Stevie Nicks at Jones Beach with, God Help Us, Sheryl Crow
"Still trying to get that alcohol?" the bouncer asked as he denied my request to be readmitted if I left the facilities and then personally escorted me to my assigned seat. Rock 'n' roll...
Is not an accurate term to describe singer/songwriter Gaines. Let's just say that the big single off his latest is a cover of "In Your Eyes," and that he takes a very strong stand on abortion, though it wasn't clear until the second chorus of his "political song" if he was pro or anti-choice. With a three-beer buzz this could have all been extremely amusing.
At length we heard the first chords of "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around" and the Renaissance Fair employees rushed the stage. The guitarist singing Tom Petty's part sounded as though the band had gotten too stoned and let the roadie have the mic, but fuck it, I was seeing the gypsy live. Suddenly I realized I was actually at a rock show drinking hot chocolate. Screaming, I chucked the thing into the air and clenched my raised fist. (In truth I set it down gently next to the 10-year-old on my right, whose father then knocked it over trying to get his 50s housewife ass to the smoothie stand.) However, that didn't help the fact that I was now listening to a reggae version of "Rhiannon."
Having donned many a shawl in Stevie's name, I tried to transport myself back to my seventh grade bedroom where I'd perform entire Mac albums (first as Stevie, next as Christine and finally as a sweaty Lindsey). It worked for a few minutes on "Dreams," especially when Stevie announced she "felt a presence during the second thunderclap" in the thunder-and-lightning scene playing on the huge monitor behind her. The dentist in front of me started to blow a J, and I was nearly clambaked until the unthinkable happened and Sheryl Crow, producer on Stevie's comeback album, hit the stage. My boyfriend took out his ticket stub to find it contained no warning that we would have to sit through "My Favorite Mistake" and the odious "Every Day Is a Winding Road," not to mention Sheryl joining the jam on "Gold Dust Woman," etc. It was like finding ash in your beer, drinking the bong water and catching the geek from first period in your panty drawer all at once. The party was officially over, so we headed home.
There were several people in the parking lot, who luckily for them had decided to forgo the enormous fee and imagine what Stevie looked like not moving onstage for two hours. We bummed a smoke off a nice middle-aged couple from Jersey with a cooler of Coors Light as the crowd inside yelled during an apparently stirring moment in a bongo solo. They told us they'd seen Aerosmith "from right where that taxi is parked." We watched as a transit worker rolled himself a joint, smoked it, climbed into the driver's seat of the awaiting bus and told us to "get in already."
Writing this piece was as big a bummer as the show. I contemplated taking the whole experience to my grave with me until I heard on the radio that Stevie is going into the studio with the new Fleetwood Mac lineup?Lindsey, Mick...and Sheryl?to cut a record. I got a whiff of a foul stench, like when grunge got a hold of Neil Young (hey Neil, you get to wear the "Spam" shirt tonight), because Pearl Jam is as poor an imitation of Crazy Horse as Sheryl is of the Eagles or Christine McVie. That's when I realized, Jodie, that there would be more tours like this one, and I decided I had to speak up, if only to beg Ms. Nicks, please, for me, for your old fans, for the kids and for God's sake for yourself, do not go so gentle into that good night.