Periodically, I plan to use this space to pay homage to artists who I believe are worthy of focused attention — artists with an extraordinary, consistently excellent body of work and a compelling story to tell. Some are commercial superstars; others have slipped under the radar of many readers. Most will be somewhere in between those extremes. In this essay, I look at the chameleon-like evolution of the nearly 50-year-old group known as Fleetwood Mac.
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Jeremy Spencer, Peter Green, Mick Fleetwood, John McVie and Danny Kirwan
It seems safe to say that the overwhelming majority of Stevie Nicks fans have no idea that they owe a huge debt of gratitude to a Brit by the name of Peter Greenbaum, for without him, there would be no Fleetwood Mac.
When rock ‘n roll arrived in 1955, it was heralded by its proponents as nothing short of a musical revolution. Throw out all the old rules, they said, it’s a new morning, and the new guard is here to shake, rattle and roll things up. But this revolutionary “new guard” — guys like Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Little Richard, Elvis Presley, Jerry Lee Lewis, and many dozens of pretenders to the throne — was woefully lacking in one key area: They were all men.
Where were all the women?
It’s curious to look back now and see what a boys club it was then, from the singer to the drummer, the producer, the engineer, the label executive, even the record store owner and radio DJ. As in most industries at the time, women in the music business faced discrimination, harassment and outright exclusion by a male power structure. (“You sing great, sweet thing, now let us finish the record and I’ll see you in my dressing room later…”) It seems a shame to me that, except for a few rare trailblazers, women were typically limited exclusively to supporting roles as mere background vocalists, even though sometimes it was the women who had the star power, the pipes, or the songwriting talent that everyone loved.