Stairway To Heaven

by Richard Cole

  During that entire time, Charlotte and I never really got along. She continued to act coolly toward me, as though we hadn’t known one another from those days in France. Eventually, however, I guess she realized that I was a permanent fixture with Led Zeppelin, and she seemed to have decided that if she was going to spend time with Jimmy, she’d have to be reasonably pleasant with me, too. So our relationship became a polite one. Even so, I never found her easy to be around.

  It often became a nightmare when Charlotte traveled with the band. Unlike the wives of the other band members—Maureen Plant, Pat Bonham, and Mo Jones—who were always very cooperative, Charlotte created constant problems for me, which only magnified the friction between us. As tour manager, one of my responsibilities was to oversee the band’s safety, and when the wives and girlfriends attended concerts, that meant watching over eight people, not just four.

  Still, I tried to keep things running as smoothly as possible. When the band went on for its encores, I would tell the girls, “Move into the limos; we’re going to be departing soon.” They all followed my directions—except Charlotte.

  “I want to stay and watch until the show’s over,” Charlotte would complain.

  “Like hell you will!” I’d shout at her.

  “You can’t tell me what to do,” she’d yell back.

  “You bet I fucking can! Get the hell into the limo!”

  Eventually, she’d cooperate, but not until we were at each other’s throats.

  Back in London, I was delighted to hear that Charlotte wouldn’t be part of the traveling entourage on a European tour scheduled to begin in late February, with stops in Copenhagen, Helsinki, Stockholm, Amsterdam, Cologne, Vienna, Hamburg, and Montreux. During that seven-country European tour, I had arranged for a five-ton truck to travel with us. Not only would we need it to transport Led Zeppelin’s equipment from one city to the next, but I sensed that the band would be accumulating new belongings along the way. That’s what new money does for you.

  I hired a fellow named Manfred Lurch as one of our truck drivers; he could speak several languages, and I figured he could converse with customs officials just about anywhere. As expected, both Manfred and the truck proved indispensable. We loaded up the truck with the spoils of a dozen shopping sprees, cramming the vehicle with blues albums, Ernst Fuchs paintings, Escher lithographs, and pieces of furniture.

  Nevertheless, the best planning couldn’t anticipate what we encountered in Copenhagen during that tour. It should have been a positive, even sentimental performance. After all, seventeen months earlier, Copenhagen was the site of the first Zeppelin concert ever. In fact, when we touched down at the airport at Kastrup on February 19, we all felt excitement and anticipation. “This is where it all started,” Jimmy Page said. “It’s almost like coming home.”

  But rather than making a trumphant return, the band suddenly found itself in the middle of a bizarre controversy with one of Europe’s more famous families. Eva von Zeppelin didn’t want the band using “my family’s name this way.” And overnight, Led Zeppelin’s music was over-shadowed by some highly publicized offstage hassles.

  “Let this be a warning that these people who claim to be musicians had better not use the name Zeppelin and play their trashy music in Denmark,” Eva von Zeppelin announced to the press. “If they do, I will see them in court.”

  Von Zeppelin wasn’t kidding. She said she was a direct descendant of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, the aeronautical legend. Around the turn of the century, Count Ferdinand had pioneered the lighter-than-air vehicles that eventually carried his name. And Eva wasn’t going to let a band that had “stolen” the name Zeppelin play in Denmark without a fight.

  The band was incensed by her statements to the press. At this point in their careers, Led Zeppelin was feeling pretty important themselves and weren’t used to having people make outrageous demands of them. “Who in the hell is Eva von Zeppelin anyway?” Robert Plant said. “No one’s ever heard of that woman! A hell of a lot more people have heard of us!”

  Maybe so. But Eva was making ridiculous public proclamations in which she labeled Led Zeppelin as a bunch of “screaming monkeys.” As the rhetoric escalated, Jimmy realized the band would have to do something to control the damage.

  “Let’s invite her to meet with us,” said Jimmy. “Maybe she’ll realize that we’re not raving maniacs after all.”

