Mac and Cheese

On the day of a concert, I usually get pretty excited about the night's show. Sometimes, I play the artist's CDs all day and guess which songs will make the setlist. Once in a while, I'll go online to search for discussion sites to gain current information on the band. But for Fleetwood Mac's Fresno performance on June 24, 2004, I decided to just go to the concert with no preparation at all.

I shouldn't say no preparation; I have a ritual before I leave the house to get to a show. A mental checklist of sorts that I run down in order to assure myself that I have everything necessary for the night:

Cash...Check.

Wife's I.D....Check (She hates to carry a purse into concerts)

Earplugs...Check

Tickets...Check (And re-check about 12 times before getting into the car)

What was missing from my list for the Fleetwood Mac show was something to read during the irksome demonstration of excess I endured. Hell, half-way through this thing, I would have done backflips to even have Watchtower pamphlets to leaf through. I had a better time watching a Mexican soap opera on a T.V. with snowy reception while in line at the DMV than I did at the Save Mart Center that night.

I never was a huge fan of Fleetwood Mac, but I always enjoyed their music when I heard it, whether it be on the radio, on MTV, or even on Muzak systems in shopping malls or grocery stores. I have two pleasant memories of Fleetwood Mac's music; one hearing the song Rhiannon on my mail-order wristwatch radio when I used to wear it to bed and play at a low volume so as not to tip off Mom and Dad. The other being the time I was buying my first pair of Levis Shrink-to-Fit Buttonfly 501 jeans at Miller's Outpost getting ready for another school year and the video for the early '80s tune Hold Me was playing on the television monitors throughout the store. Aside from the senses of taste and smell, music may be the strongest source of conjuring up memories long forgotten. When I hear Rhiannon played, even on a state-of-the-art sound system, I hear it through a cheap, tinny AM radio with the sound muffled by a pillow.

When the Fleetwood Mac concert was announced, my wife Mary expressed interest. I saw no problem going to the show except that it was a Thursday night and we'd have to get up early for work the next day. But we could go to work a little tired the next day if it meant going to a good show. In the days before the tickets went on sale, we had mentioned to friends that we were going to go to see Fleetwood Mac. Two couples thought that they'd like to go with us.

With the current state of most concerts consisting of reserved seating, this can pose a slight problem. In the old days of general admission shows, any of your friends that were going bought their own tickets and you'd all meet up before the show, go into the venue together and find seats together. Now, if you want to sit with a large party, you all have to buy tickets together. One person has to purchase the tickets and get reimbursed later by the others. Most of the time this works itself out, but it can get complicated, kind of like figuring out the bill at a restaurant with a party of nine and everybody has 20 dollar bills.

We were going to see the show with one of Mary's oldest friends, Dawn, and her boyfriend Mike. The other couple was Mary's ex-boss Kevin and his wife Marla. I really didn't feel like buying the tickets this time around with the prospect of having to buy six, especially upon hearing the price tiers. The top ticket was $123.50 and the low was around $55.00. I wasn't sure what the others had in mind, but I was shooting for the middle tier tickets priced around 80 bucks. That still seemed a little high to me, but I didn't want to sit up in the nosebleeds like I did for the Metallica show (Archives, March 04) and run the risk of more vertigo. Luckily, Marla volunteered to buy the tickets for the group.

Marla did us all a favor by agreeing to take care of the ticket buying, so I couldn't hold it against her when she bought the $123.50 tickets. Apparently, any other seat would have been really far away and I saw her point to pay the difference to enjoy the show. I can rationalize almost any cost for a concert because its really the only expense of our entertainment dollar. We don't go to movies often or eat at restaurants much, so its either live music or minor league baseball most of the time. But still, with all the service charges tacked on, we were looking at about 3 bills to get into the show and that was a little more difficult to justify.

On the day of the show, I was lucky that the regular Thursday afternoon meeting at work was cancelled. This meant I could get home and take a nap before the show. (For the record: I never, ever thought I'd reach an age where I'd need a frickin' nap to enjoy a concert. "Hope I Die Before I Get Old", indeed). Later, the six of us met at a great Chinese place for dinner around 6pm. As I've mentioned in earlier tales, I like to get to the venue early, if for no reason but to people-watch. The restaurant was really close to the arena, so I wasn't getting too panicky, but it was getting close to 7:30 by the time we left for the show. We parked in the first lot we saw to save time and made tracks to the doors.

