My folks finally moved to Las Vegas, and for once, they bought a brand-new house—the only one they ever owned from scratch. They went all in: a big tri-level home on a hill off Charleston Boulevard with a pool, a jacuzzi, and a spectacular view of the Strip from their upstairs bedroom. At first, they absolutely loved it.
So did I.
I’d cruise over from Los Angeles in my little MG, and it was the easiest sales pitch in the world for girls.
“Hey, want to spend the weekend in Vegas? My folks live there.”
Worked every time.
Back then, Las Vegas still had that old-school magic. The casinos booked world-class entertainers, and I made the most of it. One night I caught Tower of Power playing a set that didn’t even begin until two in the morning. They played until dawn. When I wandered into the Aladdin lobby afterward, the place was nearly empty except for Redd Foxx casually shooting craps with two gorgeous women hanging on his arms. It looked like something straight out of a Martin Scorsese movie.
The Aladdin Performing Arts Center quickly became one of my favorite concert venues anywhere. Great sound. Perfect sightlines. When Fleetwood Mac came to town, there was no way I was missing it.
While wandering through the casino, I picked up a concert program. A few minutes later I looked over at one of the blackjack tables and couldn’t believe my eyes.
Christine McVie.
I waited until the hand was over and introduced myself.
“Christine, you’re my favorite female rock singer.”
The funny part was that nobody else at the table seemed to recognize her.
She smiled warmly, signed my program with “Love… Kiss… Kiss… Kiss,” and couldn’t have been sweeter. I floated away feeling like I’d just won the jackpot myself.
As if that weren’t enough, I later bumped into her ex husband John McVie in the shopping area. We struck up a conversation that lasted for hours. We talked about Fleetwood Mac’s early days, Peter Green, Bob Welch, and how much I loved those versions of the band. John couldn’t have been friendlier.
At one point he smiled and said, “Stevie might be in the casino now. You should go find her.”
So I did.
Sure enough, there was Stevie Nicks.
I’d managed to lose my pen by then, so I couldn’t get another autograph, but she was warm, gracious, and every bit as magical as you’d imagine. Later that afternoon I ran into John again, and he handed me a backstage pass for that night’s concert.
How awesome was that?
Pretty damn awesome.
Ironically, my parents eventually discovered that loving Las Vegas as a vacation destination didn’t necessarily mean they wanted to live there. The novelty wore off. The desert heat felt like God had left the oven door open, and after enough nonstop slot-machine bells, they packed up and headed back to Los Angeles. Vegas became a place to visit instead of home.
Only a few weeks after that unforgettable trip, I was driving through Marina del Rey in my little MG when I pulled up to a stoplight. I looked over and there sat Christine McVie in a Rolls-Royce convertible with Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys behind the wheel.
I laughed and called over to Christine, reminding her we’d just met in Las Vegas.
She smiled, pointed at Dennis, and said with a grin, “He’s more famous than I am.”
Dennis lived on a sailboat not far from my own houseboat, so seeing him around the marina wasn’t unusual. Southern California’s rock-and-roll world was amazingly small.
Growing up in Westchester, just a few blocks from LAX, the Beach Boys were practically hometown heroes. Whenever relatives came to visit, my brother would pile everyone into my mom’s convertible and cruise around showing off Southern California. One of the mandatory stops was always the Wilson family home in Hawthorne. On one unforgettable drive we looked over and there stood Carl Wilson out on the front lawn. For a bunch of kids who loved music, it was like spotting royalty.
Funny how life comes full circle. As a kid I was waving at Beach Boys from the sidewalk. Years later I was chatting with one of them at a stoplight while one of my favorite singers sat beside him.
Dennis, of course, had briefly crossed paths with Charles Manson before the murders, one of the strangest chapters in rock history. Even stranger, my own childhood had an unexpected connection to that story. Long before the world knew her name, Patricia Krenwinkel—who would later become one of Manson’s followers—had been one of my babysitters. Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction. The remarkable connections between my family, Dennis Wilson, Charles Manson, and Patricia Krenwinkel deserve a chapter of their own, and I’ll tell that story in much greater detail in my upcoming memoir, Deadchester.
Not long after that chance meeting at the stoplight, Dennis Wilson unfortunately drowned in Marina del Rey. Dennis my Beach Boys Hero and was the only real Surfer in the band. Dennis was an underrated drummer and songwriter and a dedicated father. Years later, while hosting Rockwindow on my national radio show, I had the opportunity to interview his son. We talked about what a wonderful father Dennis had been, and he shared the incredible story of how Dennis had once saved his own life from drowning.
The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.
When Christine McVie passed away in 2022, I was genuinely heartbroken. She had been every bit as kind and gracious as I’d hoped she would be. Today her autograph still hangs framed on my wall. Every time I see it, I’m taken back to that magical week in Las Vegas when Fleetwood Mac seemed to be everywhere I turned, and for a few unforgettable days, rock-and-roll dreams somehow became real.