by Richard Cole
Memphis was typical of the first-class treatment we got. We had played in Memphis the previous April, and the city fathers were happy to have us back. The afternoon before the concert, the mayor of Memphis presented the band with the key to the city at the Memphis City Hall.
“Memphis may be the home of Elvis,” the mayor boasted, “but you boys are welcome here anytime, too.”
Led Zeppelin was always well behaved during formal ceremonies like this. But none of us could ever figure out why we even bothered with them. Yes, we were flattered that we had joined the ranks of Elvis and Carl Perkins as recipients of the key to the city. And Peter told us, “I think there’s some PR value to it”—but he didn’t sound real convinced.
More than any of us, Jimmy thought it was a complete waste of time. As we left the mayor’s office and headed back to the limos, he muttered, “These city dignitaries are probably the same guys who shout at us in airports to cut our hair. What bullshit!”
That night, the hot air soared to new levels. As with most other concerts in that tour, the band went out and worked the Memphis audience into delirium. But about midway through the performance, some fans in the crowd of 10,000 people were becoming unruly. Cups of beer were tossed into the air. Firecrackers were ignited. The sweet smell of marijuana drifted through the darkness. As the concert approached the two-hour point, the fellow who seemed to be in charge of the auditorium, a fellow we’ll call Bill, was becoming increasingly agitated.
On occasion, we would encounter unpredictable and even rude treatment from the management of the halls where we played. But this particular evening, even I was surprised by what happened next. “Hey, fella,” Bill shouted over to me. “This place is about to erupt into a full-fledged riot. Let’s end this concert right now!”
I looked at Bill a bit bewildered, wondering whether he was joking. No one had ever asked us to cut a concert short. But apparently Bill was dead serious.
“You’ll have to talk to that big guy over there,” I told him, pointing to Peter.
We walked over to Peter, and Bill repeated his demand. “Your band needs to come off the stage after this song! The concert’s over!”
Peter gave him a cool stare. “We don’t do that,” he said calmly.
“Well, you have no choice. This show’s done! I’ll cut the power if I have to!”
“Like hell you will!” Peter snarled. “Why in the hell are you selling alcohol in the first place, you asshole? That’s what’s causing all the problems!”
Bill turned to face Peter and put his right hand into his coat pocket. “I’ve got something that’ll make you change your fucking mind, big fella.”
It wasn’t a bluff. Bill pulled out a .22 pistol and stuck it in Peter’s ribs. “Do you believe me now?” he shouted.
At that moment, the whole scene seemed surreal. City officials were sitting in the front row, still enjoying the music of Memphis’s honored guests. Yet Peter was on the verge of being blown away. It was like watching a bad B movie. But I was scared, and everyone around us was afraid to move.
Peter, however, didn’t panic. “What the fuck is this?” he exclaimed. “Memphis gives us the key to your goddamn city, and now you’re gonna shoot us? This is gonna be all over the national press tomorrow!”
Bill apparently had second thoughts. He backed off just as a couple of our security people grabbed and disarmed him and threw him against a wall. He slumped to the floor, with the wind knocked out of him. Zeppelin played for nearly another hour without incident.
Throughout that tour, I sensed a growing need for tighter security for the band. Zeppelin often felt claustrophobic in their hotel rooms and insisted upon going to bars and clubs, enjoying the attention and willing to put up with the occasional obnoxious fan who became too loud or intrusive. But I was becoming terribly anxious about the physical safety of the band. This, after all, was the U.S., where guns and violence were a way of life. And there were times when I was frightened and times when I probably overreacted.
After a performance at Madison Square Garden, our limos took us to Nobody’s, a club on Bleecker Street. After a few beers, Bonham and I made a stop at the bathroom, where I noticed a bloke with a black leather jacket and three days’ growth of beard. All that was missing was the Hell’s Angels emblem and the motorcycle.
I made brief eye contact with him as I moved next to him at the sink and began to wash my hands. He was standing just a few feet to the right of me, staring at nothing in particular. He looked like an escapee from the Charlie Manson gang.
