SURE, THIS album deserves platinum status as much as the next Kiss LP, but frankly there’s only one cut that really sends me – “Dreams,” written by Stevie Nicks.
Look, I know she has an air that she’s hot stuff, and it broke my heart too when she frosted her hair like someone’s pet Yorkie last year, but when I get around to assembling my bionic playmate, that’s the voice I want – lazily sensual, with a glassy baby shiver that can melt your heart faster than Bain de Soleil sliding down a greased thigh at the Beverly Hills Hotel pool.
“Dreams” is a pulsing, soothing blanket of sound similar to Ace’s great “How Long” ― only better, because little tulip lips is rippling the silvertones. Lyrically, I could do without the meteorology lecture in the chorus, but any girl who’s as crazy for “crystal” imagery as Nickers is deep enough for American pop romance.
The rest of the album rates about even with their last sweepstakes winner. Lindsey Buckingham will never be one of my favorite singers or songwriters, but “Go Your Own Way” ― the punchy single with the distinctive staggered rhythm and slicing guitar lines ― tops the last LP’s pretty fair “I’m So Afraid.” Another delectable morsel is Stevie’s “Gold Dust Woman,” with much of the haunting atmosphere of “Rhiannon.” One does sense a dip though, in Christine McVie’s compositions. While her writing is consistently attractive, only “You Make Lovin’ Fun” really lives up to the four remarkable songs that established Fleetwood Mac’s cruising level ― “Over My Head,” “Warm Ways,” “Say You Love Me” and “Sugar Daddy.”
In case you haven’t been keeping up on you Golden State social notes, the conjugal harmonies of Fleetwood Mac were smithereened last year, and the songs on Rumours are mostly about grownups bidding various forms of adieu. The lyrics aren’t particularly memorable, but they’re effectively bittersweet and reflectively “mature” (i.e. no vicious revenge or suicide histrionics like heartbroken nihilists enjoy threatening).
Hopefully, this band will continue to display the rustic authenticity of their pre-Buckingham, Nicks folk-blues roots (check out Penguin among others). It lends their spirited pop an edge that the bathetic Beagle boys sorely lack. For their gritty, smoky flavoring, though, they’re kidding themselves if they don’t recognize the little witch with the spells in her voice as their front-woman.
© Stephen Demorest / Creem / May 1977
