So anyone who talks shit about Tusk gets IP-blocked. Deal?
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[5.50]
Edward Okulicz: This mines the same comforting territory as many of Lindsey Buckingham’s tracks on Say You Will, and has the same genius of his entire career in patches along with strange and overly-dramatic (but thankfully quiet) Nicks backing vocals and bland, obvious rhyming-dictionary lyrics. That’s harsh, Nicks’ vocals are never unwelcome, but I’d have preferred this to be just Buckingham, because there’s a happiness here that Nicks prevents from escaping. It’s still sparkly and crisp; the good outweighs the bad here — just.
[7]
Brad Shoup: Buckingham Nicks as written by the New Pornographers? This should light up our AAA station for a solid week.
[6]
Rebecca A. Gowns: Upfront disclaimer: in the past several months I’ve had a severe craving for Fleetwood Mac. I’ve gone whole days playing their albums back to back to back. Hours and hours. “Over and over,” as Christine McVie would say. With the echoes of “Tusk” still ringing in my brain, this song arrives, announcing itself with a little indie-pop guitar jangle, and it doesn’t disappoint. It’s really poppy and friendly. Friendly! The tune is friendly and so are the lyrics; with the tension from the old days long-fizzled, a pleasant union remains. I’m left with an impression both comforting and exciting; “hello hello hello hello!”; cracking a fresh crust of bread over an ancient soup.
[9]
Ramzi Awn: Doesn’t sound entirely unlike a deep cut from an early Mac album, featuring the unabashed fervor of an Irish jig or a kid on too much ice cream. The production is a little less interesting, but I’ll keep it in mind for Mother’s Day.
[6]
Anthony Easton: I never quite got Rumours. From Night of A Thousand Stevies to the several album-length covers of Tusk, the responses to the band have mostly been ironic or blank. The solo Buckingham album mostly struck me as an exquisite and very expensive album that said absolutely nothing. This is less than nothing. I have always suspected that there was no there there, but this Marin County, chardonnay and hot tub foray into… something — greeting the angel of death, some kind of bizarre anti-war stance, something simple, anything — fails on every level. There is nothing to recommend this.
[0]
Daniel Montesinos-Donaghy: Lindsay Buckingham is surely out of practice with his lyric writing here, mixing metaphors together like there’s no tomorrow. He’ll even do it mid-sentence if he wants! Musically, they don’t stretch themselves further than “unintentionally ripping off Deacon Blue” but seem pleased to be in the same room as each other – those lightly duelling guitars from the final verse, jostling then harmonising with each other, comment on the band’s reunion with far more elegance than the accompanying lyrical focus on angels! and wars! and crowds a-chanting! There just isn’t enough of this excited-to-be-here performance to spread around.
[5]
Josh Langhoff: Slumber party! The band visits Lindsey holed up in Xanadu — i.e., his basement recording studio — where he subjects them to Wings of Desire and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ “Sacrilege,” both of which are totally blowing his mind right now. After they spend five minutes writing this piece of crap and a half hour knocking out the basic tracks, Lindsey obsesses over perfect guitar sounds all night while the other three drink his wine and prank call Christine. Once they’ve passed out, Lindsey impishly sticks their hands into bowls of warm water and buries Stevie’s vocal.
[2]
Ian Mathers: Genuinely surprised that something called “Sad Angel” isn’t a Stevie song. It’s not bad, although I can’t say it’s got the same charge the best Say You Will material did. Christine McVie is both sorely missed and probably not regretting her decision; but their, ahem, “chops” are still intact and there’s definitely still a baseline pleasure in hearing Nicks and Buckingham singing together. I’m tempted to give it a [7] on good will alone, but really if this was a new band it might be closer to a [5], so…
[6]
Jer Fairall: Begins with a crisp guitar strum and an earnest Buckingham vocal that suggests a solo record outtake, but when Nicks’ vocals rise up behind him, the whole thing immediately reaches an incandescent Tango in the Night level of pop shimmer. Speaking as someone who has preferred Buckingham’s Seeds We Sow (2011) to any Mac product since Tusk, I’m not sure how much this really needed anything more than just Lindsey and his guitars, but as a reminder, if one was needed, that what’s remarkable about Buckingham’s particular brand of studio wizardry has always (Tusk’s small handful of bugfuck moments notwithstanding) been more a matter of sharp clarity than experimental tinkering, it’s certainly a welcome one.
[7]
Alfred Soto: Closer to Lindsey Buckingham’s recent solo work, “Sad Angel” has the advantage of an engaged Stevie Nicks on harmonies and those compressed but frantic dynamics that are Buckingham’s to summon whenever he needs to prove the Mac are weirder and witchier than any boomer rock. But boomer rock never boasted a band this committed to being one. Those harmonies encircle Buckingham like vines around a fence, McVie plays unexpected runs beneath the guitar, and the subtext of lines like “We fall to earth together/the crowd crying out for more” is best left to fans who can’t get enough of the Rumours psychodrama.
[7]