After a few seconds, he opened his jacket. Without saying a word, he quickly pulled a knife from an inside pocket. It had about a six-inch blade, clearly capable of inflicting some damage.
I didn’t ask any questions. I cocked my right arm and with a closed, soapy fist lunged forward to sting him on the chin. He toppled backward, the knife flew into the air, he hit his head on the tile-covered wall, and sunk to the floor. He was out cold.
Bonham, who just then emerged from a bathroom stall, was not aware of what had happened or why.
“Holy shit! Is he a friend of yours, Richard?” asked Bonzo, with his eyes transfixed on the blood oozing out of the poor fellow’s mouth and the knife resting about three feet away.
I didn’t answer. We walked out of the bathroom and back to our table, leaving behind the unconscious troublemaker. We departed for our hotel a couple of minutes later without ever finding out the extent of my sparring partner’s injuries.
Maybe I went overboard. Maybe not. But during that tour, I became hypersensitive to what was going on around us. Sometimes I may have made mistakes. But I felt I couldn’t take chances.
That Madison Square Garden gig set a Zeppelin record—the first time the band had grossed more than $100,000 for a single concert. In fact, they did it two nights in a row.
On the flight back to London, I was sitting next to John Paul, sipping my fourth drink, wondering what kind of security arrangements we’d have to make for the next tour. John Paul was seated next to me. Zeppelin’s Rock of Gibraltar, he got the job done. On this tour more than the others, he tended to keep to himself. Maybe he was trying to back away from some of our lunacy. Perhaps he just enjoyed his own company more than ours. And although Jonesy indulged in his share of booze, he seemed more in control than the rest of us.
24
“STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN”
Two weeks after we had returned to London, Led Zeppelin III invaded the record stores. The American tour had whetted the public’s appetite for Zeppelin, and the new album struck like a hurricane. Advance orders in the U.S. approached 750,000; in the United Kingdom, they exceeded 60,000. On its first day in the record racks, the album turned gold.
Meanwhile, Led Zeppelin II was still hovering on Billboard’s chart of the Top 100 albums. A 1970 readers’ poll by Melody Maker ranked Led Zeppelin as the most popular rock music act, even overshadowing the Beatles. Melody Maker explained Led Zeppelin’s success this way:
“Led Zeppelin’s high places are phenomenal but not entirely unexpected. There is no doubt that Zeppelin deserves all their kudos. They have magic, ability, and the right attitude in their approach to the business of making music…. They combine the appeal of the traditional pop group format with the excitement, drive, and convincing validity of modern rock.”
Not bad for a band that had become accustomed to being blindsided by hostile critics. When Led Zeppelin III was released, the band had hoped for a more positive response from the press, but Jimmy wasn’t optimistic. “I haven’t given up on the media,” he said, “but I’m getting close.”
As expected, one by one, the reviews were demoralizing. Lester Bangs, writing in Rolling Stone, was typical. He described having a “love-hate attitude” toward Zeppelin, “from genuine interest and mostly indefensible hopes, in part from the conviction that nobody that crass could be all that bad.”
Bangs continued, “Most of the acoustic stuff sounds like standard Zep graded down decibel
wise, and the heavy blitzes could’ve been outtakes from Zeppelin II. In fact, when I first heard the album my main impression was the consistent anonymity of most of the songs.”
Perhaps even more biting was the Los Angeles Times’s comments that Zeppelin’s popularity could be traced to heavy drug use among their fans: “Their success may be attributable at least in part to the accelerating popularity among the teenage rock ’n’ roll audience of barbiturates and amphetamines, drugs that render their users most responsive to crushing volume and ferocious histrionics of the sort Zeppelin has heretofore dealt in exclusively.”
Some days the reviews would sail right over the band’s heads without leaving a scar. Other times, it would crush their spirits. “The critics are a bunch of fucking hacks,” Robert complained one afternoon in Peter’s office, showing disgust in his voice. “They’re critics because they have no talent to play music.”
