Lindsey Buckingham - Seeds We Sow

If it’s been awhile since you’ve been reminded of Lindsey Buckingham, I understand completely. He’s someone that we tend to take for granted, and then something comes around to remind you. It may be that lost classic “Trouble,” from Law & Order that you hear out of nowhere, only to remember how awesome it is. Maybe it’s a spin of Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk where you discover how much the man emulated Brian Wilson, to the point where you understand the risks that were involved with that album, particularly after the success of Rumors.

Or maybe it’s that moment when you first heard Lindsey’s version of the awful Fleetwood Mac song, “Big Love,” when you discovered that underneath all of that embarrassing 80’s crud was a song of incredible beauty, provoked only by an acoustic guitar and Buckingham’s lightening fast finger picking style.

It had been years since I was reminded of this, probably as long as that version of “Big Love” became famous, prompting guitarists to drool and your parents to say, “I told you so.”

A few years ago, some friends checked out Lindsey in Des Moines at a snug little ballroom. His prowess was repeated, and I was envious of it. So when I received word that he was coming through the area again, I promised myself that I would not ignore it and I even promised my wife a ticket, to which she asked, “Who is Lindsey Buckingham?”

Don’t beat her up too much; a woman my age asked the same thing when I told her and I could have easily avoided both moments by saying “The guitarist from Fleetwood Mac.”

Fleetwood Mac doesn’t mean that much to me anymore. I still get a kick out of Tusk and Rumors was on my parent’s stereo for two solid years before it ever came off, so I’m quite aware of its greatness. I remember buying a copy for myself in college, only to give it to a girlfriend because I discovered that I was still sick of it. It wasn’t until the deluxe reissue came out with all of its nifty demos and studio outtakes that I warmed up to it, thereby reminding myself, “Gee, I wonder what Lindsey’s been up to.”

On a whim, I found his latest Seeds We Sow-my first Buckingham album since Out Of The Cradle-stomaching the cover art that screamed, “He’s in a mellow mood.”

But cover art is for record loyalists and old luddites, the shit that was being beamed to me in ones and zeros proved to be some revelatory stuff. The first spin found Buckingham alternating between impressive wordplay and straight up weird pop music, some of it very familiar to 1981’s Law & Order with ultimately no chance at commercial accessibility.

Not that it matters much to Lindsey, and that’s the beauty of it. Seeds We Sow fluctuates from folk social commentary (“Seeds We Sow”) to spastic new wave political pop (“One Take”) to a telling, frenetic piece of dreamy fingerpicking (“Stars Are Crazy”). Whatever the direction, it’s unmistakably Lindsey and it’s an unfortunate oversight to anyone who may have missed this left-field pop gem, penned by a man now in his early sixties but who continues to create with youthful exuberance.

It’s only during the dramatically beautiful penultimate track “End Of Time” where the topic of mortality finally comes up. It’s a plaintive plea for reprieve-of which, he’ll never get, of course-but it’s a gripping moment where Buckingham tempers his unfettered nature and delivers the most mature moment on the record.

Ignore the adult contemporary cover; within the grooves of Seeds We Sow is a lush display of someone continues to approach music like a kid in a candy store. Within that ageless performance is a man who has reached the heights of popularity and come away from it with the kind of integrity that you’d hope all of those classic rock heroes would someday find.

Lindsey Buckingham Live In Des Moines

Lindsey Buckingham

Live At Hoyt Sherman Place

Des Moines, Iowa, September  2, 2012

“Look at all of those dudes up by the stage taking pictures of Lindsey’s guitar rack.” I pointed out to my wife as we made our way to our seats at Lindsey Buckingham’s solo performance in Des Moines last Saturday night. “That’s hilarious!” I added as we both sat down.

“Don’t laugh.” She replied. “You know you want to go up there and do the same thing.”

I paused for a moment before admitting, “I do want to go up there.”

It would have been hilarious if they were all BC Rich.

Like my wife predicted, I was up out of my seat, making my way to the front of the stage just so I could seize a few shots of Buckingham’s wares before the lights went down.

Not a Marshall in sight. Didn't need 'em.

There were two things that I immediately discovering during An Intimate Evening with Lindsey Buckingham, an intimate one-man performance of the Fleetwood Mac legend. The first is that all of the male audience members seemed to have show up to ogle at his incredible guitar picking skills.  And just because there was an ample amount of Ovation acoustic guitars standing on that rack, it doesn’t mean that Lindsey didn’t hit a pedal, transforming a hollow body into a ballsy lead instrument, complete with distortion, tone, and testosterone.

The other thing was that Buckingham’s crowd probably found more women in attendance. The majority of them were middle-aged, but all of them seemed to view Lindsey with the kind of glance that is only reserved for lustful admiration. The man is as lean as ever, sporting thin denim jeans, a v-neck t-shirt and expensive leather jacket for the occasion, all of which prompted more than one shout of “I love you Lindsey!” from his female admirers.

