Fleetwood Mac, unless you are a true fan, really puts on a senseless, energy-drained show here that you'll sicken of faster than a can of Gummie Worms at the State Fair. And State Fairs, indeed, are where this group ought to be playing; right next to Whitesnake and Rick Springfield and the demolition derby and blue ribbon goats.
Buckingham gets his ya-yas out a couple times on lead guitar, but other than that, the ladies sound warbly and the bass player John just stands there (like he has for his entire career). Christine still looks youthful; an unsung MaryAnne next to Stevie's more often photographed Ginger. Christine remains a comely British school marm ready to spank your wrists for looking up her skirt, so that's one redeeming feature. Yet that small pleasure is offset by Mick's still googly eyes and lanky figure sweating behind his drum kit. Thanks for putting a camera right by Mick so that I can get scared out of my easy chair every time he stares those cue balls at the camera. I'll project this footage on my house for Halloween and scare off all the kids.
I wish I could say that Fleetwood Mac are rockers, but alas, they are little more than Lawrence Welk on methamphetamines. Sure, Don't Stop pushes the metronome to 40 mph from Fleetwood Mac's usual school zone pace, but seriously rip-snortin' rock and roll this just ain't, brothers and sisters. No matter how much Dolby 5.1 Surround and DVD fog-filtered quality you throw at this show, the music remains elevator quality drivel. The passage of time has, in my opinion, shown the Mac's music to be thinner than the veils around Stevie's midsection paunch.
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