Flipping through vinyl records and heavily scratched CDs, the songs of Fleetwood Mac always keep on the corner. Waiting there for you to stare off and realise that you know more of the lyrics than at first hum.
Fleetwood Macbeth is what you get after extracting the paranoia and machinations of soft rock ballads with the humour and interdynamic struggles of William Shakespeare.
Mac’s (Gregory Blair) story is driven by a lack of agency. Greatness is not a goal, but instead foisted upon him. A cog in the machine under Lady’s (Erin Wolford) wing. Defiant and snarky, Lady’s motive for revenge and retribution burns bright and fierce. Less an agent of chaos and more of ambition that happens to mar itself with the coffee stain of conscience once at lofty heights.
Their roadblock, The King (TJ Rogers), rules the airwaves in the prime time morning shift. A smooth talker dripping slime with a dulcet radio voice. Lecherous and quite brash, there’s a thick sexual harassment tension in the air whenever Lady is in the same scene. Content advisory warnings exist largely to preface King’s reason for being.
The first few bars sound like lip syncing, but on the next verse we hear emotion and reflection as Fleetwood Mac’s songs are spliced into the night. And there it was, knowing you know more of these songs than the cursory. That it all comes flooding back from various soundtracks or the radio station stuck in traffic.
Vocals are strong across the cast. A sense of longing and hope from “Gypsy” to “The Chain” and other songs clicking over on the jukebox as the Thane of Cawdor vacillates. The three witches here translate into goth groupies, though who can tell when their outfits could be transported between both time periods at ease.
Coasting on nepotism, Banky (Noah Tomlinson) is the doe-eyed, naive innocence of the friends we make when we’re all in the ditches together. Once a poppy gets a taste of that sunshine, the refuse quickly finds heartache. Their dismissal turned outward into a wrenching song. Fodder as the dirty footprint mashes upon the face and the glory of the ladder separates with no remorse.
Relocated to the 70s, the costumes and outfits have that glaze of cigarette smoke embedded in all the fabrics and fibres. The laundry basket stuffed with starch, flower patterns and swathes of bell-bottom jeans. The ashtray aesthetic gives way to the flourishes of regalia in the second act as Mac and Lady stride confidently to assert their position upon the DJ throne. Here Old English garments meet a disco palette that blends seamlessly. The wardrobe ascension markedly confident and a clear separation to the times lying in shadows of the midnight shift.
An agent of an idealised and uncompromised FCC, Macduff (Zachary Vaught) unwittingly pokes around enough to get everyone on edge. Perhaps it’s that toupee making everyone antsy. An odd looking bird’s nest sitting where a beret might slip on. An unnatural birth of hair for one not of woman born, singing tunes untimely ripped from the airwaves.
Abrupt, but not unexpected, the second half of the night runs fast into the dark shortly after Lady exits the stage. As the gun smoulders in the shadows with obscenities, extrinsic motivation dissipates. The catalyst has succumbed to the stain of paranoia. Depression covers itself well in blue paint. Now alone, Mac drifts off, cursing the airwaves and spirals without an anchor.
Fleetwood Macbeth finds its end next to the scratch of the record player. A lilt in humour to gently bring things back from the darkness as “Don’t Stop” runs down the aisles, effusive energy pouring out into the streets.
Directed by Sommer Schoch with music direction by Elizabeth McQueary-Loiacono at the 22 May 2026 performance at The Virginia in Somerset, Kentucky. There is an intermission and the whole night runs faster than you would think.
Reviewed on Monday, 25 May 2026