The set pulled from equal parts solo material and Fleetwood Mac cuts, which he referred to as “the big machine.” Whatever the source, the intimate setting created a perfect backdrop for a lot of his overproduced material in the same way that “Big Love” got a new lease on life the moment Buckingham focused on turning it into an incredible reminder of his talent on the six string.

For tonight, it was “Go Insane” that got the “better than the original” nod. Admittedly, it’s pretty easy to overtake the outdated production of the title track from his 1984 solo record. But Lindsey manages to bring out the original diagnosis, but slowing down the arrangement and turning it into an eerie, creepy crawl.

All the songs receive similar changes in arrangements and nuances, and each one required a new guitar, mindfully handed over by his guitar tech while the devoted crowd gave standing ovations after every tune.

Don't get weird on me, babe.

By the time he got to the familiar opening of “Go Your Own Way,” the decorum of the immaculate Hoyt Sherman Place venue finally turned into a traditional rock show. Dozens of middle-aged women began leaving their seats to march up to the front of the stage, getting a bird’s eyes view of their graying idol as he navigated both sides of the crowd for optimal exposure.

Even in this intimate setting, Lindsey brought out his best showman poses, pouting his lips with eyes-closed during extended solos, pursing loud/soft dynamics with his vocals to achieve maximum vulnerability, and holding his hand over his heart with each appreciative applause.

To dismiss this package as just an atypical unplugged outing would be an injustice to the many years this man honed his craft in packed arenas with Fleetwood Mac. But the beauty of it all is how the intimacy perfectly translated this man’s genius on his instrument. It’s a craft that was obviously built from even more years of refining his relationship with the guitar, probably alone and probably going beyond what was even needed with Mac.

Yet he continued his progression, honoring the band’s tradition of featuring some pretty awesome guitarists and securing his own place in that heritage.

With Fleetwood Mac, he was just one of many guitarists that filled that spot, but on that special Saturday night in Des Moines, he was the only guitarist we wanted to hear in that role.

Setlist

Cast Away Dreams

Bleed To Love Her

Not Too Late

Stephanie

Come

Shut Us Down

Go Insane

Never Going Back Again

Big Love

I’m So Afraid

Go Your Own Way

Encore

Down On Rodeo

Trouble

Seeds We Sow

Stevie Nicks - In Your Dreams

To be real, Stevie Nicks hasn’t been in my dreams for several decades, and she’s certainly been off my radar since the days for a least two of ‘em. Remember the last time she tried to be “modern” and she ended up working with Brett Michaels in a weak attempt to look “hip?”

Embarrassing.

The thing about Ms. Nicks, and God, I hope she would have figured this out by now, is that she created her own enigma, so fuck everyone and run with it, sister!

That moment in School of Rock where Jack Black spins “Edge of Seventeen” for Joan Cusack’s character? That shit’s real! Stevie had the ability to transfix fans back in the day, even under the presence of compressed recordings and dumbass electronic drums. The only thing that and Brett Michael’s co-writing credits did was make us forget how compelling she could be lyrically and stylistically.

I don’t know about you, but I got tired of having to make excuses for her stupid decisions that I walked away. And now there’s news that she’s ready to make nice and give an album that’s good even though it’s been forever when an album like In Your Dreams really mattered.

Fans of Stevie will call this a return to form and they’ll be very pleased with this effort. These are the people that she should be groveling to, but judging by the half-assed marketing effort, and yes, the half-assed effort to again sound “modern,” Stevie once again is stuck in the past where she believes this record will somehow be received well by others who don’t have their hearts already lodged in her Bag of Holding.

To do this, Stevie has created a soundtrack for the Twilight/True Blood sect, that may get a kick out of embarrassing New Orleans odes and tales about vampires, but it doesn’t do much for me at all.

Seriously, she’s in her 60’s now, and a bunch of her material on In Your Dreams sounds like the kind of work she would have tossed out during Rumors. It’s half-assed, and for someone who released her best work around the time of Rumors-and someone who hasn’t released a new album in almost a decade-you would think that Stevie would give a shit with this album and not settle for “half-assed.”

Instead, she delivers that aforementioned ode to New Orleans (called simply “New Orleans,” btw) with the skill of someone who’s never really been there, but has glanced at the brochure. “I want to dress up/I want to wear beads/I want wear feathers and lace/I want to brush by Anne Rice/I want to go down Bourbon Street” is the best she can come up with, along with some references to ghosts, Mardi Gras, and Hurricane Katrina.

