Mr Scarrott meets Mr Fleetwood, and Why

[Mr Scarrott]

I’m in such a good mood. I’m standing in a queue in Waterstone’s in London’s Piccadilly clutching Mick Fleetwood’s autobiography. I’ve been having a wonderful chat with three other fans that has continued from when we had stood outside, occasionally caught in the rain. One prefers the Peter Green incarnation of Mick’s band and we good-humouredly traded lyrics from Green Manalishi as bemused shoppers walked by. Another had discovered the band through being a former neighbour of original bassist Bob Brunning- we talk fondly of Long Grey Mare and sadly of his decline. A fourth, who professes her love for Lindsey Buckingham and who denounces his former replacements Rick Vito and Billy Burnette as “imposters” has met Mick before and tells me he is the most charming man.

I can easily believe this. Fleetwood is genial, in great humour and exudes a certain serenity. He certainly knows how to work a crowd. In full Big Friendly Dandy Giant mode, he chats to each of the punters amiably and swiftly abandons the advertised no posed photographs rule as I-phones click happily away. Perhaps he simply wanted to avoid Stevie Nickses of all ages, shapes and genders trying to recreate the pose from that album cover. I don’t blame him for this…

My turn comes sooner than I realise. A bookseller silently takes my copy and places it on the table. Mick starts signing the title page and I move towards him. A look in his eye signals that he realises that I have suddenly had a fit of nerves. I have never met anyone this famous, and here I am, next to a man who has been at the heart of an endlessly regenerating band that I love like no other. I forget the planned courtesies, there’s no “Hi Mick,” or “Great to meet you,” or “Your Fleetwoodness, I am so honoured”.

Mick places his left palm atop my right hand. It’s a natural, warm, kind gesture; he’s used to the tongue-tied, the temporary idiots that we are all capable of becoming. I am going to have to make this question count. I had thought of asking about Danny Kirwan whose musical beauty entrances me and whose fate worries me endlessly. No, I decide, there may not be any news about him and I don’t want to darken the atmosphere with memories of unpleasant firings and a Les Paul shattered against the wall. I decide on a different tack.

“Is there any chance,” a tiny voice finally struggles from my throat “that you might play Why from Mystery to Me again?”

Fleetwood is momentarily startled. Seated on a stool, his lithe frame suddenly seems to spiral alarmingly towards the ceiling as if trapped in some Alice in Wonderland fantasy as I become a confused white rabbit by his side.

His eyes pop. They really do.

“You know, Christine was listening to that song just the other day,” he says in that wonderful soft, mellow tone of his, “she said that was a song that never got anywhere.”

My confidence rises. I’m chatting to Mick Fleetwood about one of the great lost, haunting songs of the Seventies. This is going better than I had dared hope. I almost feel as if the Songbird herself has walked into the room as well. “It’s such a beautiful track,” I venture and suddenly the drummer is transported back forty-one years as he fondly recalls the percussion, the strings, the production of the number - I momentarily think about mentioning Bob Weston’s astonishing guitar work, but decide against it. No, Scarrott, best not mention Bob Weston, even now.

“You know,” I carry on, “there’s a great video on Youtube of you doing the song with Stevie and Lindsey in 1975 or so- the harmonies are beautiful” before I add a little superfluously “after Bob Welch left.” I mentally kick myself- I know that Mick may be entitled to get his chronology mixed up every so often, but I’m reasonably certain that he remembers the personnel change at Fleetwood Mac’s defining moment in history.

“Is there? Wow!” he exclaims, looking straight ahead, incredulously as I realise the old adage that fans often know more about an artist’s career than they themselves might not be so wide of the mark after all. “You know, one of these days we should go and do some more of those songs from way back when.”

I furiously nod my agreement. “Maybe you could do it for your 50th anniversary?” I’m having a great time. I’m planning Fleetwood Mac’s sunset years with its one original member and all Mick has to do is convince Lindsey to sing Hypnotised, Closing My Eyes and Woman of a Thousand Years. He can get Stevie to do Green Manalishi. John will love it!

The dream melts from my grasp. We both sense that my time is up. He motions for a photograph. My camera had died whilst photographing the poppies at the Tower of London earlier in the day and one of my fellow punters lends me her phone for the task with the promise she’ll email the results to me. I pray she won’t forget.

“Thanks, Mick,” I say in parting. “Thanks for keeping the band going.”

“Enjoy the book!” I hear as I slip away.

The most charming man. She wasn’t wrong.