I confess, I’m not much of a Fleetwood Mac fan. Their limo driven, pseudo hippie decadence makes my skin crawl. Everything I couldn’t stand about the 70’s. The long hair. The beards. The coke. The football jerseys and flairs. Then there’s Stevie, with her ballet slippers, gypsy costumes and patchouli posturing. When it comes to 1977, I’m far more drawn to the likes of Television and The Clash. In terms of late 70’s Pop, give me Blondie or give me death. Which makes it even more ironic, that I simply adore the album, Rumours.

This is it. When your friends ask you what’s all the fuss about “glam” and “glitter” rock, put this on and sit back and smile. All the signposts are here: simple melodies that stay in your head for days; misogynistic lyrics about ball-busting birds succumbing to the charms and sexual prowess of the electric warrior, Marc Bolan; introspective evaluations of our place in the universe, all delivered in a soupcon of blues, folks, rawk, and pedal-to-the-metal, foot-stomping bravado that’s rarely been equaled, certainly in the subsequent careers of fellow glitterati, Bowie, Ian Hunter, Gary Glitter, and Roy Wood’s Wizzard. Slade may have moved more product, but that was over an extended career of chart toppers.