  In fact, Eva agreed to sit down and talk with the “screaming monkeys” at a rehearsal studio in Copenhagen, the day before our scheduled concert. Before Eva arrived, Peter told the rest of us, “Let’s keep our cool and try not to offend her any more than she already is. Maybe we can smooth-talk her into forgetting about this whole thing.”

  In fact, the meeting was relatively pleasant. “We’re not doing anything to defame your family name,” Jimmy pleaded. “We’re just playing music, and it’s music that millions of people enjoy.”

  All the while, Eva insisted, “All I’m trying to do is protect my family’s reputation!”

  “Millions of people know us by the name Led Zeppelin,” Jimmy said. “And I don’t think any of them think it’s offensive to your family.”

  The meeting ended in a stalemate. But the band felt they had softened the old lady’s heart. The fireworks weren’t over, however. As Eva was leaving the studio, her eyes became transfixed on a copy of the album jacket for Led Zeppelin—the one with the dirigible plunging into the ground in a horrifying inferno.

  Eva von Zeppelin gasped. Her fury erupted all over again. There were epithets bouncing off the walls. There were reckless threats of imminent subpoenas. Eva finally stormed out of the studio.

  Peter was exasperated. He didn’t know quite what to do, but he knew that he had no interest in ending up in court. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “But that woman is angry enough to sue us.” For the moment, he put egos aside and said, “Here’s my recommendation. Let’s go onstage tomorrow night under another name.”

  At first, the band resisted. “Let her change her damn name,” Bonzo exclaimed. “We have just as much right to it as she does.”

  Before long, however, Peter won the band over to his side. He usually did. During that Copenhagen concert, Led Zeppelin performed as the Nobs—in some London circles, a slang term for the male sex organ! Fortunately, Eva von Zeppelin did not claim exclusive rights to that, too.

  Immediately after the Copenhagen concert, the band was still seething. “Why did we give in anyway?” Robert asked as he grabbed a towel backstage and moved quickly toward the limo. “What gives her the right?”

  “It’s over, Percy,” I told him. “Forget about it. Let’s find something else to occupy our minds.”

  The driver of our limo that night was a friendly chap named Jann. “Would you like to see some of the sights of Copenhagen?” he asked. “How about Christiansborg Castle? Or the Stroget Mall?”

  After the forty-eight hours we had just lived through, we weren’t interested in the typical tourist spots. Tivoli Gardens and the Little Mermaid statue could wait. As the night wore close to midnight, we had women on our minds.

  “I’ll tell you what we’d like,” I said to Jann. “We’d like to see Copenhagen’s sex clubs!”

  Jann suddenly became very quiet. “The sex clubs?” he mumbled in a disbelieving voice. He turned to glance at his passengers—Jimmy, Robert, John Paul, Bonzo, Peter, and me. We didn’t exactly look like members of the British Royal Family. The expression on Jann’s face screamed, “How did I ever get stuck with these six clowns?”

  We drove for another ten minutes, and Jann pulled up in front of one of the city’s most popular sex clubs. “Here it is,” he said. I figured we’d have to scoot out of the limo quickly, and that Jann would speed away, embarrassed to be seen in that neighborhood. But suddenly, he became a different person.

  “I’ll take you inside,” Jann said. “The manager’s a friend of mine. I’ll let him know that you’re my special guests!”r />
  Special guests! I guess Jann wasn’t a prudish altar boy after all.

  “Enjoy the show!” the manager told us. “Just remember, no audience participation.”

  We walked into a dimly lit room, almost stumbling over one another until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Am I seeing things,” wisecracked Jimmy, “or are we almost the only ones in here with our clothes on?”

  For the next two hours, the show took our minds off Eva von Zeppelin. There were plenty of girls, at least a couple dozen, and most of them were absolutely beautiful. A few were serving drinks; most were part of the performance—and they weren’t performing Shakespeare. We sat just a few feet from the stage, when one of the naked girls began playing with herself in front of us. Bumping. Grinding. Moaning. Groaning.