In the immediate aftermath of the release of Led Zeppelin III, the band collectively decided to return to the studio. It was almost like a defense mechanism, a way of saying, “If the critics don’t like this one, wait until they see what’s next!”
Robert and Jimmy returned to Bron-Yr-Aur and began writing songs for the new LP. Away from newspapers and telephones, they were able to set aside the disappointing critical reception of Led Zeppelin III and get back to work. Nevertheless, Bron-Yr-Aur didn’t prove to be quite the creative mecca it had been the last time around. Many of the songs for the new album were composed later right in the studio.
Part of the fourth album was recorded at Island Studio in London in December, but after Christmas Zeppelin moved to Headley Grange, again relying on a mobile recording studio. The house had a comfortable feel to it, one that allowed the band to relax and let their creative energy flow. Early on, Bonzo wandered through the house, inspecting it room by room. He finally complained, “The house seems more dilapidated than it was the last time we were here.” Then I reminded him that during our last visit, we had sacrificed a banister to the gods when we needed firewood. “The owners of this place better pray for warm weather or we may reduce the house to sawdust by the end of the week,” I said.
“Misty Mountain Hop” was written at the Grange. So was “The Battle of Evermore” and three others. And then there was “Stairway to Heaven.” Robert improvised most of the lyrics for “Stairway” during the rehearsals as he sat in front of the roaring fireplace, looking for some way, he said, to describe spiritual perfection. Jimmy listened and was just blown away by what he heard. From the beginning, he felt that this song could be something special, that Robert had eclipsed everything that he had written before.
Late at night by himself, Pagey worked on molding “Stairway” into a cohesive unit, using the Telecaster and building guitar track upon guitar track until he had the powerful instrumental harmonies he wanted. He recorded three different guitar solos, none of them similar, and finally chose the one he thought was best after agonizing over them in the studio late one night.
The tune ultimately became one of the most popular Zeppelin cuts, even though romantic ballads were such a dramatic change of pace from the typical Zeppelin repertoire. Nevertheless, the song combined other elements identified with the band, from jazzier moments to a much heavier sound as the song built toward its conclusion. “If any song from this band has timeless qualities, I think it’s ‘Stairway to Heaven,’” Jimmy said, beaming like a proud father as he listened to the playbacks in the studio. He was right. The song would eventually become the most requested song on radio stations on both sides of the Atlantic.
Jimmy was so thoroughly impressed with Robert’s lyrics on “Stairway” that he decided to take a hiatus from lyric writing himself. “It’s not that hard a decision,” he thought. “Robert has grown so much as a songwriter.”
Pagey told Robert that the band had a new consummate writer of lyrics. “I’ll defer to your talents for now.”
As Jimmy spent more time in the studio, he became obsessive about each song on the new album and how it might be improved. He’d listen to individual moments in individual songs and then the entire product as a whole. While piecing together the folk-oriented “The Battle of Evermore,” he and Robert debated how to give it a more distinctive sound. Robert felt that another voice was needed to give a richness to it. Finally, he suggested inviting Sandy Denny to sing on it with him. Denny, the soprano voice with Fairport Convention, figured Robert was kidding when she received the SOS from Plant. Zeppelin, after all, had a reputation for being a “closed shop,” with other musicians rarely invited to participate in either recording sessions or live performances. But Robert convinced her that this was for real. Sandy sang counterpoint to Robert, like a town crier representing the voice of the people, supported by a rich blend of acoustic guitars and a mandolin.
The recording of the fourth album was completed in February 1971. As it was being prepared for release, there was some talk of calling it Led Zeppelin IV. But Jimmy was against it. He was still pissed at the critics, and perhaps as a way of retaliating against or confusing them, he didn’t want the album to have a title at all. He didn’t even want Led Zeppelin’s name or the album’s catalog number anywhere on it.
“The music is what matters,” Jimmy argued. “Let people buy it because they like the music. I don’t want any writing on the cover! Period!”
