By Brian Hiatt
Photograph by Peggy Sirota
Rolling Stone Magazine
Issue 1227 >> January 29, 2015
Magic & Loss
Maker of myths, wearer of shawls: for Stevie Nicks, nothing – and everything – has changed.
Stevie Nicks got to sleep at home last night for once, her skinny, half-blind, half-hairless 16-year-old dog, Sulamith, snuggling at her feet, in a four-poster bed too tall for either of them. “I have to take, like, a running jump to get up there,” says Nicks, who, for all the potency of her presence, is five feet one without heels. She lives in an oceanside condo in Santa Monica, a “space pad” with floor-to-ceiling views of half of Los Angeles County. Her bedroom décor is spare: a Buddha statue on the polished hardwood floor, a vintage globe on a stand, a white stuffed rabbit perched on some pillows, a modest flatscreen, a rack of stage clothes in the corner that serves as the only reminder that she’s actually still on tour. Nicks made it back from a Fleetwood Mac show at the Forum around four in the morning, managing six and a half hours of sleep. She has another concert tonight, with no day off in between. Her back hurts. ‘We’re tired,” Nicks says, brightly, “because we’re very old.”
Today’s show is an Anaheim arena, an hour from home. Nicks, her long blond hair wrapped in yellow, blue and purple plastic curlers, has flopped onto a well-worn black leather massage chair, feet up, at the rear of her backstage dressing room. It’s early December, and the sun is setting in pastels among the palm trees outside. There are only a couple of hours left before Nicks has to be back onstage in her black corset and skirt, harmonizing once more on “The Chain” with a guy she dumped during the Ford administration. Continue reading Stevie Nicks: A Rock Goddess Looks Back | Rolling Stone
Lindsey Buckingham wears many hats, and he displayed them all during his stand at New York’s intimate Town Hall last night. Throughout the ninety-minute set, the former Fleetwood Mac frontman morphed from one persona to another, whispering about the pangs of cult status during “Not Too Late,” bopping through the family-man ballad “It Was You” (both culled from his stripped-down new solo disc Under the Skin), howling and prowling the stage during “Tusk,” or quietly strumming the meditative “Go Insane.” Amid such schizophrenic hijinks, you could walk away wondering who this man really.
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