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BY RACHEL SYME
The New Yorker - January 19, 2015 issue
BY RACHEL SYME
The New Yorker - January 19, 2015 issue
Christine McVie Illustration by Tom Bachtell |
By the time Christine McVie arrived at the Morrison Hotel Gallery, in SoHo, she had been up for sixteen hours and was dying to remove her false eyelashes. “They’re so heavy,” she said, as she tilted her head onto her clasped hands for the benefit of her manager, who had promised her an early exit. McVie, who had recently decided to reunite with her old bandmates in Fleetwood Mac for a tour, was in a makeshift V.I.P. room in back. Out in the gallery, a throng of Fleetwood Mac fans were looking at an exhibition of Polaroid self-portraits taken by the band’s Stevie Nicks. (“These are, like, the original selfies,” one woman, dressed in witchy layers, in homage to Nicks and McVie, said.)
“I’m only here for Stevie,” McVie said. At seventy-one, she was dressed like an off-duty rock star: narrow jeans, pointy boots, a gauzy scarf. Shaggy blond bangs nearly covered her eyes. “Everyone thinks this is quite the glamorous life, but it’s axe-grinding. Like this opening—I was dreading it. I’m so tired, I’m barely human. And I thought there might be old pictures of me, God forbid.” (There weren’t.) She scooped up a small white Maltese named Rodney, the property of Nicks’s manager. “Oh, I miss my pups,” she said, burying her face in the fluff.