Fleetwood Mac, The Hydro, Glasgow. June 2015. Photograph by Ian D. Hall.

Liverpool Sound and Vision Rating * * * * *

It starts with a gentle rhythmic beat, slow, incandescent and the thought of explosive wrath and crazed delight far from its mind and ends in the white heat of thunder, the objective having been met, the satisfaction of thousands of souls having been determined and the noise of a thousand hearts having been caught fluttering in the wind, now forever filled with content and tranquil fulfilment. To have witnessed Fleetwood Mac, the classic and commercially erudite line-up of Stevie Nicks, Lindsey Buckingham, John McVie, Christine McVie and Mick Fleetwood, perform anywhere on this particular tour, is arguably to have sensed that five decade old greatness.

Despite the tour having had to slightly stutter the previous week, understandably as a small matter of long term health become a more important factor than short term gain, the audience at the Hydro in Glasgow were treated  to a show that for many by the following morning was still bombarding them with bouts of unimagined thrills and positive, unyielding, uncontainable excitement. Each segment of the show, the return of the superb Christine McVie to the line-up and one who herself seemed knee deep in the memory of enjoyment, the pace and drive of the two original members and the distinction of arguably one of the top five guitarists of rock ever, coupled with the bewitching, spell inducing flamboyance of the gold dust woman, drove home the feeling of the sincere and reasoning of the point of the summer of 1968 home with aplomb.

That opening, the sound of metal melting at a 3000 degrees, the act of a raging star deep into own middle age throwing its cosmic size weight around and being guided by expectation and muted whisperings, exploded, detonated at speed as The Chain was let loose and just under two and a half hours of music filled the vast auditorium and the Clyde River that runs almost with majestic ease past the imposing venue began to race with impetuous as any misguided preconceived opinions, any thoughts of mischief, were routinely rounded up and shoved with force into the pulse of the city and far out to sea.

Songs such as Second Hand News, Everywhere, Little Lies and Rhiannon served up the gentle and the astute, whereas Lindsey Buckingham’s solo piece of Big Love, the dramatic shift in accent of Never Going Back Again, the tectonic blistering of Gold Dust Woman, with Stevie Nicks showing the female goddesses of old just exactly how to summon up strength and iconic imagery and the gargantuan, deep rooted, pounding, mesmeric gesture of Tusk all giving the audience that sentiment, that certain belief that they were living though something very spectacular.

There will never be another band that captures this type of intensity of rancour again, the insanity of the perpetual musical emotion, like the summer festival in front of a 100,000 lost souls crying out in the shadow of fading sun, that time is perhaps now consigned to the history books, bit if it is to be mourned, let it be mourned for what it was, the booming transcendent response to pure emotional belief.

Ian D. Hall