Upon arriving at the door, we noticed that there was virtually no line to get in, but a huge one that lead to a table under a tent. I initially thought this was a makeshift willcall and started towards the doors. Then I heard a security guard bellow something about the line was for an I.D. check station. I like the idea behind I.D. stations; you get checked once and receive a handstamp or bracelet (this time it was a bracelet). This saves a lot of time at the concession stands because you're not fishing for an I.D. and money at the same time. You can just flash the stamp or bracelet and be on your way.

We almost got in line outside with the others, but the bellowing man said there were also stations inside. At this late time, I wanted to at least be inside the building in case the show started. It was about 7:45 and the showtime was stated to be 8:00pm. So we got our tickets scanned (tickets are rarely torn these days) and looked for a station line. Kevin and Marla went to look at the merchandise tables, Dawn and Mike decided to head to the seats while Mary and I got in line for the Beer Jewelry.

The line moved pretty slow and I was getting a little edgy about finding our seats before the lights went down. I hate trying to find seats in the dark with the sound blaring. Too much confusion and the looming possibility for tempers to flare. So as a diversion, I spent my time looking around at the concert goers to amuse myself. The crowd was mostly older, the majority of them over 40. I didn't get advance notice, but apparently the dress code of the night for men called for khaki shorts with brown leather belt, sandals, Hawaiian shirt and lots of gold jewelry. I'm surprised they let me in; I had shoes with laces.

Women skewed slightly on the younger side, but many losing the fight with Mother Nature and Father Time. Bless their hearts, they put on their tightest jeans and skimpiest tops and shook it all night long. One such cutie approached Mary and I in the Beer Jewelry line.

"Can I cut?", she asked, smiling in an attempt to look adorably innocent. She was also smashed.

"Wha--", I replied.

She repeated, "Can I cut? Can I get in line ahead of you?" We were at the envious spot two people back from the head of the line. She was pointing at the spot in front of Mary.

Mary and I looked at each other, both of us a little stunned. It took me a beat to find the words for my answer. "Well, I don't think so. You see, we had to wait in line, so I don't see why---"

"No", Mary blurted, staring right into the lady's face.

"Yeah, no", I said, getting Mary's back.

"Really, why?", she asked. This time she was making that childish "please" expression by raising her eyebrows and smiling sheepishly.

I was still a little taken aback by her brash request. I told her, "Y'know what? Ask those people", thumbing towards the people behind us. "You can cut, but not in front of us"

"No", Mary said. "She shouldn't cut anywhere" Mary gets a little pushed out of shape when people don't play by the rules. She would have made a great cop. But by this time, the drunk gal had already asked the people behind us if she could cut and they, in their own inebriated state, happily agreed.

We got our bracelets and walked away towards the nearest concession stand. I really only wanted one beer to sip on during the show and this started to become a little bit of a hassle. The advanced age of the average concert goer did not translate into responsibility because there were many very drunk people around. These middle aged folks know how to party. Or maybe they don't and that was the problem. They finally got out of the house and like a dog off the leash, just started going for it.

We got up to the counter and ordered two beers. Then, like in Seattle earlier in the month, we were asked to show our I.D.s again. I politely asked what was the point of an I.D. station if I still had to show my card at the stand. The cashier shrugged and held up his hands. We showed the guy our I.D.s.

"Now, what was it you wanted?", he asked.

What was it I wanted? You moron, you asked me to show you my I.D. because I wanted to purchase beer! Or are you only selling hot dogs to the over 21 crowd these days? Oh! I know, maybe you forgot what I wanted. I realize it was way back there about 16 seconds ago that I first ordered those drinks, so I could see how it could slip your mind.

I wanted to say that, but instead I sighed and reordered the beers. We met up with Kevin and Marla to make our way to the seats. I wanted to hit the head before sitting for 2 hours so we ducked into the restrooms. In the men's room, it was like a junior high locker room; these 40-somethings were throwing paper towels around, goosing each other at the urinals, and generally making idiots of themselves. All the giggling and high-fiving just make it that much more annoying.

We sat down in our row where Mike and Dawn waited. The place was about two-thirds full. Mary tapped me on the shoulder to show me that there were two drum sets onstage. I wasn't too surprised to see that; Mick Fleetwood was turning 62 that night and if he needed a little help, that was okay by me. If I can even hear drums by the time I'm 62, I'll be happy.

