The Subtle Pull of the Poster: From Tiny Mick to Love Songs at Night

When I was ten, I didn’t understand much about rock music, album art, or the strange world of older brothers’ bedrooms. But I do remember the poster: the 1975 self-titled Fleetwood Mac album, (often called the white album), featuring a formal figure holding a cane and Mick Fleetwood looking like a tiny, shrunken man. Plastered on the wall between KISS and Zeppelin, it was theatrical, mysterious, and completely mesmerizing. At the time, it was just a cool, slightly confusing picture.

Looking back now, I can’t help but wonder about the imprint that image left on me — the way a single poster, half-understood, could lodge itself somewhere deep in a 10-year-old brain. That poster didn’t just represent a band or a sound; it hinted at a world I wanted to be part of, a stage I wanted to stand on, and a life in music I would later chase. By the time I became a radio DJ, spinning records and connecting with listeners night after night, I realized that childhood fascination had quietly guided me — a subtle gravitational pull from that tiny Mick and the formal figure drinking champagne all those years ago.

I can still see it like it was yesterday: Living in Houston on Lenore St. before we moved to the country in Iola. My first best friend, Scott Cleveland, and I were inseparable. He had four older brothers, and their walls were plastered with posters. Right in the middle was the Fleetwood Mac poster. Back then, older brothers were both tormentors and trendsetters. They’d pick on us relentlessly, but they also held the keys to the coolest stuff: cars, the latest records, and secret glimpses into worlds we couldn’t yet enter. That poster was my first introduction to a band that would dominate my adolescence and beyond, even if I didn’t know all the songs yet.

Me and Scott, sometime around 1975

Fast forward 15 years: I became a radio DJ, spinning records and playing the songs synonymous with the ’70s Southern California soft-rock sound and the very band that mesmerized me. For many of those years, I was the voice behind Love Songs at Night, where 'Landslide' was a regular fixture.

The hair is practically gone now.

And then there’s the thrill of the record store dive. I knew, with this new record addiction, that Fleetwood Mac’s 'Rumours' was a must-have for every collection. I’d been searching for it since this all started a few months ago. This record hunt is all about the local shops and collecting with slow intention. My only self-imposed rule is no internet buys; if need be, I’ll do a custom order, but still from the local shops.  I found a copy of Rumours recently, but without the insert, so I passed. 

Last week, while snooping around Sorry State Records in Raleigh, I stumbled across a 1977 pressing in very good condition, complete with the insert — jackpot! I pulled it out of the plastic cover and breathed in the musty scent of cardboard mixed with time. I love that smell! Picking it up felt like finding buried treasure — a direct connection to the band that had first entered my life via a poster on a wall and then soundtracked my radio career. 

And of course, the story doesn’t stop there. When MTV convinced the classic line-up to reunite for the filming of The Dance concert special, Lindsey said yes, Christine came back and Fleetwood Mac was BACK! The monster release in August of ‘97 The Dance took off. And now thanks to that show, the performance of 'Silver Springs' and Stevie’s

cold stare to Lindsey is iconic. During this era, I was lucky enough to see them live a few times. Each show was a vivid collision of past and present: the child who stared at the poster, the DJ who spun the songs, and the adult who finally got to witness the magic in person. 

And this brings me to my “new” record, Rumours. Wow. What a classic. Every track feels like a masterclass in pop-rock perfection, and somehow, it was all happening just as I was an awkward adolescent, quietly crushing on Stevie Nicks. That poster from years earlier had hinted at magic, but 'Rumours' delivered it in full technicolor — heartbreak, betrayal, longing, and that unmistakable Stevie mystique all wrapped in harmonies so tight they could cut glass.

From the opening riff of “Second Hand News” to the haunting echoes of “Gold Dust Woman,” the album is both intensely personal and universally relatable. Listening to it as a teenager, then later with reel to reel mixes, I didn’t just hear songs; I felt the stories — messy relationships, lingering glances, heartbreak and triumph — and, yes, the allure of a singer whose voice could make your heart race while simultaneously making you feel seen.

It’s wild to think that the same girl in flowing sleeves who became the centerpiece of my teen crushes also became the soundtrack to a life I’d eventually live in radio. Each play a snapshot of the ’70s — the drama, the California sunshine, the smoky clubs, and the allure of a band at the top of their game.

Stevie crushing all the boys' hearts.

Even today, when I drop the needle on 'Rumours', it’s more than nostalgia. It’s a reminder of every stage of that journey — the poster, the adolescent fascination, the late-night radio spins, and the eventual thrill of seeing the band live. And I still get a little thrill when Stevie hits those high, breathy notes, knowing that a ten-year-old in Houston once stared at a wall and imagined exactly this moment decades in the making.

Scott and I 10 years after the Lenore St days.