Far as I was concerned, the headliners on Sunday at 6pm weren’t the Chicago Bears or Indianapolis (Baltimore-deserting Weasel) Colts; they were Stevie Nicks and Prince.
Oh Stevie! You can watch her SuperBowl performance on YouTube, but do you really want to? The witchy woman who inspired thousands of femme girl goths and witchy little waifs is today a substanial woman of middle age, in a long dirndl skirt, her ample bosoms tightly buttoned into some kind of form-fitting Anne Klein suit jacket. She twirled like wind-up doll, carefully, so as not to get dizzy. Once, record company interns blew coke up her ass (I know one of them) so as to save the delicate remnants of her nostrils. Today, she looks all too well-fed and appears nasally quite sound.
A far cry from the mesmeriing chick in the video to “Gypsy” – which my hubby assures me was up there with the Pat Benatar videos as a, um, a locus of some considerable fantasy activity [insert Howard Stern-thigh slapping sound, ahem]. And her voice sounded AWFUL. No Fleetwood Mac fan myself, I would admit she always had had some kind of vocal styling going on, but it was all gone . . . . Oh Stevie, retire w/Anne and Nancy Wilson of Heart. You can all go shopping for sensible suits and compare groupie stories. But leave the boys their memories.
And watch all 12 mins – the end is the payoff.
Riffing on Jimi, Tina Turner, and his bad younger self, among others, he ripped thru a guitar-driven medley from “Let’s Go Crazy” into “Proud Mary,” and more, winding up w/a mighty fine “Purple Rain”. And he still cracks me up (I’ve seen him live a few times) cuz it’s too, too funny at the end, when the giant shadow of him and his special “Purple Rain” guitar looms over the whitebread crowd like nothing so much as the sly silohouette of a priapic little Satan in middle America.