The lights went down and the perfunctory cheers went up. It took me a moment to get my bearings and take in the full stage setup, specifically looking for the 2nd drummer. It turned out that it was a percussionist playing congas, cymbals, chimes, etc. The core of Fleetwood Mac was there; Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, John McVie, a keyboard player in the place of Christine McVie and of course, Mick Fleetwood. But upon further inspection, it appeared that many others were onstage as well. I spied the percussionist, two rhythm guitarists, and two back up singers. Ten people on the stage playing music it originally took five to perform. During the second song, Mary pointed out that another drummer had taken a spot behind Mick's kit. That made eleven! This drummer was playing a strange, stripped down drum set and really only hit certain drums during key strikes. He wasn't lighted by any of the stage lights and I presume he was there only to emphasize certain beats that Mick couldn't get enough "oomph" into.

At first, I was really disappointed to see this. I wondered what the joy of seeing this band was for hardcore fans if Mac needed this much help to flesh out their sound. But the rationale I used was that as we get older, we need certain types of assistance to do what we'd like to do. Canes, wheelchairs and Viagra come to mind. I allowed that it wasn't horrible that these other players were onstage with the "real" Fleetwood Mac, just a little eye-opening. While I was pondering this during the fourth song, the keyboard player picked up a guitar and strummed along. What song does Fleetwood Mac possibly have in their catalog that requires four guitars?

There were pretty good sized video screens above the stage which provided very good close-ups of the band members. Knowing this, Stevie Nicks should talk to the video camera director and tell him to back the hell up. She was in outer space during the first half-dozen or so songs. She was expressionless and her eyes were vacant of life as her head lilted from side to side slowly as she sang. I don't know what she was on, but she either had too much or too little. Once, while watching football at a friend's house, I saw then San Diego Chargers quarterback Stan Humphries suffer a horrible tackle from the blindside. As he was taken off of the field on a golf cart, the cameras closed in on his face and he was making comical expressions. It looked like something out of a Popeye cartoon and we all cracked up, but I felt bad later when I found out that those are symtoms of a concussion; the wide eyes and exaggerated blinking are efforts to let light into the eye. Remembering that, I wondered what Stevie had hit her head on backstage before the show.

She was dressed in her trademark flowing gypsy garb, but no amount of material could hide the fact that she'd put on a few pounds. In fact, the first outfit she had on was dark and fairly drab. She wore some kind of Herman Munster heeled boots and she had to shuffle to walk in them. I thought she looked like a fat Jawa from Star Wars.

I thought for the most part that she sounded pretty darn good, though. She can't hit the high notes anymore. This was particularly evident during Rhiannon. Just when you were expecting a high note, she come through with lower, yet tasteful, note. It still fit the song and I thought it was better that she change it up that way instead of attempting to hit the high ones and embarrass herself. Hey, we all can't do what we used to do when we were 25.

Mick Fleetwood was a kick. He is very animated and mugs for the camera every time he's on. I saw a VH1 concert once where he did this and I thought it was a little bothersome, but there in the arena it was pretty fun to watch. I've read that Animal, the drummer from the Muppet Show band, was modeled after Keith Moon of the Who, but now I'm convinced that Mick Fleetwood is the key influence.

But early into the evening, it was clear that this was to be The Lindsey Buckingham Show. Never having seen Fleetwood Mac live before, I wasn't sure if Buckingham's behavior was par for the course or not, but it bothered me all the same. He clearly loves the spotlight in what I assumed was an ensemble cast performance. The first thing I noticed about him was that he's still getting his hair done at Art Garfunkel Barber College. Other luminaries that call upon the students at AGBC include Cosmo Kramer, Lyle Lovett and that guy in Eraserhead.

Lindsey Buckingham was full of energy and in the beginning, I was kind of impressed that he was so into it. He aggressively strummed his guitar and made strained faces while singing. But, from time to time, he would stomp around the stage like Frankenstein's monster and grimace like he was raking his fingers not against the strings of a guitar, but, oh...let's say a cheese grater. These poses work during Megadeth shows, but Fleetwood Freakin' Mac? C'mon Lindsey!

