The Debate: Does Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Rumours’ deserve the ‘classic album’ label?
Arriving in February 1977, just a week before Valentine’s Day, Fleetwood Mac gave the world Rumours. Throughout the making of the record – which essentially consisted of 15-hour days for almost a year – there had been murmurings leaked to the press that all wasn’t well in the band’s camp. That much would become apparent when the record was released, and just about every song was about another member of the band, with Christine McVie joking, “Only John couldn’t talk back because he doesn’t sing”.
Since then, the story has become well-known in the rock ‘n’ roll annals. Meanwhile, the popularity of the work itself has blossomed. However, that hasn’t stopped it from proving divisive, either. For everyone who loves Rumours, there is a detractor. Well, in truth, it’s probably more like for every three people who love Rumours, there is a detractor. But, all the same, its adoration is not universal.
This has often proved to be a sticking point at the Far Out offices. The happier, healthier members of staff, naturally, enjoy the record, pleased that the ten best-selling albums of all time list isn’t entirely todd. However, the hipper cats who keep to less sociable hours quickly attempt to skip to Sun O))) whenever they’re caught listening to it.
So, with that in mind, I, Tom Taylor, set out to do battle with Arun Starkey to get to the bottom of whether Rumours is really worthy of the ‘classic album’ tag that it is now readily afforded or if Starkey is right and it simply isn’t all that.
Is Rumours really a classic album?
“It’s a cheesy mess…”
The kick-off: Watery syrup
They say the classics never go out of style, but in the words of Refused, they do. It’s a mystery how Rumours ever was in style or reached its classic status, as objectively, there are less than four actually worthwhile songs on the entire record.
Not only this, but it’s an absolute masterclass in cheesy songwriting, with some of the ‘definitive’ moments laughably bad.
Prime example: Lindsey Buckingham’s vocals in the hilariously lousy opener, ‘Second Hand News’. The song’s as tacky as the contents of a 2p machine down Bridlington seafront.
“It’s a masterful easy target…”
The simple defence: What do you want from pop?
Hating Rumours is the province not of losers; no, of something worse than that—perpetual drawers. Take Arun, for example; needless to say, he’s a Spurs fan. I imagine many people who dislike Rumours are.
The deriders are trapped in a Europa League realm of just about being contrarian enough to stab at a classic but not boldly avant-garde enough to avoid the easiest target. Meanwhile, those who get on board with Fleetwood Mac’s masterpiece get to bask in the trophy-lifting champagne of its triumph.
“I hate everything it represents…”
Save your sports analogies; I hate everything it represents
While that was a cute footballing analogy, Tom, perhaps I may go one step further. I’m not taking such comments from a Newcastle United supporter, a ‘big club’ that has won nothing. Your sole Intertoto Cup and the city’s collective love of Dire Straits heavily suggest you stand down on both fronts.
Now, where was I… I hate absolutely everything Rumours represents because, apart from symbolising the ridiculous and immensely childish nature of rock star behaviour in the 1970s, it doesn’t actually represent anything of value or substance.
The songs are about doomed romances, so what? It’s not like it was the first record to do it, and there’s been a long line of equally tedious ones since. It’s also the finest soft rock album of its era, typifying the cool Californian music of the decade, you say? Who gives a flying fuck, what does that mean anyway? Sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll? Yeah cool. There were a hundred records like it in the nine year span of the stilted genre’s pomp, and all were egregiously middle of the road, regardless of musical, societal or technological context.
It’s a road trip album for personality-less squares and their equally drab families. (“Don’t Stop thinking ’bout tomorrow”, we all sing in cloying unison.”)
How about that, eh?
“Why what it represents doesn’t matter…”
Don’t bring Dire into this
JD Salinger hated squares. Where did that get him? He lived as a frustrated recluse, a fate that might just befall you unless you shape up, grow up, and rattle off ‘The Chain’.
Rumours is the distilled cacophony of five people falling apart and yet at the very top of their game. Despite all the chaos and despair, it is the sound of a rarefied space between crazy, debauched love and its lonely, sombre counterpoint — people at their best and worst.
Most importantly, though, none of this is imbued retrospectively through the lens of the story we now know; it is all so perfectly captured and present in the sound. Few records are packed with such palpable feeling. It’s not the product of a genre—it’s propane pop in a league of its own, the product of great songwriters honestly exorcising their tempestuous lives. This is the reason why it ranks among the ten best-selling albums of all time and continues to rise. Even today’s generation, who have turned their back on the sort of bombastic antics that bore it, connect with its deeply human appeal.
