I blame you for my warped view of love!
You’ve doomed me to believe that I’ll never know what real love is unless I have the urge to write 150 songs about some dude involving the words “angel”, “destiny”, or “crystal-something”. Of course he would have to write angry, less poetic, monosyllable songs attacking my character and talent. I would have to wear layers of billowy chiffon and a hairstyle that looks like a goose down pillow exploded on my head; he would have to have a huge 70’s white man ‘fro, wear chest hair embellishing v-necks with gold chains, and platform shoes though he’s already six feet tall. He would have to play the guitar with no pic and glare at me onstage when a lyric referred to me. I would twirl around a lot. We’d go do a line of coke, then go boink backstage.
Yeah, that’s real love.
Fleetwood Mac’s reunion live show, “The Dance”, premiered when I was fourteen years old. I don’t recall listening to Fleetwood Mac before then but became transfixed when I saw the music video for the concert’s “Silver Springs” on VH1’s Top Twenty. I saw this woman singing passionately about love and heartbreak and halfway through the set, turn towards the guitarist next to her and start screaming, “I’ll follow you down ’til the sound of my voice will haunt you! You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you!” Why was she yelling at this man? But more importantly, why did I find that man dashingly attractive when he’s older than my Dad and I’m fourteen years old?
After that day, I went out and bought every Fleetwood Mac CD I could get my hands on that would explain the story on why this woman hated this man so much. What I got was an overwhelming soap opera of sex, drugs, loneliness, and confusion. I WANTED IN!
I wanted to wrap myself around someone’s dreams, take a silver spoon and dig my grave, ring like a bell through the night, and see my reflection in the snow covered hills. I wanted to feel like those people did and I still do.
In my weak attempt to find my Silver Springs in the past, I probably created unnecessary drama just so I could feel something.
Something I could take home and write about at the end of the day.
So my apologies to the couple of people long ago that I brought into my imaginary Fleetwood Mac melodrama in my head.
You wouldn’t have looked good in a WMA (White Man’s Afro) or silk v-neck shirts anyways.