Swing Magazine, May 1998

"The Crush: Stevie Nicks" by Peter Lindberg

There I was, 63rd in line, 13 years old, clutching an envelope with the words "To Stevie" written in neat cursive. A few hundred of us had turned up outside the record store for an autograph session. Everyone had posters and records to sign, but I had just a letter. I'd spent eight hours composing it the night before -- went through a dozen drafts, including one in calligraphy. Finally, I settled on a direct approach: I wrote to Stevie Nicks asking if she'd like to have coffee with me sometime. I didn't even drink coffee -- my parents wouldn't let me--but that was the least presumptuous suggestion I could think of.

Finally I reached the front of the line. Stevie was smiling at an obese man who kept telling her , "You're wicked pretty." I was next. She reached for the envelope. "It's a letter," I said brightly, "for you! But I don't want you to think I'm some obsessed psycho. I mean, I'm not going to follow you around or anything." She regarded me as you would a man who'd just defecated on the subway. "I just really like your music", I said smiling through my braces.

By then she was already transforming herself from a wispy California angel into the Zsa Zsa Gabor of rock. But she was still beautiful under the thick makeup, the Miss Havisham dress. She still twirled in her 10-inch heels, if a bit more carefully. And she still sang about thunder and witches and night birds, like some pinup for the Dungeons & Dragons crowd. So what if she's unleashed more bad fashion than a Chess King outlet? And so what if she's two decades older than I? I'm not much younger now than she was when we first met. I'm still smitten. And I've got my braces off.

Thanks to Bonnie for posting this to The Ledge and to Anusha for sending it to us.