Of course, the pioneering works of Burial or Silver Apples might abound with greater innovation, but the world needs its hits too, and nothing delivers them quite like Rumours.
“It’s overhyped all the same…”
The Ugly Duckling of 1977
I get that.
Still, to think that Never Mind the Bollocks, Marquee Moon, Talking Heads: 77, Trans Europa Express and Low all arrived in 1977 shows the innovative essence of the year in which Rumours was born, and how it was a remnant of a strung-out period fast fading into the depths of history.
Punk and electronic music had arrived and were leading the cultural charge, rightly sweeping away the turgid establishment of ‘classic rock’. Save from the raw fury of the Sex Pistols debut, the rest of the above-mentioned records were undisputedly cutting edge, signalling the eclectic, genre-bending innovation of music’s future: not sickly lovelorn ballads, and tacky country rock, wet remnants of the trivial past.
I hear you, James Martin, Jeremy Clarkson and Tom Taylor’s of the world; ‘The ending of ‘The Chain’ is a hard rock ripper‘; yeah, right, buddy. The solo and climax rival anything Eddie Van Halen accomplished in terms of stinking sonic cheese and appear absolutely elementary in compositional choices and execution when stacked against ‘Trans-Europe Express’, ‘Sound and Vision’ and ‘Marquee Moon’.
Even the production is so incredibly lightweight.
“The people’s cheeseburger of a record…”
1977’s most beloved
Firstly, the quality of one piece of art should never be measured against the ‘complexity’ of another. That’s a dangerous game. That’s a method that would mean the humble yet mighty burger is always eclipsed by the ala carte hors d’oeuvres of the world. Sometimes, you just want a greasy bit of cheese with enough beefy substance to sustain you, served up with near immediacy.
That’s Rumours: the cheeseburger of albums. To stretch the analogy even further, a track like ‘Dreams’ might only have two notes for the most part, but like the beef and cheese of its succulent foodie counterpart, it does more to please with humble constituent parts than a million orchestras have mustered. That is an artistic feat in itself; to craft something timeless, unique and beloved from a congested world of familiar sounds is proof that passion and bravura are what make art sing.
To be passionate about hating Rumours is like being passionate about hating chocolate—and we all know those people are cun…
“People deserve better…”
It is not a classic mate
Comfort food and burgers have their place, sure, but too much of it will kill you. We know that.
While you say Rumours is the cheeseburger of albums, and that may be the case, my friend, it’s certainly not the humdinger it’s presented as on the board. The bread is cloying and moist, there’s far too much plastic cheese, and the beef, the fundamental substance of the dish, is so thin you hardly know it’s there. Excuse me while I throw this outdated burger, the Fleetwood Mac, in the bin and head to the new establishment across the road promising substantial meals without the fuss…
To conclude my part of this debate, Rumours isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Tom. Sure, the music and cover art are deemed iconic because of a handful of stand-out moments and the fact that Middle America lapped it up when released, but what does that actually mean? The dumb masses supported it. Just look at the damage the cheeseburger has done to this demographic. People deserve better. I wish they knew that.
In the immortal words of Super Hans, “People like Coldplay and voted for the Nazis. You can’t trust people…” Scratching just beneath the surface, it’s clear the music, themes, and production aren’t of classic quality at all, and don’t even stand up in comparison to other records from 1977.
It just isn’t all it’s cracked up to be unless uninteresting music and beige food really is your thing. Over to you, Saturday Kitchen lovers.
“The people don’t care…”
It is a classic
Super Hans is a character created by Jesse Armstrong and Sam Bain for comedy purposes, not a code to live by. Once more, this shows your blatant detachment from reality, manufactured for cool indifference to the status quo.
I don’t know why I like Rumours and that’s its beauty. Unlike the predictable repostes to its brilliance, which can all be intellectualised and reasoned out with all the same romance as an incel’s Valentine’s Day, for those who love it, its appeal – beyond the drama, hooks, catchy choruses and stunning, sincere performances – remains enigmatic. Its magic is ethereal and affecting.
Therefore, to hate it, you must be responding to the same urges it induces. So, you can parade on your phoney high horse, but as every Rumours fan suspects, presented with the same intoxicating spell, you’ve simply chosen hate over love. Or, you’re a moralist who prefers to be in opposition, clinging to some manufactured purity as you white knuckle your way through ‘The Chain’, desperately rejecting your heart’s impulse to tap a toe.
Either way, you’re wrong, and you’re a grotesquely ugly freak.
