
Until I embarked on my shamefully still-unfinished deep dive into Christine McVie’s discography, I was completely unaware of this album’s existence or her involvement therein.

Until I embarked on my shamefully still-unfinished deep dive into Christine McVie’s discography, I was completely unaware of this album’s existence or her involvement therein.

This is a fun if inconsequential ‘89 salute to early rock ‘n’ roll staples that has gone overlooked for so long, no one’s even bothered to rip a quality copy of the thing onto YouTube.

From this 21st century vantage point it seems pretty obvious that Christopher Cross was never going to match the improbable success of his start.
Never mind additional hype heaped on him by Grammy voters, who in February ‘81 made him the first (and, until Billie Eilish in 2020, only) recording artist in history with a clean sweep of the top categories, taking home trophies for album, record and song of the year as well as best new artist. (No need to re-litigate past injustices over who or what he beat, like the Pretenders for that last crown or Pink Floyd’s The Wall for the LP prize. It’s well-known the Grammys were myopic and rock-averse back then.)

All things considered — including her then-label’s rejection of an earlier version, a three-year delay and overhaul, virtually zero promotional support for a hodgepodge that would mark the end of her tenure at Warner Bros. — this is still a fairly solid Bonnie Raitt album.


For this 38th (!) splash within my deep dive into Christine McVie’s complete catalog, only one song from the soundtrack to Blake Edwards’s largely forgotten comedy A Fine Mess matters: her straightforward yet lovely cover of the Elvis Presley classic ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’


By now this sort of passed-over obscurity ought to be an unsurprising discovery to anyone still following my extensive peer into every facet of Christine McVie’s discography.
Danny Douma, Robbie Patton, Billy Burnette — these largely forgotten singer-songwriters all crossed her path at some point too, and in most cases wound up sharing credits on McVie hits. So it is with this fellow, Todd Sharp, who’d been lingering on the fringe of Fleetwood Mac circles since his time playing in Bob Welch’s band and contributing to Mick Fleetwood’s Zoo.

We encountered this well-coiffured scion earlier in my fathoms-deep dive into the discography of the late great Christine McVie.
Billy Burnette — son of Dorsey, nephew of Johnny, heir to their rockabilly bona fides since he was a child star touring with Brenda Lee — first entered the Macverse back in ’83 as a creature in Mick Fleetwood’s Zoo. For the oft-overlooked detour ‘I’m Not Me’ (see previous post) he provided plenty of fretwork and sang four numbers: the title track, a Beach Boys obscurity, his dad’s ditty ‘Tear It Up’ and his own tune, ‘Gimme You.’


Time once more to play the vinyl community’s favorite new game, Who Among Us Remembers This Guy?
Full disclosure: I sure as hell don’t.
And I haven’t found out much about him, either.

Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks weren’t the only ones from Fleetwood Mac to pursue solo ventures after the Tusk tour of ’79-’80 ended acrimoniously (again). The front half of the group’s namesake did likewise, releasing his noble failure The Visitor in June ’81.

I get why Robbie Patton didn’t make it big, though I also see why so many in his orbit really thought he would — not just Atlantic Records execs looking for a new star but particularly Christine McVie, who sings on (but did not produce, as erroneously stated elsewhere*) this third album of his after co-helming his second.