Stevie Nicks, MACRAMÉ GODDESS

To steal from Groucho Marx (after all we’re talking nicks), the trouble with doing interviews is having to sit down next to someone you don’t like. See I’m the leather type myself; don’t go for chiffon unless it’s on a slice of bread with a bit of dead animal on top. Don’t go for spirits, unless they come in a bottle marked “Smirnoff.” Don’t go for cosmic airbrushed cake decoration types whose albums come in scratch and sniff roses and kitties and sea spray; leather, now that smells good. Don’t go for platform boots unless Gene Simmons is wearing them. Don’t go for much about Fleetwood Mac really except “Albatross” (adolescent romance memories) and Christine McVie (subtle, sensible, excellent songwriter) and (for the same reasons I like Adam Ant) Lindsey B.

There’s a lot to be said for Stevie Nicks, surely. My old man’s brother wants to “protect her”; my old man wants to—we won’t go into that. A kid called me up and asked me for any old press photos of the lady, told me he thought she was “ladylike” and the girl he’s been trying to date likes her a lot. There’s a few million more fans out there I didn’t have time to get to with the deadline CREEM gave me. But they definitely seem to like her. Me and Groucho were having our doubts.