  “I think I’m in love,” Bonham sighed.

  “I think she is, too,” Plant said. “Too bad it’s with herself.”

  Within minutes, the girl was joined by a friend, and the two of them began making love in front of us. Before long, they were joined by a third girl. And then a fourth. And then a vibrator or two. They were like one big happy family.

  “Pardon me,” Bonham yelled at them. “Do you girls really get paid for this? I’d do it for free! I really would!”

  Bonham moved toward the stage, grabbed a vibrator from one of the girls, and fumbled with it for a few moments until he had removed its batteries. Then he returned it to her.

  “You gals have gotta work for your pay,” he shouted over the loud music. “Don’t let modern technology do everything for you!”

  Most of the other male customers were on the timid side and seemed stunned by our rowdiness.

  “One of these girls is my sister,” Bonham told a startled patron. “Mom asked me to come down and make sure she’s not getting into any trouble.”

  We had never run into anything quite like this in London. We stayed another hour, and it was more of the same—the kind of raunchy sex that’s a lot more fun to do than to watch, but we certainly weren’t complaining. As we rode back to our hotel, Robert said, “Next time we’re in Copenhagen, Richard, make sure this is part of our itinerary.”

  Four months later, just before we returned to Denmark, I called the same sex club. “We want to reserve the club just for ourselves on Saturday night,” I said. “Let me know how much money you take in on a typical Saturday night, and we’ll give you the cash to cover it.”

  So on that second visit to the club, it was just us and the girls. It sounded like a perfect arrangement—but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as the first time we had been there. Maybe it was because we had already seen the show once before. Or perhaps it was because we occasionally staged shows like this in our own hotel rooms—where audience participation was allowed! Also, since we were the only customers in the club, there weren’t other people around to shock with our behavior. Whether at Carnegie Hall or a Copenhagen sex club, we liked being the center of attention. But there were competing interests at the sex clubs.

  During that February 1970 stop in Copenhagen, our fascination with the sex clubs didn’t mean that we had no other interests. In fact, we spent a lot of time in art galleries, too. Jimmy in particular was looking for some works of art to buy, although we found other ways to occupy our time there, too.

  At Peter’s suggestion, we had agreed to hold a press reception in a gallery adjacent to the Stroget. Reporters, critics, and music company executives crammed into the gallery, and there were plenty of hors d’oeuvres and champagne to keep them happy. At one point, a music critic cornered Bonham and me and began pontificating about one subject after another, none of which interested us. “Once a rock group achieves commercial success, I believe that they lose something,” he babbled. “Maybe it’s their hunger that gives intensity to their music. You guys have to watch out for that. I’d hate to see it happen to you.”

  Then his attention shifted to the pop art painting in front of us. He began analyzing it, placing even more of a strain on our patience. “It reminds me so much of Lichtenstein and perhaps a touch of Rauschenberg, too,” he said. “I find it so moving…so moving.”

  Bonzo turned to me and whispered, “What fucking bullshit!”

  “When I look at it,” the critic continued, “I see such a strong statement against abstract expressionism.”

  Bonzo finally lost his cool.

  “Do you want to know what I think of this painting?” Bonzo roared.

  “Of course, I’d love to know,” the critic said timidly.

  Bonzo walked toward the painting, lifted it off the wall, and screamed, “This is what I think of it!”

  He raised the painting over his head and snapped it downward, crashing it onto the head of the critic. The frame cracked. The canvas ripped down the middle. The critic was knocked to the ground. He grabbed his head, moaning in pain.

  The stunned crowd became silent.

  “Are there any other paintings you’d like me to critique tonight?!” Bonzo exclaimed as he walked toward the door.

  The rest of us thought it was a perfect time to exit as well. We left Peter behind to try to mend fences. Before we had left town, we got a $5,000 bill from the art gallery to cover the cost of the painting Bonham had destroyed.

  “That’s the last time we ever have a press party at an art gallery,” John Paul said during the drive back to our hotel.

