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Fleetwood Mac: Stevie Nicks, Macramé Goddess

Sylvie Simmons, Creem, 1982

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.

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