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.
