Free Storms by Carol Ann Harris Page B

his foot off the gas and hit the brakes. Roughly, he steered the car over to the side of the freeway, pulled onto the shoulder, and turned off the engine. As traffic flashed by us he lowered his head onto the steering wheel and I swear that I could hear a silent scream fill the air. He turned his head, looked at me, and said simply, “It hurts so much I can hardly breathe. What if he’s right? What if the album is shit? I can’t tell any more, Carol. Am I crazy? I think it’s good. Fuck, I thought it was great. But what if I’m wrong?” His face was that of a child, dismay and confusion etched across it.
    The words of one reviewer had opened the door to Lindsey’s darkest fears and it would take the words of another to close it. Until that next review, I would have to try to close the lid of his Pandora’s box and help him with the pain that he was feeling.
    Leaning over, I grabbed his face between my hands. “Listen to me”, I urged him. “You’re not wrong. You’re not! This album is amazing. When I first heard it at the studio, I was stunned! It’s that good, baby. You have to believe me; I’ll never, ever lie to you. I think it’s the best album I’ve ever heard! Why do you think every radio station is playing it before it’s even sold one damn copy?”
    Lindsey looked at me, calmer now, listening.
    â€œYou have to forget about the idiot who wrote that review. He doesn’t get it, Lindsey. And if he doesn’t get your music,
then fuck him. I hate him!”
    Lindsey blinked, startled at my ferocity, and then started to smile. “Maybe you should write our next review.”
    I kissed him hard and said, “I just did.”
    The ride back to L.A. was quiet, with none of the celebration that we had on the journey north. As we pulled into Lindsey’s driveway on Putney in West L.A. he said, “I have to call the band. I have to tell them about the review.” I nodded and followed him inside his house, leaving our suitcases forgotten in the trunk.
    We entered Lindsey’s bedroom, decorated with a shabby-chic, threadbare Persian carpet, a chipped wood bureau, and his ever-present guitars. The only wall decoration was a creased black-and-white poster of a Victorian house standing on a cliff, looking sinister as a storm wreaked havoc around it.
    I stared at the poster. I’d seen it before, but tonight its stark bleakness made me uneasy—as Lindsey called first Mick, then Stevie and Christine to tell them about the piece in
Bam.
As he vented his rage and disappointment and received obvious reassurance from the voices at the other end of the line, I listened to the first of many occasions when the members of Fleetwood Mac would become one entity against the world, to support one another against an attack. Hearing confidence slowly creep back into Lindsey’s voice with each call, I knew that
Rumours
had weathered its first storm.
    In fact, the
Bam
review trashing
Rumours
would be the only time, to our knowledge, that the album wasn’t heralded as the truly defining golden accomplishment in music that it was. Literally hundreds of magazines showered glittering praise on the record.
Rolling Stone
gave
Rumours
such a rave review that it was almost embarrassing to read. The album as a whole and the band members’ individual songs were lauded to the heavens, with Lindsey’s work getting special accolades: “joyous”, “timeless”, “angelic”, and, best of all, “classic.” Over the next year the same magazine would give Fleetwood Mac not one but two covers accompanied by main features: one of the highest honors a band could receive in the 1970s and ‘80s. We didn’t realize it that night, but the golden curtain of fame was lifting for Fleetwood Mac.
    Rumours
was about to make history. The clock had started ticking on my days as a participant in everyday, normal life. Without