by Richard Cole
Once in Manhattan, we checked into the St. Regis Hotel. At the Four Seasons party, I took a plate from the buffet line and poured the contents of my bag of coke on it. “Hors d’oeuvres, anyone?” I said, extending the platter under the noses of the band members.
We were behaving like little kids sneaking candy when no one was looking. Huddled in a corner, we snorted the drug right off the plate, with Jimmy, Bonzo, and I monopolizing most of it.
The Four Seasons party was expensive, but Peter felt it was worth the $10,000 price tag. Even so, not everything went according to plan. The restaurant was supposed to supply white swans to glide elegantly among the guests, representing the Swan Song name. But unfortunately, white swans aren’t native to the traffic-congested, crime-infested island of Manhattan. The best they could do was import some aging, asthmatic white geese who could barely honk.
“I think we should fire up the ovens and have those little suckers for dinner,” Bonham cackled, sinisterly rubbing his hands together.
We finally got tired of seeing the geese stumble around the party, and Bonham and I began to chase them out onto East 55th Street. Two of them darted into traffic and became instant casualties of the mean streets of New York City.
At the Bel Air, things were much classier. There were man-made lakes on the grounds already stocked with elegant white swans. It was a more beautiful setting, and the party’s guest list included an array of Hollywood celebrities, most notably Groucho Marx.
In L.A., we stayed at the Hyatt House on the Sunset Strip. Even though the band was not in town to perform, FM radio jocks were announcing around the clock that Led Zeppelin had invaded the city. Hundreds of Zeppelin fanatics just assumed that we’d be congregating at the Riot House—and so they did, too. The lobby was swarming with photographers with their cameras cocked and excited and with tawdry girls aching for a touch, a pinch, or even more from the band.
Before the trip, Peter and I had sat down and discussed security. Because of the Drake robbery, I felt we needed to heighten our protection. Peter had been thinking the same thing. With all the publicity about the large amounts of cash the band carried, we were afraid some particularly greedy criminals might assume that Zeppelin would be the perfect target for another big hit.
So at the suggestion of Bill Dautrich, our security consultant, we took over and secured the entire ninth floor—and parts of the tenth and eleventh floors—of the Riot House. “You’ll have better control of your immediate environment that way,” Bill said. Each member of the band had his own corner suite, with a security guard—usually an off-duty Los Angeles policeman—stationed at each door and others positioned at the elevators to keep uninvited guests off the floor.
No one in the band liked those kinds of precautions. Jimmy in particular was perturbed. The cops, he said, made him more nervous, constantly reminding him that maybe there really was something to be worried about. “We’ve always had a great relationship with our fans,” Jimmy told me. “It’s terrible to give the impression that we’ve surrounded ourselves with a goon squad.” Nevertheless, it was hard to argue that the band wasn’t becoming more vulnerable as their success and fame grew. Peter and I won this argument.
I loved the Hyatt, but the staff wasn’t always very reliable about following through on wake-up calls. So one night, I approached one of our own security guards. “Tell the guard who relieves you to awaken me at noon,” I said. “Just have him take the butt of his gun and smash it against my door.”
This “alarm clock” worked flawlessly. Once I was up, I decided to invite Bonham to have lunch with me. I called his room repeatedly, but he wasn’t answering his phone, so I took the elevator up to his eleventh-floor suite. The security guard in front of Bonzo’s door, a Schwarzenegger clone, told me, “Mr. Bonham specifically instructed me that no one is allowed to disturb him.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to get you into trouble with Mr. Bonham,” I said and strolled back to my own room.
I immediately went out onto my ninth-floor balcony and climbed two floors up the outside of the building, from balcony to balcony, to Bonzo’s suite, stopping midway to take a snort of coke from some fans. Bonzo’s sliding door was ajar, and I walked in and began to awaken him.
“Get up, ol’ boy,” I said, shaking him as violently as possible, arousing him cobweb by cobweb. “Let’s go get ourselves something to eat.”
“What the hell time is it?” he asked in a groggy, barely coherent voice.
“Just meet me in my room in ten minutes.”
I exited out the front door of John’s suite, choosing to take the stairs back to my room. As I did, Bonzo’s security guard took one look at me and his eyes almost popped out of his head.
