Somewhere between learning to drive my baby-blue 1965 Mustang and secretly crushing on girls while still firmly planted in the closet, I fell hopelessly in love with Stevie Nicks.
That Mustang had a 22-year-old stereo that somehow still worked. The speakers crackled more than they played, but they blasted music that could heal my fragile, wannabe-lesbian heart.
Somewhere between learning to drive and becoming an adult, I discovered the most captivating woman I’d ever heard. Gorgeous. Mysterious. A raspy, velvet voice unlike anyone else’s. Who could ever forget a name like Stevie Nicks? Even today, one note is all it takes. Her voice is unmistakable.
Like everyone else, I believed every heartbreak song was about one scrawny, guitar-playing genius who shattered her heart. I played those breakup songs so many times that the cassette tapes would literally unravel. I’d yank the tape out before it became a tangled mess, then patiently wind it back together with the pencil I kept beside the stick shift.
True wannabe lesbians drove stick shifts back then.
Rena Noonan
Night after night, I’d wait for American Top 40 with Casey Kasem. Boombox ready. Handheld tape recorder in hand. I waited for interviews, a new song, or simply to hear her say, “This is Stevie Nicks…”
The second I heard that smoky voice, I’d slam the Record button.
I hung onto every word.
Stevie wasn’t just a singer. She was a storyteller, a poet, and an extraordinary songwriter. She taught me that feelings could live on paper when they refused to come out of my mouth. Long before I understood how to write my own emotions, I studied the way she expressed hers.
I ordered magazine interviews and questionable bootleg tapes from tiny mail-order ads tucked into the back pages of Rolling Stone. Most of them were awful. Some sounded like I was the one singing. Others sounded like somebody’s grandmother pretending to be Stevie. Every once in a while, though, I’d hit the jackpot and discover a recording I’d play until it wore out.
That wasn’t just me falling in love with Stevie’s music. That was me falling in love with women. With other talented female musicians. I was falling in love with writing. The music was at the core of my healing.
I’d never traveled anywhere before Stevie took me to my first real concert at the old St. Louis Arena—better known as the Checkerdome. I can still remember standing in line at Famous-Barr in Northwest Plaza, surrounded by Fleetwood Mac fans, hoping to score tickets. Fifteen-dollar nosebleed seats never felt so exciting.
Afterward, we’d drive endless laps around the mall, smoking Marlboro Lights while every Stevie song we owned blasted through the speakers. Soon we upgraded from cassette tapes to compact discs, and standing in line at Musicland or Streetside Records for a new release became an event.
The smell of freshly opened plastic. Pulling out the lyric booklet. Studying every photo, every word, every piece of artwork.
That was my ASMR before anyone knew what ASMR was.
Those days of standing in line created friendships. Complete strangers bonded over favorite songs, favorite albums, and favorite concerts. Women dressed like Stevie while waiting for tickets or albums—flowing black dresses, lace shawls, platform boots, top hats, and tambourines.
Pulling into the arena in the late ’80s felt like entering Stevie’s universe.
As far as you could see, thousands of women dressed like Stevie walked together toward the doors. Black chiffon floated everywhere. The excitement was electric. It looked like an army of Stevie Nicks clones, and I loved every second of it.
Stevie once told the story of the day she realized she’d truly become famous. Riding to a concert with Mick Fleetwood, she looked out the limousine window and saw thousands of women dressed exactly like her. She turned to Mick and said, “Look… they’re all dressed like me.” Mick smiled and replied, “Stevie, your life has just changed forever.”
It reminds me of what Taylor Swift fans experience today—except our Stevie tickets were about fifteen bucks back then. Now I think people need to refinance their homes to see Taylor. She, too, started a movement. Stevie has long praised Taylor’s courage as a songwriter and her ability to transform grief, resilience, and heartbreak into art.
I’d gladly RSVP to Taylor’s wedding if the rumors are true that Stevie Nicks will perform. A butch can dream.
Taylor has often said she grew up listening to Stevie and admired her ability to write deeply personal songs that resonated with millions. It only makes sense that they would both understand what it’s like to inspire thousands of fans to run down city streets just for the chance to catch a three-second glimpse.
Over the years, I’ve quit jobs on a whim, jumped in the car, and driven across state lines just to catch another Stevie show. I’ve shared that obsession with lifelong friends and brand-new ones. We’ve chased concerts together.
