There was a time when I was a fan of Fleetwood Mac.
In was on one bitter Saxon morning in 1987, when I dropped my copy of “Rumors” into the cassette player on my desk, expecting to hear the smoky voice of Christine McVie. I pushed the play button, only to hear the sound of the tape turning on the spindles. Nonplussed, I grumbled believing that the cassette player had bought the farm. It would be sounds of the British Forces Broadcasting System for the rest of the day.
Like so many days on the mountaintop at Schwelentrup, the weather steadily deteriorated from an otherwise promising day. By workday’s end, a persistent ice fog engulfed the summit, coating everything with a glassy glaze of ice. I would have to chisel the Ford out of this crystal cocoon. Twenty minutes later, I removed my iced parka and slid into the slid into the driver’s seat. As the engine warmed, I popped “Rumors” into the tape deck and waited for Mrs. McVie. The voice I heard was far smokier…
“@#%$!! What is the MATTER with this $&@#* tape deck NOW?” the voice growled. Alone, the words were caustic. The delivering voice added the ferocity of a searing hot sandblaster. I was alone in the car, yet I can still feel the blush sweeping across my face. The voice hissing through the car stereo was my own and hearing it was like a well-placed punch in the stomach.
Have you ever heard yourself in an unguarded moment, in a moment when you weren’t aware that the “microphone was on?” It may surprise some to learn that the mic is always on. The tape that catches our voices lifted in hymnody also captures it lowered in less edifying lyrics.