Tag Archives: 70s rock music

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Christine McVie: Now That’s Interesting

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You know how you’re at a party, and some loudmouth is making a scene, grabbing everyone’s attention, and probably isn’t even that interesting? There’s the rest of the folks, now turned into the audience, putting up with them. And then there’s someone in the corner, observing, who’s got great stories to tell, if you’ll only pull up a chair and chat and listen.

That’s how I think of the dearly departed Christine McVie and Fleetwood Mac.

Don’t get me wrong—I love me some Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham. But Christine McVie surely had more interesting tales to tell than them, even if she would never truly become the center of attention.

Think about it. A classically trained pianist turned blues piano player and singer in the 1960s, when nice girls (including the Dickensian named Christine Perfect!) didn’t mix with such a rough and indelicate crowd. She’s in a band—Chicken Shack. She meets a guy in another band, a huge one—John McVie in Fleetwood Mac, then led by Peter Green, and at the top of their game. She marries John, ditches Chicken Shack, and gives a Peter Green-less Fleetwood Mac a fresh injection of creativity. She held her own—and then some. You have got to respect that.

Yes, Fleetwood Mac went on to become even more successful when the two Californians joined. And, yes, I tend to skip over Christine’s songs when I play their albums. And, yes again, I would pull my chair over to Christine’s corner at any party and be thoroughly charmed, amused, and entertained—and forget about the peacocks vying for the spotlight. I truly respect Christine’s rule breaking and dignity. Rest in peace, rest in peace.

When I Checked Into the Hotel California

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You can check out anytime you like… but you can never leave…

Sunday school was scheduled for Monday evenings when I was a kid, possibly to give moms a break on laundry day. For whatever reason, I went to CCD—which stands for Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (thanks, Google!)—on Monday nights during the school year and for a few weeks every summer.

Not much sunk in, of course.

Except for one lifelong lesson. If you want to encourage someone to do something, make it taboo. Not only socially taboo, but bad for your mental and physical health, soul, and reputation. Friends, you know what I’m talking about: That taboo was rock ‘n roll.

During the most profound CCD lesson of my life—I’m not overstating this—an earnest teenager with an acoustic guitar came in to warn us of the grave danger posed by The Eagles’ “Hotel California.” Now, I was just a kid, but I knew this radio-friendly hit wasn’t the work of the devil. Yes, Joe Walsh played like a demon, and looked like he was possessed by one, too. Yes, the whole thing was creepy, but it was creepy in a good way. “Hotel California” wasn’t even raunchy and creepy, like Jimmy Page at times, or campy and creepy, like KISS or Alice Cooper. “Hotel California” was sleek and aspirational, sexy and beguiling. Maybe that was the danger it posed.

Back to the CCD classroom. The earnest teenager was too terrified to strum a few chords of the devil-infused “Hotel California” on his acoustic six-string. He didn’t need to, because most of us knew the song by heart, and those who didn’t were hopeless. The teen warned us to shun the song when we heard it. Just listening to it could invite the devil into our lives. Not just the devil, but sex and drugs, too.

Mind you, he was talking to a room of eight-year-olds!

So of course I went home and pulled the album from my brother’s record collection. My palms didn’t singe on contact with the cardboard and vinyl, nor did froth appear on my lips. My head stayed firmly screwed onto my neck. I didn’t know how to make the turntable spin backwards, but even if I did I doubted that Don Henley would have said anything more sinister than “Buy this album.” Frankly, “The Planet of the Apes” was far more terrifying, and you could find those images plastered on lunchboxes and T-shirts.

Suddenly, a song that seemed pretty and slick on the radio among other pretty and slick radio hits turned into something much more powerful and subversive now that it was taboo and sinful. And I liked it.

 

On the Irresistibility of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours

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Who doesn’t love Rumours? It’s impossible to resist. The artsy-fartsy cover with Mick Fleetwood’s dangling balls and Stevie Nicks’ feathered hair and showy cape. And the freewheelin’ California vibe of the rest of the band, just chilling out, some grass and white wine and whatever else you have just out of the camera’s range.

I picked up on the coolness and realness of this as a kid. It was just a much-cooler version of what I was seeing on TV. The drama and sexual politics of Stevie and Lindsey Buckingham was a hippie version of daytime soap operas that I watched every afternoon with my mom. I couldn’t figure out why, for example, Mary Anderson and Chris Kositchek on Days of Our Lives couldn’t be together when they were so clearly meant to be together (class differences, then he hit her with his car when he got Amanda pregnant, but I digress).

Stevie and Lindsey were similarly star-crossed but far more hip or with-it, and they had more thrilling explanations for why they couldn’t be together (“packing up, shaking up’s all you want to do” vs. “playin’”). Even better, they replayed their drama every time you dropped the needle on “Second Hand News,” which led into “Dreams,” and you know the rest. They got stuck in that mess for years—even Tusk couldn’t get them out of it—and they’re still stuck in it, decades later. And who can resist that?

