The one and only time I saw them was fall 1994 (after Stevie’s superb concerts in Northern California at Arco Arena with Rick Vito and Russ Kunkel). Mac was playing Konocti Harbor Spa in Clear Lake, a buffet dinner club with about 200 people eating chicken and rice pilaf at their tables. After dessert was finished, you turned your chair toward the small stage at one end of the room — and there was Fleetwood Mac. Not exactly auspicious.
They played essentially the same set (five or six Mac hits and several Mason numbers, just over an hour) with the same confused listlessness and flippancy. Afterwards, I went out on the boat dock and talked to Mick Fleetwood, who was smoking a cigarette and staring out over the dark water.
It didn’t really matter who was in the band at this point. The band had no focus, no raison d’être. It was as if their arrest warrant and death sentence had already been signed, not only by their label but the public, as well. They had sunk to the level of a side dish with your chicken and rice.
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