In Style Article
March 2002
Desert Rose
Though still the Fleetwood Mac poet-goddess, Stevie Nicks is rock-steady now, settled in a five bedroom Phoenix house. Silk and velvet-and of course a touch of gold dust-trail her wherever she goes.
By Stephanie Tuck/Photographed by Frank W. Ockenfels.
There's a rock goddess in
the kitchen. The blonde diva in a vintage floor-length mauve fur coat prances in
front of a microphone, twirling in dervish-like delirium, fixing the attention
of everyone in the room. "Oh boy, here we go again," says Stevie Nicks
with a laugh as she watches her 10 year old niece, Jessica, do her best Aunt
Stevie impression. Well, anyone can put on the coat. But what truly becomes a
legend most? For Nicks, the poet-gypsy solo artist, and lead singer of Fleetwood
Mac, it's carving out a peaceful life with family, not spinning in place.
Happily, today Nicks isn't. She feels firmly anchored here, in this five bedroom
house in Phoenix that she shares with her brother Chris, his wife, Lori (one of
Stevie's longtime backup singers), and Jessi. "This is not a rock and roll
party house now," says Nicks. "It's a family house." She glances
at the refrigerator, covered with school art projects and Halloween photos.
"This place has been through a lot of different journeys, every kind you
can imagine."
As has Nicks. Her history
is a template of the rock saga, with surreal highs and soul-scraping lows, and
she's got a VH-1 Behind the Music special to prove it.
"Stevie has lived
the glamorous rock and roll life, especially when it was really cool," says
friend Natalie Maines, lead singer of the Dixie Chicks. "She hung out with
people like the Stones---she was this little hottie in the center of it
all." Listen closely to Nicks lyrics and you'll catch snippets of about her
love affairs with rock royals like Lindsey Buckingham, Mick Fleetwood, Joe
Walsh, Don Henley, and Tom Petty. And the list goes on. But Nicks was not just a
party gal---she was also a hostess. In the eighties, this house was the setting
for many, shall we say festive nights with Fleetwood Mac and others----a period
Nicks calls her "cocaine-and-brandy days." In the nineties it was
where Nicks retreated in a daze of apathy and fatigue for the 
eight years she
was hooked on Klonopin, the anti-anxiety drug prescribed to help her kick her
habits. "Klonopin is like taking a lot of Valium; you want to get in your
chair with your clicker and watch TV." Somehow, through it all, deeply
personal music has flowed from her pen in nearly every room; she estimates that
three-fourths of her songs were created here. And now, another incarnation: The
house and the people in it are clean as a whistle. "The more I think about
the Klonopin years, the more astounded I am by how stupid they were," says
Nicks. "Life is more precious here now, more serious. With Jessi around, we
can't even have weird television on." That suits Nicks fine. Life is
sweeter straight. And it's another top-of-the-charts time: She was nominated for
a Grammy for best female rock performance for her critically acclaimed solo
album Trouble in Shangri-La, a gold record she considers her best work since
Bella Donna in 1981. In their 2001 fall collections, designers like Anna Sui,
Betsey Johnson and Oscar de la Renta seemed to invoke Nicks's look with bohemian
skirts and ruffled shirts. And her nationwide tour sold out in 35 cities. To top
it off, she's back in the studio with Fleetwood Mac.
When Nicks is at home,
she's welcoming and mellow and ready to chat. Or to listen. "When I visit,
we build a fire, put music on, talk and laugh," says Rebecca Thyret, a
friend of 26 years. "She's a girls' girl and very loyal." Maines
admires her attitude. "Women can be catty and competitive, and she's not
like that. She doesn't put out any vibe to fear her." Stevie's rambling,
Santa Fe-style home, built in 1980, is divided into two wings--one for her and
one for her brother's family--with the kitchen table in the middle. "I kind
of live in a commune," she says. "Several other people live here off
and on. It's always been that way--I have my own party wherever I go." 
Upon
entering the atriumlike foyer through a huge wooden door, guests are hit by a
prism of colors from a huge stained-glass window. "The moment I saw this
room, I said 'Oh I want this house,'" she says. Step further into Stevie's
world and color intensifies, the living room saturated with deep-red walls and
gem-toned lamps. Red roses, her favorite flower, abound. A vivid shawl covers
the bench of a grand piano. Black drapes can be drawn to create instant
midnight. Her bedroom is a sensual feast of silk, velvet and lace, strewn with
angels, dolls, Buddist statues and a painting of Ophelia. "I have to live
in dramatic places" says Nicks. "For me, atmosphere is
everything."
In some ways, Phoenix has
always been home: Nicks, 53, was born here, though at age 2 her gypsy life began
when her father, onetime president of Greyhound, was relocated and began the
first of many moves. Her parents retired here in the seventies and they--as well
as the purple sunsets and the views of Camelback Mountain--have always drawn her
back. "This view is pretty stunning, you know? I love that it never
changes. It helps me put everything into perspective."
One thing she's totally
clear on is that she's not the good-witch character she plays onstage.
That's
just an act. "People love the whole Bella Donna thing so much, and I'm not
that at all. It's turned into something way beyond who I am." Discreet
signs of her Stevie-ness do surface--the platform sandals, for example--but
there's no top hat, no fringe, no chiffon. Instead she wears black velvet
stretch pants and a loose velvet 
shirt. She says her acclaimed style was merely
a pragmatic solution to the old problem of what to wear. "My stage fright
was and is terrible, so adding pressure with clothes was ridiculous. I didn't
want to think about it. So I designed my little uniform." She also wanted
her music to be the star, not her navel. "I knew from the beginning that I
wanted to be famous when I was 70 and realized that being terribly sexy couldn't
last. I would say to all the younger girls now, be careful about what you do if
you want to stick around."
Her romances include a
short 1983 marriage to Kim Anderson, the widower of her best friend, Robin.
(When the two stopped grieving, they realized they were not a match.) But music
is the love of her life, and for her it has meant monogamy. Though she doesn't
have children, "she calls herself the rock and roll Mama," says Maines.
"She's a mom to all women in music." Nicks knows she has made
sacrifices, but says: "It's like, Do you want to be an artist and a writer,
or a wife and a lover? With kids, your focus changes. I don't want to go to PTA
meetings." And the truth is, dating is not always easy for emeritus rock
stars. "You know, that black limousine drives up
and I get in and I go
away," she says. "There are very few men who don't get that glowy
look, who can rise above the rock star thing and go, 'I'm not going to look at
her as Stevie Nicks, but instead as a nice woman.'" But, she says, "I
still believe in love. You never know when it is going to walk through your
door."
Nicks reaches down to lift Sara, one of her two Yorkies, into her lap. As she pets the dog, Nicks smiles. The storyteller will eventually tell one more, in an autobiography. "But it's not going to be the kind of really sinful book people think it would be. It will be all the great things." The CD changes, and Rumours comes on. When "Gold Dust Woman" plays, she sings along with herself for a few notes. "All I ever really wanted was to do this music well and get through the experience to the other end. I wanted to be a beloved character out of the rock history books. And be all right. And I'm here."
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