by Chris Welch
Copyright © 2002 Omnibus Press
This edition © 2009 Omnibus Press
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ISBN: 978-0-85712-100-4
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Contents
Information Page
1 – THE GODFATHER OF ROCK
2 – THE ROCK’N’ROLL YEARS
3 – STAIRWAY TO ZEPPELIN
4 – A WHOLE LOTTA PETER
5 – “HELLO. IT’S PETER GRANT CALLING”
6 – MR GRANT GOES TO WAR
7 – THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME:
“WHO WAS THE GUY ON THE HORSE?”
8 – SWAN SONG
9 – “DID YOU ENJOY THE SHOW?”
10 – THE WRONG GOODBYE
11 – THE LAST HURRAH
12 – WE’LL MEET AGAIN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1
THE GODFATHER OF ROCK
“You’re not throwing me in the f swimming pool …”
– Peter Grant
Peter Grant was the most charming, courteous and affable of men – until you slammed a car door on his foot, tried to throw him in a pool or attempted to rob or cheat his beloved Led Zeppelin. Then the wrath of Jehovah would be a welcome alternative to the splenetic fury of the ‘Godfather of Rock’.
Peter Grant was a former South London wrestler who became one of the most powerful men in the music industry. The formidable figure of ‘G’ struck fear into the hearts of anyone foolish enough to try to rip off Led Zep or obstruct their inexorable rise to fame. ‘G’ was a towering, six-foot, 18-stone, moustachioed giant, a 20th century Genghis Khan of the rock world, who would brook no opposition. His favourite weapon was alarmingly abusive language delivered with machine-gun like precision that rendered argument futile. Coupled with his fearsomely powerful presence, which communicated the certain knowledge that should fighting erupt ‘G’ would win hands down, ‘verbal violence’ – as he termed it – won many a battle before it was actually fought.
Yet there was much more to Peter Grant than his semi-mythical status as the hardest of the ‘hard men’ in the band business. Adept at negotiation, policy making and strategy, he drove the world’s most powerful and dynamic rock team to the top of their game with unrivalled skill and commitment. Grant understood better than anyone that a new phenomenon required special treatment. In the process of taking Led Zep to the top he laid down the ground rules that ensured that the ill-treated pop groups of the Sixties became the millionaire superstars of the Seventies and beyond. If Led Zeppelin were paid so well they were nicknamed ‘Led Wallet’ byawed rivals, then their tireless manager could take much of the credit. Such was his importance to Zeppelin, he became known as the ‘fifth member’. It was an accolade he richly deserved.
Some saw his attitude as bloody-minded aggression. Others recognised he was single-handedly turning rock into a global business with massive rewards to match. Where once promoters demanded the lion’s share of money from concert revenues, Grant ensured his artists received 90 per cent. Even as Led Zeppelin were stunning fans with screaming vocals, blistering guitar solos and dazzling light shows, Peter was hard at work behind the scenes, arguing with promoters and wading into bootleggers. He never missed a gig and he never missed a trick.
Unlike many managers, he was never tempted to interfere with the band’s records or stage act. He left the music entirely in the hands of the musicians. When Led Zep were on the road, they became his family, surrogate sons to be protected and encouraged when times were tough. It was a caring attitude he had adopted right from the start of his career, when he looked after the rock’n’roll giants of an earlier epoch, Chuck Berry, Little Richard and Gene Vincent.
At the same time, the British band’s huge success gave Grant the personal respect, status and power he had craved since he fought his way out of a tough childhood and tougher neighbourhood. Often his fits of temper seemed triggered by a sense of outrage that his personal space was being invaded or his hard won prestige eroded. Nothing angered him more than people ‘taking liberties’ or trying to muscle in on his territory. It was an attitude not always easy to comprehend, especially by those from comfortable, secure backgrounds where there was no need to shout, swear or raise a fist to make a way in life. In America especially, many were surprised at the way in which ‘G’ overturned their idea of the ‘traditional Englishman’. Grant was no David Niven style gentleman nor another middle-class and slightly naïve Brian Epstein, waiting to be exploited and given the run-around. The tough talking Londoner, raised on a diet of street talk and cash, could take on the shady, the devious and the organised – and win.
When necessary, of course, Grant wouldn’t bat an eyelid at demonstrating the kind of immense personal bravery necessary to ward off a threat. Indeed, he would take fiendish pleasure in offering his personal, physical protection to vulnerable young charges. When a group of sailors began mocking and jeering at Jeff Beck and Jimmy Page’s long hair during a US trip by The Yardbirds, Peter stormed into action. He recalled later: “The three of us were flying down to Miami and I turned round and heard these blokes. One of them looked like a little tough, so I lifted him up under the arm and said, ‘Okay, what’s your problem Popeye?’ And the other one ran.”
