Thank you for existing, Lindsey Buckingham

Underrated.

I know what you’re thinking, “Hilson is just like Lindsey Buckingham.”

And it’s true. We are a lot alike – in our dapper good looks, self-taught artistry, appreciation for a seamless pop hook, and weakness for blondes.

You may or may not have heard of Mr. Buckingham, a musician most notable for whoring his talents to a bunch of uninspired blues hacks in the mid-70s. He brought his girlfriend along for the ride and wrote a crop of anthemic radio staples watered down only by their association with the middle-of-the-road AOR crap they had the misfortune of sharing albums with.

I re-listened to Rumours for the eight gajillionth time the other day on a road trip from Gainesville to Pensacola just to make sure all of the non-Buckingham contributions sucked as much as I remembered them sucking.

They did. Except for “Oh Daddy,” which is kinda haunting in a “wish Christine McVie was as hot as she sounded” kind of way.

She’s not.

So yeah, it’s a real shame that Buckingham had to slum it with the rest of Fleetwood Mac, especially Mick Fleetwood, whose insobriety got him kicked out of John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers and into the pantheon of “Luckiest Guys Not Named Stevie Williams, Ringo Starr or Larry Coker.”

I guess he does make for a good album cover, one you’ve no doubt seen thanks, again, to the overlooked Jedi guitar genius who penned “Go Your Own Way“/ “Second Hand News“/”Never Going Back Again“/(*insert Light FM programming mainstay*).

19 million copies and one Simpsons parody later

Imagine for a second if Alfred had taken all the credit for the crime-fighting exploits of Batman. Imagine if we referenced the “Alfred Cave” and the “Alfred Mobile” and the “Alfred Signal.” Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne’s just plugging away – kicking ass, saving Gotham, looking the part all along.

Buckingham is Batman. In a perfect world, he never crosses paths with Stevie Nicks, never lends his services to McVie/Fleetwood, never drives to Los Angeles, never wastes a line like, “Won’t you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff” (gross) on a song that gets smothered to death by the melodramatic date-schlock of “Dreams.”

In a perfect world, Nicks never gets fat. But that’s a topic for another day and another writer (Bryan Holt).

It’s true that I’ve spent the last two hours contemplating Buckingham’s career because I’m trying to put off a 15-page essay on blogging (the one supplementing my 63-page essay on blogging). But it’s also true that I would be in a much better frame of mind if immaculate pop records like Out of the Cradle and Gift of Screws tapped the wells of acclaim and disposable income they so deserve.

Because this is the kind of stuff that keeps me up at night, wondering as I drift in and out of the lightest sleep why the average middle-aged son of the seventies doesn’t appreciate “You Do Or You Don’t” as much as “Edge of Seventeen” (because he doesn’t), or why “Tusk“ the song isn’t held in more esteem than Tusk the album (because it isn’t).

Sure is hard out there for a neglected guitar virtuoso. So I want you to know, Lindsey: I see you there. I think “Love Runs Deeper” shoulda been a hit. I think “Countdown” belongs in some how-to riff tome. I think “Holiday Road” is the best part of Vacation.

Keep doing what you do, Lindsey Buckingham. You complete me, bro.

- Robbie