Nicks dishes up another reflective middle-age musing about a trip to Italy (“Italian Summer”) with such phrases as “Oh it’s so romantic/Hey it’s so soulful/The rain falls down and the thunder rolls.” It makes my parents’ own retelling of their trip to Venice a few years ago sound positively enthralling.

Thankfully, producer Dave Stewart-a pairing that I struggled with when I first heard the news-does a good job of keeping even the most cringe-worthy lyrics tolerable by working together a mix that references her most organic moments and ones that won’t make In Your Dreams sound too remarkably dated in a few years.

Ironically, the album’s two finest moments come through the opening track, “Secret Love,” and with “Annabel Lee.”

“Secret Love” turns out to be a leftover from Stevie’s Rumors-era songbook, concerning yet another beau she bedded during her cocaine nose-job period. No names are provided, but then again, do you really want to know after learning about her affair with Mick Fleetwood?

“Annabel Lee” is the peak performance, a retelling of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem of the same name. The song has been floating around the Nicks’ cannon for a while now, never officially seeing the light of day until now. It’s worth the wait, and one of tracks within In Your Dreams that keep it from falling into the grasp of middle-aged moms across the country still following the flight of the one-winged dove.

Fleetwood Mac - Rumors

I can’t listen to Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors objectively and you can blame my parents for this.

There was a period between 1976 and 1979 where my parents probably listened to only a half-dozen albums and Rumors would most certainly be at the top of that list.

I enjoyed the album at the time of its release, and I enjoyed the pleasure that it brought my parents as they played their vinyl version to death, even after our dog puked on the cover, leaving a stain on its beige cover forever after.

But there became a point where the optimism of “Don’t Stop” leads me to consider affirmatively to the band’s coos of “don’tcha look back.”

I would indeed, never look back on this overplayed relic of my youth, and it most certainly contributed to fueling my own musical independence, in which I would spin some of the most parent-hated music I could find.

Years later, I began a process of trying to reclaim some of the albums that I had purposefully banished, and Rumors was indeed, one of those records.

And while I tolerated it, especially when my live-in girlfriend at the time became drawn to it with a “Wow, this is a really good record!” type of enthusiasm, undoubtedly free from the record burn that yours truly experienced.

I let it go. Figuratively and literally. I let the album to play again in my apartment with her, and I let her take it with her when she moved out.

Forward on to a few years ago when Warner Brothers records could see that nobody was buying cds anymore and they began repackaging some of their most popular titles as “deluxe” editions, complete with demos, alternate takes, you know, the shit that geeks like me love to obsess over.

I noticed that they had done this treatment to Rumors and knowing that Lindsey Buckingham is a frigging genius and friggin’ geniuses are perfect fodder for “deluxe” editions, I once again put this album on my radar.

Joy of joys when I received some kind of discount for the only record store left in our town (Best Buy), to which I happily walked into that shitty, big box world to spend my fake money on a cd.

I considered Rumors for a moment, that is, until I saw what price tag our normally low-priced big box store had on the deluxe edition of this classic album. The price tag came to around thirty bucks, a price that I felt was too exorbitant to pay on an album that I had already bought previously and one who’s only difference was that it included the shit that they worked on to make it a near-perfect pop album masterpiece.

That’s right, in terms of this review: Rumors is a fucking masterpiece, go out and buy it for fucks sake if you haven’t already. We’ve gotten beyond that acknowledgement, regardless of the cue-burn that my family instilled on the album’s legacy for me.

Long story short, I didn’t feel like paying Warner Brothers an extra $30 for demos, outtakes, and all of the behind-the-scenes stuff that led to the album being a no-brainer.

And yet ends another tale of why record companies are stupid douchebags who burned the bridges of their most loyal customers so much that I’m encouraging anyone who hasn’t illegally downloaded their own copy of Fleetwood Mac’s deluxe edition of Rumors to do so immediately.

It’s a fan’s wet dream, maybe not worthy of the $30 price tag, but definitely half-of that if you’re looking to acquire it legitimately. Even with pictures, liner notes, or any of the physical detail that I would have loved to spend time with, the magic is within the music and you can see just how awesome Buckingham is even when he’s working on the skeleton arrangements of what would become one of the most successful pop albums of all time.

The beginning acoustic structures of “Never Going Back Again” show how underrated of a guitarist Lindsey is, while the final mix demonstrates his knack at arrangements.

The outtake of “Songbird” shows that, perhaps, every take they got through on the day of recording was probably just as good as the released version, and the same is true with some of the demo recordings too.

Hell, even when Fleetwood Mac was farting around, like they were with the basic blue rehearsal titled “For Duster,” they were a better band than most could claim to have even after a few years of rehearsing.

Which is exactly why Rumors is so great. Even in the face of personal adversity and improper excesses, the band was good enough when it counted to keep it together and focus long enough to create one of the undisputable masterpieces of pop music.

Just keep it away from my parents.