I politely nodded to him. “Good day,” I said.
“How did you get in there?” he asked, scratching his head.
“Hell if I know,” I answered as I turned and headed down the hall.
We spent a lot of time at the Rainbow Bar and Grill and would bring girls we met back to the hotel with us. We talked them into sunbathing topless by the rooftop swimming pool during the day. There was something about L.A. that brought out the decadence in us. And as long as the girls were cooperative, which they always were, who could really complain?
Even without the Rainbow girls, Jimmy already had his hands full. Of course, there was Lori Maddox, but other girls were vying to become one of his “regulars,” too. Bebe Buell, a tall blond model once attached to Todd Rundgren, captured some of Jimmy’s attention during that tour. So did Krissie Wood, whose marriage to Ronnie Wood of the Rolling Stones was rocked by the mutual attraction between Pagey and Krissie. Even Charlotte Martin flew in for a couple of days from London.
When Ronnie’s solo album, I’ve Got My Own Album to Do, reached the record stores, Warner Brothers hosted a party for him, and we were invited to the festivities. Jimmy brought along Charlotte, but was arguing with her most of the night. Their relationship had survived some rocky moments, and I figured this was just another short-lived although heated feud. But when the party finally broke up, Pagey left with Krissie, while Ronnie left with Charlotte. All’s fair in love and war, I guess.
Later, however, Ronnie told me how pissed off he was over the swap. “I wasn’t real happy with the way things turned out. My end of the deal didn’t last too long.” I assumed Ronnie didn’t get what he wanted out of the bargain.
Lori Maddox, who by this time was barely sixteen years old, couldn’t handle this kind of competition. She was a sweet, still somewhat innocent kid who spent half of her time dying to embrace Jimmy and the other half dying to kill him. It was all part of the jealousies that ran rampant among the girls for whom attention from a member of Zeppelin was their Oscar, Pulitzer Prize, and Nobel Prize all in one.
The band members themselves, of course, loved being fawned over. Who wouldn’t? No wonder people used to shake their heads when I’d occasionally complain that, even with all the girls and all the booze, things were getting boring at the Riot House. One late afternoon, to relieve the monotony, I suggested that the band dress up in drag. There didn’t seem to be anything better to do. “Let’s see how pretty you ‘girls’ really are!” I challenged them. “I’ll take a few pictures, and maybe we’ll use ’em on the next album cover. I’ll put Annie Leibovitz right out of business!”
Without much coaxing, the trio of groupies who were with us that day took off their clothes and Jimmy, Robert, and Bonzo squeezed their way into them, tearing the seams on the dresses and creating runs in the nylons as they did.
“All you guys need now is some makeup,” Lori said, helping Jimmy and the others apply lipstick and a little rouge. Interestingly, the boys didn’t feel at all awkward or embarrassed as the transformation occurred; in fact, they seemed to enjoy their new look. If only the drag queens in New Orleans could have seen them.
We had become so preoccupied with this impromptu photo session that we almost forgot we were supposed to meet George Harrison for
a dinner date. “Let’s give George a cheap thrill and let him see how we look,” Robert said. When Harrison arrived at the hotel, he had Stevie Wonder with him. George took one look at Bonzo, Robert, and Pagey in drag, and he fell on the floor laughing. The hysterics were contagious, and before long everyone was shrieking—everyone, that is, except Stevie.
“What’s so funny?” Stevie kept saying, with a slight grin on his face, knowing something was going on but unsure exactly what it was.
“Shit,” I thought. “I hope Stevie doesn’t think the joke is on him.” Everyone else must have had the same idea, too. The laughter stopped, and we just wanted to crawl into a hole, dresses and all.
There were other uncomfortable moments in Los Angeles, at least for me. Robert and I seemed to be at each other’s throats during much of the trip, for no apparent reason. We fought over petty things, like what time the limousines would be arriving. Or who was going to make the calls to room service. Or which girls to bring back with us from the Rainbow. At one point, I asked myself if it was finally time to throw in the towel. I figured I’d be better off doing just about anything other than battling Robert.
