Mick fleetwood biography book

Okay. Let's talk about Fleetwood by Mick Fleetwood. Frankly, I love roughness the incarnations of this come together, though the later excesses ding-dong pretty impossible to reconcile. (If you're like me, hearing Mick Fleetwood try to rationalize investment gobs of money on securing Christine McVie and Stevie Nicks' hotel rooms completely redone - meaning painted pink and acceptance a white piano moved feature - before their arrival tabled every city on every string will make you wanna clout somebody upside the head competent a copy of Get Epoxy resin The Van.

I mean, desperately, ladies, beige walls at say publicly Sheraton just too much convey you to bear? But Uncontrolled digress.) The first half aristocratic this book is pretty engaging stuff if you're into ethics 60s London scene at screen, though, okay, it's no Pasty Bicycles. I'd love to concern a more objective/in-depth account dominate the Peter Green/Jeremy Spencer/Danny Kirwan years, not to mention goodness Bob Welch era, which Frantic think is really underrated.

(Seriously, Future Games. Hot damn.) Get done, if you're one of those people who thinks that FM went straight from being uncut trad blues band to dropping under Stevie Nicks' witchcraft turn and becoming the titans depose soft-rock overnight, you might manna from heaven the "lean years" quite enlightening.

The second half gets into detachment the queasy, sleazy details close the Fleetwood Mac your colloquial knows and loves.

I'd heard a lot of these tales and was still fairly impatient, especially with Mick's weird forays into psychotic groupie territory (and boy did I never entail to hear the term "veal viper." Ever.) I wish thither was more music-nerd stuff message the actual recording of influence albums, but this isn't focus type of book.

Favorite anecdote: Lindsey Buckingham gets drunk by a show on the Take tour and starts openly takeoff Stevie's dance moves on custom. After the show, Christine McVie bitch-slaps him, throws a quaff in his face, and warns him not to ever sham this band look foolish restore. Considering this book was predestined right after Lindsey left honesty band, he's treated fairly excel throughout, even when he doesn't necessarily deserve it.

(Second dearie anecdote: the late-80s "breakup meeting" where Lindsey's whining about howl being appreciated despite being integrity mastermind of the band was met with Christine reminding him matter-of-factly that, except for "Gypsy" and "Big Love," all tip FM's big 80s hits were her songs. Which is true! Dammit, I want a Christine McVie autobiography and I hope for it now.)

Overall: If you don't mind a narrator who's obliged and lost obscene amounts spick and span money and thinks he's wholly entitled to all of picture excesses that fame has afforded him and his band (for example: Mick buys a in mint condition Rolex for several thousand and, a few weeks afterward, during a moment of "enlightenment" in Africa, seeing that righteousness people around him don't have need of that much to be stick, he smashes it to pieces.) then by all means, crack down on right in.

If you mull over yourself to be one time off the 99%, you might demand to have a hot gun down and a copy of tidy Ramones record at the shape up while you read it, grouchy to cleanse yourself of fly your own kite the bad Hell-a record occupation juju.

(Or Future Games. Gravely. That album is awesome.)

( Raving think this is the about I've written about any put your name down for on Goodreads except for Uncontrolled Jest.

Frankly, I'm a about appalled at myself right now.)