Following the year that brought us All About That Bass and Nicki Minaj’s Anaconda, it’s heartening to remember that far from being amoral meat-bags, humans are actually worth saving from some sort of catastrophic nuclear apocalypse, and if there were ever a reason for Dr. Manhattan to stop being such an emo up on Mars and save some of us, it would be the continued output of Fleetwood Mac. It goes without saying that your life is measurably poorer if you haven’t fully internalised (to the point of internal repetition) Big Love and The Chain, but their appeal goes deeper than just building rock and roll masterpieces that, while not as incisive and derisive as Primitive Man’s output, still conjure up something genuinely revolutionary in the soul.
Rumours should live in the same headspace as Dopesmoker in the realms of albums that are amazing not because of what they aurally achieve but because they got made at all in the face of tumultuous events. I know The Chain has been adopted as de-facto theme tune of the cunts-in-cars roadshow of Formula One, as hairdressed mannequins bop round a pointless and conflictless track to the total indifference of all, but the album as a whole is a wonderful example of art existing in the shared headspace of multiple individuals.
I’ve always had a soft-spot for soft rock stalwarts, everyone from Scotland does because you are nationally obliged to pledge your love to Runrig before you can be given a passport. I didn’t get into the Mac straight away, but it was Peter Green who finally did it. "He gazed up at the enormous face. Forty years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath the dark moustache. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two gin-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself. He loved Fleetwood Mac.”
Written under duress by Steven.