Upon reflection, I was upset at more than just Plant. With Swan Song up and running, I thought I might be given a shot at a top position within the new company or perhaps a small percentage of the band’s record royalties. After all, I had been exceptionally loyal to them from the beginning. Other than Peter and the band members themselves, no one had given so much of himself to ensure that the organization ran smoothly. But no such offers were ever forthcoming. It just didn’t seem fair.
During our last few days in L.A., I was fuming. I just wanted to lash out, to explode. On one of our final nights there, we were having dinner at an elegant Indian restaurant in Westwood Village, just south of UCLA. The members of Bad Company were eating at the adjacent table. There were some good-natured verbal exchanges between the two bands—“When you guys learn how to play, then maybe we can talk about music on the same level,” Bonham joked.
About midway through dinner, Bonzo spontaneously heaved a dish of cooked vegetables in the direction of Bad Company. It landed harmlessly on the floor, but it gave me a chance to cut loose. I hurled my entire entrée halfway across the restaurant, where it dive-bombed onto Bad Company’s table. That instantly triggered an all-out food fight that lasted for ten minutes.
Curry soared through the air, splattering patrons at other tables. Tandoori chicken coated the carpeting. Rice was smeared on the walls. Both bands thought it was quite hilarious, but I was getting out some of my frustration. The restaurant’s staff, however, reacted as though the world were coming to an end. The manager finally stepped into the line of fire and shouted, “I’m calling the police!”
At that moment, two off-duty cops who were part of our entourage stood up at an adjoining table, flashed their badges, and announced, “We’re the police!” When the donnybrook finally quieted down, we paid for the damage—$450 in cash—and went on our way.
I knew that I had some thinking to do about whether I could feel good again about continuing to work with Led Zeppelin. But more immediately, there was at least one more event on our L.A. agenda that I was looking forward to—a chance to see Elvis in concert.
41
THE KING
How would you guys like some front-row tickets to see Elvis at the Forum?”
Jerry Weintraub, a promoter for both Elvis and Led Zeppelin, had made us an offer we couldn’t refuse. We had seen Elvis perform in Las Vegas years earlier, and it was an extraordinary evening. We weren’t going to pass up another night with the King.
Unfortunately, none of us were really in any shape to thoroughly enjoy the concert. We had been partying throughout much of the previous night; in fact, Bonzo and I had been up the entire night drinking and snorting coke. So during the Elvis concert, Bonzo and I were struggling to stay awake. He even dozed off now and then. Fortunately, he didn’t snore.
Early in the concert, after Elvis had sung “Love Me Tender,” he paused for a moment and told the sellout crowd, “I want to let everyone know that my favorite band, Led Zeppelin, is here tonight. I’d like to have the spotlight put on them, and I hope you’ll join me in welcoming them.”
As the lights shone down on us, we turned and waved at the cheering audience. All of us, that is, except Bonzo, who slept soundly through the entire introduction. I poked my elbow into his ribs, and he woke up with a start, instinctively shielding his eyes from the bright lights. “You’ve never made a better first impression,” I told him as he fought to stay awake.
Elvis was staying at a suite in a hotel across the street from the Forum, and when the concert ended one of his roadies approached us. “Elvis wants you guys to join him at his hotel,” he said. We instantly agreed. When we had seen Elvis perform in Las Vegas, we had left that show out the rear exits with the other fans. Meeting him was going to be a real thrill.
Even though Zeppelin was drawing bigger crowds and selling more records than Elvis, all of us were nervous as we rode the elevator to the top floor of the hotel. Two strapping security guards escorted us down the hall to Elvis’s suite. “He’s the King,” Robert said softly to me. “I don’t know what we’re going to talk with him about. I hope you can think quickly on your feet.”
As we walked in, Elvis came forward to greet us. After shaking hands, all of us felt awkward. Elvis himself seemed unusually cool for the first few minutes. I wondered if we should have stayed home.
Then a smile gradually crept over his face. “Hey,” he asked, “are these stories I hear about Led Zeppelin true?”
“What stories?” John Paul said.
“Well, those stories about the things you guys do out on the road. They sound pretty wild!”
