Fleetwood Mac

The set-list for the show, released in advance, whetted appetites for a career-spanning evening of greatest hits and fan favourites. Unfortunately this enticing prospect disappeared quicker than a line of coke snarfed up by Stevie in her heyday.
Opener ‘Monday Morning’ received a fevered ovation but from the outset the performance was oddly disjointed and lacklustre. Nicks appeared to be on autopilot. Also her vocal delivery was an octave or two lower than normal. She strained to reach certain notes and her performance was buoyed by three backing singers. They were, it seems, badly needed.
Lindsey Buckingham showcased his guitar prowess with perhaps a little too much zeal, his frenetic performance verging on the manic and jarring with Nicks’ muted presence.
There were glimpses of former glories, Nicks was in fine voice for ‘Sara’ and a charming rendition of ‘Gypsy’. Buckingham’s lone acoustic performance of ‘Big Love’ was stark and impassioned.
In the engine room, McVie and Fleetwood held their own, the former remaining silent throughout, the latter occasionally indulging in somewhat cliched banter.
This was a night for talking it seems. Buckingham acknowledged the band’s “complicated emotional history” and many songs had lengthy preambles contextualising the subject matter. Nicks delivered her monologues in a strange daze.
The crowd lapped up the hits, Stevie played her tambourine and twirled, Lindsey burst several bloodvessels soloing, the pair embraced during ‘Sara’ to much whooping.
But to me it all seemed strangely sterile and antiseptic.