If anyone ever needed reminding he’d say: “If I’m out at a concert and somebody is gonna do something to one of my artists, then I’ll fucking tread on ‘em, without thinking about it.”
Yet like many supposed ‘hard men’, Peter retained a gentle streak, probably inherited from his mother. He was a man full of contrasts. At times pugnacious and abrasive, he could also be relaxed, polite, witty and stimulating company. He had a finely developed sense of humour and was surprisingly cultured in his tastes, displaying a genuine passion for antiques and works of art. Often dangerously overweight and improbably dressed in ill-fitting kaftans, baggy jeans and coonskin hats, he attracted the slim, the slight and the delicate. Both men and women found him a comforting, reassuring companion. It wouldn’t take much, however, to tip the scales and the gently chuckling host would once again become the man with a face like thunder, erupting with cries of “What the fucking hell do you think you’re fucking doing!”
Says journalist Michael Watts, who met and interviewed Peter on several occasions: “I think the interesting thing is you don’t need to be a psychologist to see that for a man who was so overweight, having access to women and a certain kind of lifestyle through being the manager of what at one point was the most famous pop band in the world, must have been terrific. He was certainly the man who broke the mould of pop group management and did something different.”
In later years, when Grant became a mellow family man, cherishing
his own son and daughter and grandchildren, many were puzzled that such a friendly, relaxed individual could ever have been portrayed as a rock’n’roll monster. Certainly his ‘gangster image’, enhanced by his appearance in the movie The Song Remains The Same, had long since faded and was always something of an embellishment. He certainly delighted in telling anecdotes of his former exploits. “I did a lot of that,” he’d say, prodding people in the chest with his finger and recalling how his wrestling techniques often came in useful when a point needed to be made.
But right to the end, there was always a glint of danger, a menace that would surface unexpectedly and put an end to any attempt to outsmart him. Some tried to dismiss the Peter Grant of his retirement years as ‘a pussy cat’ but even at his most relaxed and genial, when the danger signal flashed red, it was wise to take heed. The forces of impatience and aggression that drove him as a young man were ever present.
In an age when pop acts and bands are all too frequently entirely the product of auditions followed by intense promotion through TV and media, the creation of Led Zeppelin seems in retrospect like an even more remarkable achievement. How could they have become so huge when they had just one or two men behind them and a mountain to climb?
It wasn’t even easy to convince the existing music industry of the Sixties that Led Zeppelin was something special, as Peter Grant quickly discovered to his chagrin and fury. Indeed, his early treatment by the media, including the radio and TV networks, more or less forced him into adopting an aggressive stance and isolationist policies. If no one would help his band, then he’d help himself, do the job his way, the only way he knew how.
A crucial moment in the early days of Zeppelin came when he invited a BBC TV crew to the Marquee Club in London to film the band in action for their regular rock show The Old Grey Whistle Test. The show was a sell-out. Hundreds of fans lined the streets, waiting in line to get in.
The BBC crew failed to turn up and never even apologised to Grant for letting him down. There and then he decided he wouldn’t pander to the media or play by their rules. To the anguish and disbelief of his record company he promptly decided never to release a Led Zeppelin single in Britain, thus ensuring that Zep would never belittle themselves by appearing on Top Of The Pops. He would rely instead chiefly on the support of the fans who queued at the clubs – and bought the albums. As far as he was concerned Zep were and would remain a true ‘underground’ band.
This slightly eccentric, self-help attitude remained at the core of Zeppelin’s line of attack for years, manifesting itself in the small number of staff Grant employed, the avoidance of lavishly furnished prestige offices, the playing down of ‘official’ corporate style PR and a reliance on direct contact with friends and supporters for press coverage. It also secured for Zeppelin a certain mystique which, buoyed up by Grant’s firm belief in always leaving the fans wanting more, has somehow been sustained to this day.
When Led Zeppelin suddenly took off at the end of 1968, following their first visits to America and the release of their stunning début album, it was a time for bittersweet revenge. Yet Peter Grant never indulged in such tactics. He laughed and chuckled instead, and took great pleasure in seeing the looks on the faces of those who had scorned him. He knew himself how hard it was for any ‘pop group’ to make a name for itself, and understood the tough and cynical attitudes of the so-called music industry. He also recognised the blind incompetence that lay at the heart of many of its most important institutions – and he forgave them. After all, as Led Zeppelin was being showered with gold and platinum albums, he could afford to have the last laugh.
As he flew around the world on board private jets, sipping champagne and browsing through the pages of Country Life in search of property and antiques, he could reflect on the magnificently strange and fascinating paths his life had taken since the days when he was a lonely teenager, abandoned by a father he never knew, determined to rise above a life of poverty in the war-battered, crime-ridden London suburb that was home. There was a way out – to the glittering world of show business – via The Croydon Empire!