In my mind, Rumours bisected the 70s. Before, women were singers singing someone else’s songs, and therefore weren’t taken seriously. After Rumours, women were part of the damn band. They were rich and glamorous, and they played around as much as the men, maybe more. Yes, Stevie and Lindsey and John and Christine (RIP) were couples (then separated) but the Fleetwood Mac women had more successful solo careers and took the lead on more of the band’s singles than their partners. You can dismiss Stevie Nicks for her shawls and lace, New Age witchiness, braying-goat voice, and some of her more tragic hairstyles, but she’s the draw, still. No one needed to explain that to me as a kid. Rumours has aged well—it really has! Give it a listen again and just try to resist.

Carly Simon Was My Best English Teacher

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Most folks can point to a teacher who inspired them as they grew from child to adult, a mentor who saw something special in them that set them apart from the crowd. Sometimes they have books dedicated to them in suitably purple prose, or you hear these shout-outs during awards ceremonies, when the winner gets really teary and sappy and their trembling hand flutters to their throat as they thank some elderly drama teacher who gave them their start in a juvenile version of Our Town.

I can’t say that any teacher inspired me or had a positive impact on my development as a writer.

That said, I did have teachers, but the lessons I learned weren’t taught in the classroom.

I had my siblings’ record collections.

I can say definitively that Carly Simon was my very greatest English teacher. When I stumbled across her “Best of” album, from 1975, I was captivated. I’d never seen anyone like her or heard anyone with that voice—frankly, I’d never even heard the name “Carly” before. The whole package was intriguing, and of course her marriage to James Taylor just completed the picture (and confirms my theory that female singers and musicians back then were typically partnered up with another musician).

And then there were Carly Simon’s lyrics. Of course, as part of the Simon family, of the Simon & Schuster publishing house, Carly’s lyrics were not going to be of the moon-June-bloom variety. Nope, they dealt with adult matters, explored complex feelings, and used vocabulary that sent me straight to the dictionary. Yes, I was that child nerd who read the liner notes and then looked up the definitions of the words Carly was giving life to.

Take, for example, probably her best-known song, “You’re So Vain.” Hum along with me as we stumble over these mature words: “yacht,” which of course she rhymed to “apricot,” and “gavotte,” all in the opening lines. Add to my vocabulary homework the terms “naïve,” “Saratoga,” “Lear jet,” “Nova Scotia,” and “total eclipse of the sun.” Whew! My mind reeled at the story she was telling.

Then comes a whopper—“vain.” I wasn’t sure if it was a put down, a bit of praise, or a sin. (Remember—I grew up Polish Catholic, and vanity was a sin.) Like, Carly was hot for this guy in the song, but she was criticizing him the whole time, and then Mick Jagger joined in and it sounded like they were having a good laugh about it all, so what the heck was my childish brain supposed to do with all of this swagger?

I thought about it… and kept listening… and dreamed up my own stories over clouds in my coffee.

Songwriters as Storytellers, Or Why My Heart Still Belongs to 70s Soft Rock

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I often feel sorry for kids these days. I grew up in the 70s, when we weren’t marinating in mass media. TV wasn’t on 24 hours a day; reruns were a disappointment. You actually went outside and played, and you learned to entertain yourself. My friends and I invented characters, intricate plotlines, and sets and costumes. A lot of kids had imaginary friends. We knew how to create something out of nothing, no problem. We were storytellers, or “content creators” in today’s terminology.

Since we had a lot of time to fill, our minds were allowed to wander. My favorite daydream time was during my family’s weekly trips to my grandma’s house, 20 to 30 minutes away, depending on which route we took. There certainly was a lot of fighting and fussing in the station wagon. But there was a lot of peace, too. We usually listened to AM radio, soft rock that was unthreatening, soothing, and sappy. Cringey.

I listened and I heard. The stories told in these songs were more enlightening than any Grimm’s fairytale. (I could never figure out what lesson I was supposed to take away from those things.)

But 70s soft rock spoke to me.

She ran calling Wildfire.

Don’t it make my brown eyes blue.

Sara, smile.

You fill up my senses like a night in the forest.

I listened and I learned. I imagined the singers and their muses. I developed plot points connecting the origins of the song to how they played out, and beyond. I puzzled over some very adult themes, far more adult than my elementary school brain could comprehend. I get it now.

And sometimes I cringe, but doesn’t John Denver sort of hit you right in the solar plexus sometimes? Don’t you want to walk right into one of his stories, clad in flannel with your shoulders warm from the sunshine, and hang out for a while? I sure do. Still.