Back around 1987, I was in New Orleans for a meeting of the National Coal Council. I took the elevator at the hotel down for dinner and there was a woman, dressed to the nines, on the elevator with me that looked familiar, but that I couldn’t place. When the elevator doors opened to the lobby, I saw a man standing there, thin, about 6’-5”, and bald, but with hair down to his shoulders. I quickly recognized him as Mick Fleetwood, and the woman as Christine McVie.
RIP Christine McVie.
RIP Christine McVie.