We were flatting in the haunted house on Grey Street in the late seventies – Kristine, Diane, Sam and me. Diane had a groovy little Ford Anglia van that she used to call the Love Rat Supplies or something and we used to go on adventures to Auckland to see shows like Janis Ian or Stephan Grappelli.
When Fleetwood Mac came to play at Western Springs we got tickets and made the trip. I’d loved the Peter Green Mac and parts of the Bob Welch version and then when the new line-up released that first album I was in Australia and you couldn’t go anywhere without hearing Landslide or Rhiannon.
There was certain strength about a band with three singer/songwriters like only The Beatles or CSN and something about Stevie Nicks and her songs with that great rhythm section – then Rumours came out.
We got there early and got a great spot right up close to the stage and we started drinking wine. It was a hot Auckland day and we baked listening to The Kevin Borich Express and Hello Sailor in the lead up.
At a certain point I really needed the bathroom. Only there wasn’t a bathroom just a huge line of people waiting for the dunnies. I decided to take my chances up in the trees and worked my way up onto the hill. After finding a suitable pine tree and letting rip, I noticed a guy on his own sitting and waving at me.
I went over to see what was up and he offered me a smoke on the big pipe of strange bark or whatever it was he was smoking. I thanked him and staggered down the hill, through the big crowd to where our group was sitting and my head was reeling.
The sunburn and the wine told me I had to throw up immediately. I looked around and found a big paper cup that I had been drinking out of earlier and I vomited whole-heartedly into it.
No one seemed to notice and I set it down carefully beside me.
I got my second wind and when Fleetwood Mac came on – I stood up and moved forward a few metres like everyone else.
It was great to see them so close up – Lindsey Buckingham’s finger-picking style and Stevie being generous with the crowd all too briefly though.
I looked around at one stage and saw this hulking colossus of a man pumping the air and screaming all their words with his right foot, jandels and all, planted firmly in my cup of spew frothing over his hairy toes.
Then, on the way out of Auckland, we very nearly ran over a police officer…
…in heavy traffic.
The Ghost of Electricity – War Stories by Jon McLeary is a new initiative at Off The Tracks, a series of stories and reflections from painter, writer and musician Jon McLeary