The melody’s nice here but it’s more the overall mournful mood that sets Albatross free. But, of course, the early Fleetwood Mac being a blues band, it’s not really that kind of albatross, is it? It’s the kind that you carry as a curse, hanging around your neck, weighing you down, reminding you and all the world that you blew it, you killed a beautiful thing for no damned reason. Which is sort of what happened to Peter Green, the man who wrote Albatross, his career pretty much over within the year, psychedelic drugs and mental illness finding each other in yet another brutal implosion of tortured genius.