This is the same voice that used to give me goose bumps singing the blues in cool earth-mother mode with a band called Chicken Shack aeons ago when I was a teenager!

So what happened?

Fleetwood Mac, the post-Peter Green wimp-rock version, that’s what. The band’s stupendous success in the 1970s and 1980s seems to have sucked all the soul out of the piano-playing rock mama.

McVie (she used to be Perfect in her glory days) may still manifest a respectable feel for gritty rock and funk as tracks like Bad Journey and Anything is Possible prove.

But the bulk of the material evinces a pathetic desire to please pop philistines; cheap and pointlessly sugar-coated melodies abound, and platitudes like “honey”, “magic” and that dreadful four-letter word (“love”) neuter whatever that comes through as raw inspiration.

Indeed, most of the slow and mid-tempo selections here wouldn’t be out of place on an album by Celine Dion.

If it weren’t for the slight edge in her voice, that a sucker for any hint of imperfection like me finds hard to resist, I wouldn’t have sat through the entire album winding down after a butt-torturing 100km bike ride.