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Fleetwood Mac Guitarist Sues Bandmates for Kicking Him Out of the Group
DerekJohnson
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The inside story behind, Fleetwood Mac’s decision to jettison vocalist and guitar great, Lindsey Buckingham.
Burrowed into a private booth at an unassuming Sunset Strip bar, caressing my iPhone, I opened Voice Memos and pressed “record”
One by one, they came. Mostly unnoticed, the dim lighting inside adds to the privacy, a perfect venue to get the inside dope—snorted, smoked—the “scoop.”
Sources offer stories—conflicting they may be.
The “meetings” lasted sometimes only thirty seconds, the longest five minutes. These people don’t “do lunch” leaving that to the agents, the lawyers, the hangers on, etc
A figure spots the din from my iPhone. They quickly scan for prying eyes, and in one motion, slide their fanny into the well worn red leather booth.
The band, the shadowy figures says, finally had enough of Buckinghams “Little Lies.,”
As quickly as they entered, they stood to LEAVE. “Nuff said on that,” one remarked followed by a head bob, a quick exit, darting back into the late afternoon LA sun.
As if on cue, a well recognized bandmember, donning dark shades, approaches. Without an introduction the individual offers the group simply wanted to start the tour. Lindsey objected, “hes kind of a little bitch,” the source says of Buckingham, “it’s criminal the yo-yo shit he’s pulled with Stevie. All she wanted is to hear Linds ‘say you love me.’”
The source adds Stevie got so upset she slapped Linds at a rehearsal session and shouted, “Stop dragging my heart around!” to which Buckingham, plagerism Tom Pettys shit, stomped his feet, “I need to know! If you say you’re going to leave, just say so!”
Stupid. “Oh well.”
And so it went. To the letter, each source, save one, collectively said the same, with rolling eyes, “Stevie and Linds; Knicks and Buck. Drama. Drama. Drama.”
Second Hand News! sure.gif.
The whole affair makes Rona Barrett look like E. Howard Hunt. Ninja Pleeze!
Things got so bad, a band observer says “you’ve got the Sphinx in Egypt, the Great Wall in China, and the Taj “Bohmar” Hall in India,” the “Seven Wonders” of the world. “Stevie thinks the Seven Wonders begins and ends with cocaine.”
Several years ago, according to the source, Knicks went on a bender and ended up face down in the gutter, moaning, “Oh, Daddy.”
Poor Stevie was in so deep, trying to sober up, the source explains. Linds, “callously” turned his back on his former lover and onetime self professed soulmate.”
Stevie’s got her act together, I offer. “WOOD,” I say.
“Good for her,” the source remarks. “Cheers.”
“Over my head,” Buckingham allegedly remarked as Knicks circled in and out of rehab, to which the source quite honestly found offending. “Such fag, Linds.”
“It’s all about him,” a longtime member said under the condition of anonymity. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s talented. Great vocalist, amazing song writer, and an underrated guitar player. But the guy is hotter than a three peckered goat on July 4. Always DTF.
“Sara, Oh Diane, even that hustling Gypsy fortunate teller—yes that one, you know who I’m referring to—in the Panhandle.
“You put tits on a boar and he’d stick his dick in it,” someone once close to Buck says of him. “Maybe three inches, tops,” the source describes, holding their thumb suprising close to their index finger.
Spellbound—and emboldened—I ask for their phone number. No reply, just a smile, followed by a wink. I watch as the source leaves, frilly flowing ankle high dress swaying, heading towards the door. My phone chirps. A text message. vCard! I look up. The source stands at the door, gliding their tongue along the bottom of their two incisors. “Text me,” they mouth while LEAVing
“Fuck him!,” a band member tells me. “Go ahead, write this, ‘Enough is enough! We’re never going back again.”
I wait. The coast clear, I slide out of the booth and glide accross the forty year old worn carpet —now popular with Hollywood musicians and hipsters. With one hand on the door, I step out onto the sidewalk. Cars whiz by. The dedicated journalist I am, I cobble together this Pulitzer worthy expose then email to my editor.
Staring at my iPhone, I study the alluring source’s contact information.
Publishers note: an hour after our editorial staff received this story, Baseman submitted his resignation, including this Baseman like sendoff, “So long suckas!”
Baseman failed to pick up his final paycheck. The last reported sighting had him navigating the sharp curves of Laurel Canyon in a new Ferrari Spider.