fleetwood Mac's star was located right in front of Frederick's of Hollywood lingerie store. It was a store known worldwide for racy underwear that was the stuff of male fantasies—undies that were a stripper's dream and a Bible-Belt mother's worst nightmare.

Entering through the back entrance of the store, Lindsey and I sniggered as we threaded our way through the racks of lacy bras, crotchless panties, and feather boas. After walking to the front of the store and going outside, we turned and got a look at the unavoidable backdrop for the band and we almost died. The display window of mannequins dressed in lurid attire was so cheesy that it almost turned Fleetwood Mac's big moment into an X-rated farce.

Lindsey tried to keep a straight face during Ostin's dedication speech, but he soon lost his battle. After the star was unveiled and Stevie stepped up to the microphone and said, “Thank you for believing in the crystal visions. Crystal visions really do come true”, Lindsey grabbed my arm and we both burst out laughing. I mean, we knew she was saying it from the heart, but it was just
so Stevie
to throw out her “crystal vision” line at every opportunity that we both cringed—and quoting it against a backdrop of push-up bras and fuck-me heels gave it a double entendre that smacked of stand-up comedy. After a few minutes Lindsey whispered into my ear that we had to get out of there, and we made a mad dash back through the unmentionables and into our car. Once there, we laughed hysterically for a full five minutes.

Later that night, a gala listening party for
Tusk
was held in Beverly Hills for over two hundred guests. It was a crazed scene and both Lindsey and I had a blast. Brian Wilson was there and Lindsey spent much of the night trying to talk to him. Brian was a man of few words, however, and for the most part Lindsey had to be content to just be in his presence. The rest of the time we wandered through the crowd as the record blasted. There was a lot to celebrate, and in typical Fleetwood Mac fashion, we did it until 3
A.M.

The band had booked six weeks' rehearsal time at SIR Studios for the
Tusk
tour. Only this time the soundstage was twice as big as the one used for the
Rumours
rehearsals. For this tour
everything
was being done on a scale that made the
Rumours
tour look like a poor man's road trip. There was a masseuse on staff for the rehearsals and the daily buffet was lavish, with food that went untouched and champagne that didn't. The road crew and personal security team had doubled, new backdrops were being made, and there was a mountain of new sound equipment with bright red anvil cases to hold it.

There was a new addition to the stage that everyone was thrilled about. Two black tents were being made that would be erected every night on either side of the stage. Each approximately ten feet by ten feet, one would hold Stevie's unending costume changes and both would be used by the band during breaks in the show for their private refreshments—both liquid and powder. Sara, Julie, and I would have unlimited access to the tents during the shows and while we never got in the band's way (much), we would absolutely adore the secret world that was enclosed inside each one.

Outside the soundstage entrance a long table was set up, manned by Greg, Dwayne, and a new security man, Jet. Jet was tall and skinny and had a long wild beard that made him look a lot like an insane biblical character. He was a fanatical defender of the door, and only intimate members of the Fleetwood Mac family were allowed in without a special pass. Anyone else would be turned away with a tirade of words explaining in no uncertain terms that no one—absolutely
no one
—got through the door without maximum clearance. Executives, band lawyers, journalists, and invited guests were double-checked for recording devices and cameras—and their visits were few and far between. This was the big time now, and the band was taking every measure necessary to protect the new music, and their new stage sound, that would be unveiled during the
Tusk
tour.