Courtesy Wikimedia Commons / Warner Bros. Records
After reading a great story about Fleetwood Mac by Abby Norman, I was reminded of my own experience with the band that ended in a wicked case of self-loathing and regret on my part and a hint of awkwardness on theirs.
I was 19 and working at a boho boutique in Venice Beach at the height of Fleetwood Mac's success. They were my one of my favorite bands at the time and I idolized Stevie Nicks. I had a major girl-crush on her.
One day, Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks walked into the little shop.
To say I was starstruck would be a gross understatement. My synapses began misfiring and I was reduced to a blithering idiot.
When the two women approached my counter, I began stammering involuntarily. "You, you, you're, you, you're, you're in, you're in, you're in... Fairport Convention!"
I named the wrong band.
Christine McVie very politely and sweetly replied in her gorgeous accent, "Well, actually it's Fleetwood Mac."
I should have shut the hell up at that point, but I was completely possessed, my mind had short-circuited and I had no control over my faculties.
I was mortified that I named the wrong band and desperately wanted to show them that I knew who they were. "OhGodOhGodOhGod! Of course, you're in Fleetwood Mac. I knew that. I knew that. I love you guys."
Mercifully, they departed rather quickly after "the incident."
I was left with the tragic knowledge that if only I'd had my shit together I would have become their new best friend. And invited to join their band.