Fleetwood Mac's most expensive hangover: a sprawling double album where Lindsey Buckingham dragged his bandmates toward his lo-fi punk fantasies whilst Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie kept penning actual hits. The USC marching band crashes through the title track like a beautiful mistake, but it's the tension between Buckingham's bedroom experiments and the women's accessible songcraft that makes this fascinating.

Commercial disappointment at the time, vindication decades later. Twenty tracks of a band wealthy enough to indulge every whim, and somehow that freedom produced something genuinely strange.