Let me say here as a disclaimer of sorts that the man can flat out play the guitar. He did play some real tasty solos and he had a really good tone all night, but his antics wore real thin real quick. At the end of one solo, he finished it off by slapping at the strings with both hands like he was in a girl fight. I looked at Mary and mouthed the words, "What the hell was that?" During another solo, he stumbled about as if, after playing this grouping of notes for the 1700th time, on a Thursday night in Fresno, in front of a bunch of overaged frat boys and aging stoner chicks, that this was the one performance that really took it out of him and moved him to the brink of exhaustion. Please. What a ham.

That's what I'll always know him as from here on out: Lindsey BuckingHAM.

He acted like the kid you always see at the grocery store running around, knocking shit over and screaming at the top of his lungs. You shake your head and wonder where the hell his mother is. Well, at the Fleetwood Mac show, I was wondering where Mrs. BuckingHAM was. I really wanted to see her so that I could shake my head and give here the old, "tsk, tsk, tsk".

The capper for me was when he and Stevie Nicks did some sort of bullfight/slowdance thing during a song. Stevie still looked pretty messed up, but had changed out of her Jawa costume and into another flowing mess of fabric and Lindsey was all wound up like a Ritalin deprived spastic. During an instrumental passage, he spied her from across the stage and waved at her with both arms. She stood her ground (I think the signals from her brain were slowed by whatever she was on, so she wasn't going to move anyway) and he charged like a gay bull, passing by her running like Pee Wee Herman. He pranced by her a couple of more times with her only barely able to watch him go by with a disinterested gaze. They finally collided and did some bizarre slow dance, the kind you see around 1:45 in the morning at a "drinking bar". Lindsey let go of Stevie when he saw John McVie out of the corner of his eye. He lunged at John, who had been peacefully playing his bass parts just stageleft of Mick's kit just like he has for the last 30+ years. I was watching it happen on the stage, but had to look up to the video screen to see if the in-house video director was going to follow Lindsey.

The director followed Lindsey's every step (Why wouldn't he? After all, this was The Lindsey BuckingHAM Show) and I saw John McVie actually cringe when Lindsey approached him, bounding like Tigger on bathtub crank. It looked like Lindsey was attempting to hug John, but John turned away with his shoulders hunched, as if someone had put an ice cube down his shirt. Lindsey bounced away and turned his attention to the adoring crowd. I saw it happen, but I wonder if the fans saw it like I did. John McVie probably wondered who the hell gave Lindsey the cookie backstage.

Not long after this, Mary leaned over to me and told me that we could go at any time. I knew that I didn't exactly look enthusiastic during the show and didn't want to be the reason we would leave early, so I told her that I'd stay if she wanted to. I knew there'd be more hits on the way and probably a long encore. Her response to me? "This is bullshit. I'm done." That's my girl. So we left early. Who cared?

Kevin and Marla had left already. We said our good-byes to Dawn and Mike and made our way out onto the concourse where the odd drunk was staggering about. I figured that I'd better hit the head one more time before the trip home. In the john, I ran into four more of what I came to call the Five-Oh, what with the Hawaiian shirts and all. These guys were blitzed beyond repair and were pretty quiet compared to the Animal House atmosphere of the bathroom earlier. I stepped up to the urinal, hoping to avoid any kind of drunken banter. But then one piped up with, "Christine McVie! It's jus' not the same without Christine McVie! Where was Christine McVie?!?"

There was a awkward silence. I was about to submit that she was not involved in this tour for whatever reason and that I agreed that her presence might have helped a bit, when one of the Five-Oh chimed in with a prominent slurring effect, "From the looks of things, it appears that Stevie Nicks ate her".

They all uncontrollably busted up. I had to smile. For as much as these guys and their kind had annoyed me all night, that was pretty fucking funny. I left the bathroom shaking my head, wondering how he came up with that, as he and his cronies high-fived each other into the night.

I didn't hate the show. I haven't gone around saying that Fleetwood Mac sucked that night. It just didn't hit me right, I guess. But I didn't go in with high expectations, either. What it boils down to is that I wasn't entertained. And I was bored. These are cardinal sins in the business. I learned a valuable lesson that night; when you have marginal interest in a band, set limits for yourself. I don't hate Fleetwood Mac. But I'm not going out of my way to see them again. I'm also going to make sure Stevie Nicks has been fed if I ever get backstage passes.