2
THE ROCK’N’ROLL YEARS
“He was a dreamer and he hustled.”
– Mickie Most
Despite many attempts to unravel his past, a degree of mystery seems destined to forever surround the origins of one of the music industry’s most powerful and controversial figures. What is certain is that Peter Grant, future manager of Led Zeppelin, was born on April 5, 1935, in South Norwood, a south London suburb. His mother, Dorothy Louise Grant, who on his birth certificate described herself as a private secretary, lived in Norhyrst Avenue, South Norwood. According to the birth certificate, Peter was born at an address in ‘Birdhurst Road, U.D.’ (sic). There is a Birdhurst Road in South Croydon, only three stations away on the railway line from Norwood Junction. However, there is also a Birdhurst Road in Wandsworth, not far from Battersea, where Peter grew up. No father’s name is given on the certificate and as Peter took his mother’s surname, this strongly suggests he was born illegitimate.
It is reasonable to assume, therefore, that Peter Grant was raised in what would nowadays respectfully be termed a ‘single parent family’, never knowing his father. While such circumstances are commonplace today, in the pre-war years and for at least two decades after, there was a stigma attached to illegitimacy which evoked the use of pejorative words and phrases intended to hurt and demean. “Peter was – to use the word – a bastard,” says Richard Cole, his personal assistant for many years. “He didn’t know who his father was and his mum brought him up. He was very close to his mum and he always took care of her. But he never spoke much about his childhood.” From the secrecy that Peter adopted towards his early years, it was clear the subject was painful to him and one he was reluctant ever to discuss.
His son Warren – born February 23, 1966 – admits that little is known about Peter’s upbringing, even within the fairly tight-knit circles of their small family. “He never talked about his father, although he adored his mum,” he says. “I don’t have many memories of my granny. Dorothy Louise died when I was quite young. There was a load of stuff that he kept very personal about his parents. After he died, a friend of my dad’s gave me a lot of papers relating to the family background. I was told I should open the packet and have a look. But I didn’t want to do that, because he had kept it so private all his life. So it went with him in the coffin. I thought it was best to keep it that way. It was a big envelope full of letters and bits and pieces. I just didn’t want to open it. I know that his family were very poor. They were totally skint! He started from nothing and that made him hungry for success.”
One close friend that Peter confided in to a certain extent was Mickie Most, with whom he would enjoy a fruitful business partnership in later years. Says Mickie: “Peter was half Jewish. He told me he was half Jewish and I think his mother was Jewish. Peter never talked much about his childhood. He was illegitimate which he didn’t deny. He just didn’t want to discuss it. He was very close to his mum, who had diabetes. She had a very serious condition and had to have her leg amputated. If you have diabetes badly you can go blind and lose limbs. It was terrible. I attended her funeral in Streatham with Peter in the Seventies.”
Intriguingly, Peter’s solid sounding surname ‘Grant’ is from the Latin grandis, which evolved into the 13th century Norman nickname, ‘graund’ or ‘graunt’ meaning large. It was usually given to ‘a person of remarkable size’ and while it can also mean ‘elder’ or ‘senior’, in most cases ‘grante’, as it became in Old English, simply meant ‘tall’. It was highly appropriate, given Grant’s formidable girth and dimensions, a condition increasingly evident from his late teens onwards. To what minuscule knowledge is known about Peter’s father, it can safely be added that he, too, was probably very powerfully built.
There may not have been many Norman French ‘Graunts’ left living in South Norwood during the Thirties, but a hundred years earlier it
was a happy hunting ground for roaming bands of gypsies. The area where Peter’s mother lived was once the southern part of the Great North Wood of Surrey, which lay between Upper Norwood and Croydon. It was land owned by successive Archbishops of Canterbury and noted for its beauty. However, woodmen and charcoal burners destroyed the trees and over time the area became what has been chillingly described by historians as ‘an immense wasteland inhabited by beggars’.
Once the miles of common land were enclosed and the railways built in the mid-19th century, the population increased and large numbers of suburban houses were built. Among the more celebrated inhabitants was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who lived at 12 Tennison Road, where he wrote the first of his famous Sherlock Holmes detective stories, including one entitled The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder.
Dorothy and Peter subsequently moved from Norwood to the inner city suburb of Battersea, just across the River Thames from fashionable Chelsea, where they lived in a two-up, two-down terraced house. Close to the southern banks of the river, Battersea (originally Bedric’s Island) was once marshland and a Saxon settlement. By the middle of the 19th century the many acres of market gardens that made it such an attractive locale were engulfed with smoke belching factories, making candles, glucose, starch, gas and gloves. The final touches to this bleak urban landscape were made when the huge power station was opened in 1933 (and closed in 1983).