It was 1978. I was 17, and staying with the family of one of my dad’s friends, Mr. F, who had a position of some importance in the Carter Administration. Mr. F had been invited to a party at a club in Georgetown, and the members of Fleetwood Mac were invited, too. Since Mr. F had no interest in going, he had my name and his daughter’s put on the list instead. Off we went to the party. The only trouble is, I really didn’t know anything about Fleetwood Mac other than it was the name of a band. John McVie was there, and we ended up in a bathroom with Christine McVie, but the word around the party was that Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham were quarreling and chose not to attend. Later we had a conversation of some length with Mick Fleetwood, in which I very sincerely asked him what instrument he played. (I was a very polite and well brought up girl who knew how to talk to adults, you see.) He looked perplexed but mildly amused and kindly told me he was a drummer. We then had a nice chat about his children.
I became an instant fan, although they all seemed very old to me, which is hilarious because Mick must have been about 31.
Later a fracas broke out, and someone threw chocolate mousse onto Carter aide Hamilton Jordan.
In case the whole scenario sounds just this side of imaginary, you may fact-check it here.