Fifteen years ago, there used to be thousands of women like Stevie Nicks of Fleetwood Mac. Shrouded in mystery and covered in shawls, they came on like candidates for the priesthood and were frequently to be seen disappearing into health food shops. Their type is increasingly rare in Blighty but Ms. Nicks has made a million out of the routine out in LA. Here she goes all modern with the aid of a bustling synth but winds up with an overheated engine and a cracked radiator. That voice is in pain! (Mark Cooper, No 1, July 16, 1983)
Less genteel acquaintances refer to Ms. Nicks as a wet dream come true, but cultured people don't undermine her solo career with such chat. However, this just doesn't stand up. Nowhere near as good as "Stop Dragging My Heart Around" as Stevie rasps like a cross between Maria Muldaur and Kenny Rodgers over a hum de dum record that's obviously trying to squeeze itself into the latter single's mould. (Jessi McGuire, Record Mirror, September 10, 1983)
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