songs. The album is a randomly sequenced display of Fleetwood Mac's best instincts: Buckingham's bittersweet tunes about playing for keeps; Nicks' tough, swirly songs about fragile and wicked women; and the experiments the group can't stop indulging in (near-classical and metal-inclined guitar, teen pop, an incoherent number about the media). And when this accumulation of chops rallies for a single, the result is the perfectly mellow breeze of the title song. Not that this is a band that needs to be relevant -- in California, no one has to grow old.

ARION BERGER
(From RS 921, May 1, 2003)