Executives at Atlantic Records were outraged at Jimmy’s demand. “An album without a title!” they exclaimed. “An album without the artists’ name on it! You guys are signing your own death warrant!”
Still, the band wouldn’t capitulate. As a last-ditch effort, Atlantic tried to convince them to at least put “Led Zeppelin” on the spine of the album. Zeppelin refused.
The relationship between Atlantic and Zeppelin was already strained even before the debate over the album title. Peter was so upset with the record company that he was no longer on speaking terms with some of its executives. Most of the problems related to the company’s continued pleas that the group begin releasing singles from its albums. Peter, however, had consistently and adamantly refused. When Atlantic had suggested “Whole Lotta Love” as a perfect choice for release as a single, Peter just scoffed at the idea. The same happened with “Immigrant Song.” The list grew longer.
One of the Atlantic vice presidents called our office one day and tried to reason with me, presumably on the assumption that I could influence Peter. “These songs are already being played by radio stations as though they’re singles,” he argued. “Why not make it easier on them and the fans and just release them as singles?”
Peter had his own reasoning. “If we don’t release a single, people will have to buy the album if they want one of the songs. Songs like ‘Whole Lotta Love’ are too long for singles anyway. And hell if we’re going to cut it down to two and a half minutes just to make radio station program directors happy.”
At the time, Peter might as well have been speaking in a foreign tongue. Atlantic’s brass constantly pointed out that not only do singles get more airplay, but they are another avenue for record sales. But Peter wasn’t convinced.
Nevertheless, Atlantic had made its own plans. It made an unprecedented, unilateral decision to release a single version of “Whole Lotta Love” in the States. In barely more than a month, the single had sold more than a million copies. But to Led Zeppelin, the sales figures didn’t matter.
“They stabbed us in the back!” growled Peter. “We told them not to do something, and they fucking did it anyway.” If the band didn’t have a signed contract with the label, they might have jumped ship in 1970.
According to Phil Carson, who had just begun running Atlantic’s London office, he bore the brunt of Led Zeppelin’s target practice. Phil said he had a near violent confrontation with Peter, who could barely control himself one afternoon, pounding on tables and desks and letting out his anger. Phil, who had once played bass with the Springfields (Dusty Springfield’s band), must have wondered at that moment why he
had ever wanted to become a record company executive and have to deal with the unpredictable temperaments of musicians and their managers.
At one point, as Peter fumed and Phil backed toward a window, Phil might have become convinced that his days were numbered. After all, Phil knew about Peter’s career in professional wrestling, when he used to heave opponents through the ropes and out of the ring. Phil could probably imagine himself being launched out the window, nosediving toward the ground like a disabled missile. At that moment, he might have chosen to take his chances riding over Niagara Falls in a barrel.
Phil convinced Peter that he would use his influence to ensure that no more singles would be released. And, in fact, Phil succeeded in those efforts in the U.K.
Those crises strengthened Zeppelin’s resolve. In the battle over the titleless fourth album, the band wasn’t going to yield. “Take it or leave it!” Jimmy told Atlantic. He was angry enough to hold up release of the entire album over the dispute.
Meanwhile, the fourth album began running into a series of delays, which ultimately postponed its release until October 1971. At one point, Jimmy had flown to Los Angeles to mix the tracks at Sunset Sound in Los Angeles. But no one, including Pagey, was happy with the way it turned out. Everything sounded fine in L.A., but when he replayed the tapes in London, the sound quality just wasn’t there.
“Somehow, I got an untrue sound in L.A.,” Jimmy complained. “You travel five thousand miles because the equipment is supposed to be so great there, and I could have gotten a better sound by driving ten minutes to a studio here in London. It’s ridiculous.” If the hassles with Atlantic weren’t enough, the sound problems only made the stress levels worse.
Ultimately, Atlantic agreed to meet the band’s demands. The album would be released without a title and with no words on the cover. On the front, there would be a photograph of an old hermit bracing himself with a cane, carrying a bundle of wood on his back.