I met Stevie Nicks in the Spring of 1979, nearly three years to the date after Fleetwood Mac recorded Rumours at The Record Plant in Sausalito. I saw her sitting alone at the bar in the lounge of the Senator Hotel on Douglas Street, and since we were the only two people in the bar at that late hour, it seemed uncreepy and appropriate to join her.
I bought her a bourbon on the rocks. Mine, neat.
We didn’t talk about music or feminism or time travel. We talked about men. Of course we did!
She asked me, “Why do men want us to be so many things at once? Why do we want to change for them? Why do they look ahead but never behind? Why do we let them in, so completely?”
I replied sadly, “I have no idea.”
I asked her, “What was it like to be with Lindsay Buckingham? Pretty intense, I imagine.”
And she asked me, “What was it like to be with Y? Frustrating as hell?”
We ordered another bottle of wine, laughed a lot, and then I told her I had to go to bed.
She hugged me goodbye and looked me square in the eyes. Her hands were on my shoulders and her bottom lip tightened slightly. She said:
“Take lovers who will teach you something about yourself. Leave the ones who aren’t curious enough to learn.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Stevie, that’s easier said than done.”