If we were quiet before, we were suddenly totally speechless. Finally, Robert nervously said, “Well, a lot of rumors have spread around. We all have families, you know. We’re just out there to play music. That’s mostly what we do.”
Elvis thought for a moment. “Then what do you do for fun?”
“We listen to your music a lot,” Robert said. Suddenly, he broke into “Treat me like a fool…,” which prompted an ear-to-ear grin from Elvis.
“Good choice of music!” Elvis beamed. “Maybe I’ll record that myself someday!”
As the evening progressed, Bonham probably got along better with Elvis than any of us. They talked together about hot rods and Peter Sellers movies (“I’ve seen those Clouseau gags a thousand times and never get tired of ’em!” Elvis exclaimed).
The conversation rarely weaved its way back to music. Jimmy told me later that he felt uncomfortable talking about Zeppelin’s own records with the King. “I didn’t know whether he’d be sensitive about it since we’re out-selling him,” Pagey said. “But the guy’s a legend!” So the night was filled mostly with small talk. At one point, Elvis said, “You know, I’ve never listened to much of your music. My stepbrother once played me ‘Stairway to Heaven,’ and it was pretty good. But I don’t get a chance to listen very much.”
Elvis became more relaxed as the night wore on. He offered us drinks. He invited us to visit him if we ever got to Memphis. Before we left, he said, “Let me sign some autographs that you can give to your wives or your kids. And I want you to sign some for me, too.”
As Bonzo was scribbling his name on a slip of paper, he whispered to me, “Can you believe it? Elvis wants my autograph!”
No, I couldn’t believe it, either.
42
CLAPTON
After we returned to England, Led Zeppelin retreated to Headley Grange to record what would eventually become the double-record Physical Graffiti. I didn’t spend much time at those sessions, either at the Grange or later when the band moved to Olympic Studios. There wasn’t much for me to do there, and I was in the midst of my own soul-searching, trying to figure out the direction that was best for me. But during those days that I did visit the Grange, what I did see and hear showed that
Zeppelin hadn’t lost any momentum.
One of the most engaging cuts created during those sessions was “Kashmir,” a song that years later the band would consider one of their classics. Jimmy initially called the song “Driving to Kashmir,” and it was inspired by a lengthy, deserted stretch of road connecting Goulimine and Tantan in the Moroccan Sahara, a road Jimmy had driven several times, always with the feeling that it would never end. There was no scenery other than an occasional camel and its rider to break the monotony. Jimmy had written the lyrics to the song, complete with its mystical references, while making that drive alone a few months earlier. The sometimes otherworldly, often dissonant quality to the music merged perfectly with Pagey’s words.
Jimmy turned to his Danelectro guitar for the recording of “Kashmir.” He had worked and reworked the song’s now famous riff, drawing upon a guitar cycle that he had created years before. He was so fascinated and intrigued by its structure that he felt driven to repeatedly fine-tune it. Later, Jonesy added an ascending bass riff and scored a truly magnificent string arrangement.
As always, the band was very conscious of keeping its creativity level at a peak. Jimmy knew that double albums were more vulnerable to criticism, with assaults that basically asked, “Why didn’t you cut out the repetition and just put out a single album?” Most critics had never been kind to Zeppelin anyway, and Pagey didn’t want to give their wicked pens any extra ammunition.
The band continued to amaze me with its ability to grow. Bonzo’s drum playing on “In My Time of Dying” was more gutsy and forceful than I had ever heard it. Robert’s vocals on “Down by the Seaside” were painfully sensitive.
As for Jimmy, he was constantly experimenting, spending many hours by himself in the studio, shaping his own guitar solos, laboring to the point of complete fatigue. He claimed that when others were there in the studio with him, he’d sometimes become self-conscious and insecure on those solos, and he preferred to do them in seclusion. When I used to see Jimmy onstage, keeping 30,000, 40,000, or 50,000 fans thoroughly entranced as he nurtured every note, caressed each chord, and somehow exhibited both gentleness and violence with subtle or sudden turns of the wrists or fingers, I found his supposed self-consciousness a tough story to buy. No one ever played the guitar with such finesse. On songs like “Ten Years Gone,” he worked endlessly, overdubbing more than a dozen guitar tracks, each harmonizing perfectly with the others.