  “From now on, let’s hold them in strip joints,” I said. “It would be a lot more appropriate.”

  19

  “THOSE ZEPPELIN BASTARDS”

  Henry Smith, one of our road managers, was gathering up our equipment at the Winnipeg airport. We had just flown into the Canadian city during our fifth North American tour, which was launched in March 1970. But as Henry surveyed the equipment, he noticed that one of the guitars was missing.

  “Shit,” he said to himself. “It’s one of Jimmy’s. He’s not going to be happy.”

  The band and I were already in our hotel when Henry called me to report the missing guitar. “It’s the old black one,” Henry said. “The Les Paul that Keith Richard gave him.”

  I knew Jimmy wouldn’t be happy. I walked down to his room to tell him what had happened. As soon as he heard the news, he snapped.

  “Lost a guitar!” he shouted. “How in the hell can they lose a guitar?!”

  He kicked at a nearby sofa. “Richard, this is ridiculous! Do you know how much I love that guitar?”

  I couldn’t recall ever seeing Jimmy quite this angry. I decided just to let him talk.

  “How could somebody just walk off with it?” he shouted. “Don’t the airports do anything to keep things from being ripped off?”

  For a full hour, Jimmy continued to blow off steam. “Where were the road managers, Richard? Don’t we pay them to keep an eye on the gear? I feel like firing every last one of them!”

  When I finally left Jimmy’s room, I thought to myself, “If this is any sign of what the rest of this tour is going to be like, I’m ready to go home now.”

  Airport security never turned up any sign of the guitar. Apparently, someone had stolen it off a baggage truck or a conveyer belt. Our chances of getting it back were virtually nil.

  Jimmy, however, was desperate. He placed an ad in Rolling Stone, pleading for help in locating the guitar. We waited for someone to contact us. But no one ever did. The guitar was never recovered. Somebody, somewhere, ended up with a remarkable piece of Zeppelin memorabilia.

  During the course of the tour, Jimmy never seemed to fully recover from the loss. He got through all twenty-nine performances without any noticeable impact upon his playing. But he’d look dejected at times, and I figured it was related to the guitar. It really didn’t matter that every show was a sellout, that it was a guaranteed $1 million tour before it had even begun. To Jimmy, the loss of the guitar ruined everything.

  In planning that 1970 trip, Peter had made the decision that Led Zeppelin would have no opening acts during the entire tour. Night after night,
it would just be two and a half hours of pure Zeppelin.

  “When we have a support act, there’s a lot of fucking around to worry about,” Peter said. “There are the gear changeovers and the worries about moving equipment and possibly damaging it. If we’re out there alone, we can set up our own gear and leave it there. I don’t have any doubts that the band can carry the show on its own.”

  Peter also knew that fans didn’t come to a Led Zeppelin concert to hear supporting acts. He had a “let’s give the public what they want” attitude, and that meant a long night of Zeppelinmania.

  The band felt liberated by Peter’s decision. As the sole act on the bill, they would have full control of the entire show. And the idea excited them. Some nights, they felt like playing until morning.

  As cocky as the band sometimes behaved offstage—and as their reputation grew as a band that used and supposedly exploited the young groupies who hung around them—they never took their fans for granted. They knew who bought the records, who paid for the tickets. “If the show’s going well, let’s just keep playing,” John Paul said. “As long as the fans will stick around, so will we.”

  By the midway point of the tour, many of the shows were running three hours, occasionally even longer. Individual songs would go on for ten, fifteen, or twenty minutes. “Dazed and Confused” would routinely stretch for forty minutes. Crowds burst into standing ovations in the middle of songs.

  There was never an intermission. Bonham would sneak off the stage while Jimmy and John Paul would showcase a lengthy musical rush. Then Bonham would reciprocate with a twenty-or thirty-minute drum solo of his own—ripping off his shirt, tossing his drumsticks into the audience, and pummeling the drums with his hands until they formed calluses. Bonham’s interlude was so gripping that none of us would stray too far from the stage. Very simply, the band was good, every night, all night.