Much of the critical reaction to the first solo album by Lindsey Buckingham in more than a decade has been prompted by the sense that Under the Skin could’ve been made by one of today’s overabundant indie-folk acts. (Critical reaction is fair game, since Buckingham admits to peeping his own press: “Reading the paper, saw a review,” are the disc’s opening words.) The indie thing is perhaps a nice way of saying that he doesn’t sound like an out-of-touch geezer, but, really, what kind of compliment is that for the man who once helped make the zillion-selling Rumours, pretty much the pinnacle of big-deal celebrity-culture pop? Shouldn’t we expect more from a former member of Fleetwood Mac than tenderly whispered ruminations that remind us of Chad VanGaalen? Nonetheless, Under the Skin’s tenderly whispered ruminations — most of which Buckingham recorded in hotel rooms while on tour with the Mac — are gripping little creations, full of weird acoustic-guitar riffs and uncomfortably intimate vocals and open revelations about the anxiety he feels in trying to reassert his creative identity at this late date. Don’t worry, dude: you could totally open for Sufjan next year.

Lindsey Buckingham | Orpheum Theatre, 1 Hamilton Place, Boston | October 13 | 617.931.2000

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