Mick Fleetwood – The MOJO Interview | Oct 28th 2014

MOJO Magazine
Oct 28th 2014

The venerable sticksman and rhythm commander for nearly 50 years with Fleetwood Mac opens up on blues, booze, change, constants. “My nature is to keep it all together,” says “I have the template.”


THERE IS A WORD THAT POPS UP MORE than once in conversation with Mick Fleetwood, a word that does not usually surface in conversations with other rock’n’roll stars. That word is “intact” — defined by at least one source as “not damaged or impaired in any way”.

It is a word that has special relevance when your band is a few years scant of celebrating its 50th anniversary, when it has sold more records than nearly anyone, when its colourful cast of characters comprises the most visible ongoing soap opera in the annals of rock, and time, as always, takes its inevitable toll.

To cut to the chase: everything in Mick Fleetwood’s world this August morning appears to be intact. He is, as always, tall, lanky, polite, happy to do whatever is required of him as a photo shoot takes place on the premises of this lovely large, hilariously photogenic Santa Monica estate, and in fine spirits. His is very popular band is rehearsing for their first tour with celebrated member Christine McVle in 16 years, and that is no small thing: This core group of five Fleetwood Mac members Fleetwood, McVle and her ex-husband John, Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks got together in 1975, recorded a series of famous albums that sold billions, took rock’n’roll from the cover of Rolling Stone and plopped it onto People, influenced an entire generation of future white-winged doves enraptured by Ms Nicks, and then seemed to putter out in a strangely non-elegant manner in the mid ’90s when Dave Mason walked in. Continue reading

Mick Fleetwood: ‘We were cloaked in this crazy world’ | Telegraph (UK)

The Telegraph

Sunday 26th Oct 2015

Cocaine, affairs, reckless spending – Mick Fleetwood was the epitome of the rock ’n’ roll egomaniac. How did he, and his band, survive?

I am waiting for Mick Fleetwood in a mansion that he has rented in Malibu. It is the size of a stately home. I am sitting in the kitchen, which is painted in ice-cream colours: pistachio, strawberry and vanilla. He arrives shower fresh. He is as long and thin as you imagine him.

In his new autobiography, Play On, Fleetwood says that he’s 6ft 6in. He looks even taller, languid in navy chinos, a blue striped shirt with epaulettes, a gold medallion, a perfectly trimmed beard and a burnt copper tan.

The medallion is a scarab made by a goldsmith in Canterbury, and, Fleetwood tells me, a symbol of immortality because Ancient Egyptian scarabs, which are still being dug up by archaeologists, “survive against hopeless odds”. You could say the same about his band, Fleetwood Mac.

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