Peter Grant: The Man Who Led Zeppelin

by Chris Welch

  When the entourage visited Japan for the first time in 1971 there were more examples of Zeppelin’s war on unwelcome recording. Recalled Grant: “The first time we went the Japanese record company insisted they record the show. They had a 6-track transistorised board, Jimmy was a bit worried about this, so the deal I made was that they could record it, if we could have the tapes and take them back to England and approve them. So Jimmy listened to them and found they were terrible. He took the tapes and wiped over them and used them again. So it was goodbye Live In Japan.”

  Peter would take his battle against bootleggers to the pages of the music press, expressing anger whenever the subject was mentioned and even issuing statements denying that such products were available. There were moments, however, when even the combined forces of Peter Grant, Richard Cole and their security gang couldn’t combat the police, criminals and determined hordes of rioters. Perhaps it had something to do with its German wartime undertones, but there was just something about the name Led Zeppelin that seemed to spark off violence and hysteria among those who equated the band with anarchy, money and mayhem. Such people had little interest or understanding in the nuances of Jimmy Page’s 12-string guitar technique or John Paul Jones’ rhythmic interplay with John Bonham’s right bass drum foot. The olive skinned people of those nations that sit at the edge of the Mediterranean have many fine qualities but, as anyone foolish enough to drive incautiously in the Rome rush hour will testify, level-headedness under pressure is not among them. Thus, when Zeppelin arrived in Italy all hell broke loose.

  The group had continued to make headlines and great music throughout their frantically busy first three years. They were grossing over $100,000 for shows at New York’s Madison Square Garden and regularly winning the Melody Maker Readers’ Poll as the world’s top group. When they started one US tour with a show in Cincinnati their show was billed as ‘The Greatest Live Event Since The Beatles’. By 1971 they were hailed as one of the biggest names in popular music. Tickets for all their shows everywhere sold out within hours.

  There was therefore an atmosphere of feverish excitement when Led Zeppelin headed for the Vigorelli Stadium in Milan on July 5, 1971 during their second European tour. They were playing at a one-day rock festival organised and sponsored by the Italian Government, no less. The stage was set up on the grass on a huge football pitch. Five or six other groups went on before Zeppelin and all seemed to be going well. Then Led Zeppelin appeared, playing with all the enthusiasm and energy – and volume – that had won them tributes across the globe. It was simply too much. After a few numbers clouds of black smoke appeared at the back of the crowd. The promoter came onto the stage and asked Robert to tell fans to stop lighting fires. The group carried on playing for another 20 minutes but every time the audience stood up to cheer more smoke appeared.

  As the show progressed amidst increasingly unpleasant crowd scenes, Jimmy and Robert realised that the smoke clouds were caused not by bonfires being lit by fans, but by tear gas shells being fired into the crowds by police. One canister landed 30 feet from the stage and the acrid-smelling gas drifted over the band themselves. Looking nervously over their shoulders, the four members of Led Zeppelin saw to their dismay that the backstage area was jammed with people and militia. Common sense dictated that they cut short the show and head straight into ‘Whole Lotta Love’, hardly a song to soothe the savage breast but their closing number nonetheless. Then, as Robert nervously broached his feelings way down inside, a fan threw a bottle at the police. It was the signal for a full-scale tear gas attack and riot. Abandoning their instruments, the group fled into a fume filled tunnel and locked themselves in their dressing room, while the road crew tried to salvage their equipment. Several of Zep’s injured men had to be carried off on stretchers.

  Not even the mighty Peter Grant could bump his way out of this one. He fled the scene with the group and stood by the dressing room door, ready to fell any unwelcome intruders. “The riot in Milan was a nightmare but I had once done four months in Italy as a tour manager with Wee Willie Harris back in the Fifties,” he said later. “I knew what a dodgy place it could be. So I got all the money upfront and made sure we got the air tickets back in advance. Just as well because when we got to the gig there were water cannons and tear gas. Everybody just went mad. We had to flee and I’m not that good at running.

  “But Mick Hinton (John Bonham’s drum technician) and Richard Cole got us out and we barricaded ourselves in the medical room and stayed there until it all cooled down. Years later I bumped into the promoter of that gig in the toilet at the Café Royale … this guy saw me and pissed all down himself because he thought I was going to have him. I’d forgiven him by then though. You can’t account for the actions of the Italian police.”

  In later life Peter Grant liked nothing better than to relive such stories. He may have been the manager of rock’s biggest band but at heart he was still a roadie, a sort of super-roadie, a million miles away from today’s besuited managers with their teams of lawyers, accountants and investment advisers. He believed in leading from the front, supervising every gig, protecting his clients with his bare hands and brute strength. The road was his life and he craved its turmoil and excitement like Led Zeppelin’s fans craved his band. He once stayed up with actor Rik Mayall until two o’clock in the morning telling him backstage stories … “Like the time Jerry Lee Lewis threw Brylcreem all over the audience. At least I’d had that great training as a tour manager, before Led Zeppelin. As the group got bigger and bigger I liked the idea of turning the shows into an event. That’s when I came up with the idea of ‘An Evening With Led Zeppelin’. People thought it sounded corny but it was like a line from a Thirties stage show, I guess it was a by-product of my days as a 14-year-old stagehand. I had learned my trade in the theatre. When I told the promoter that’s how Zeppelin shows should be billed, they all giggled. But I was proved right again. Those big promoters like Jerry Weintraub loved it and Zeppelin shows really were an event. It was a golden age of touring.”

  It was also a golden age for Zeppelin albums. In November 1971 they released what became known as Led Zeppelin IV and it immediately ran into trouble. First they had problems with mixing the tracks and then they insisted on leaving the record untitled. There had been much argument about choosing a suitable name and after Led Zeppelin III it seemed a bit naff to call it simply Led Zeppelin IV. It was decided instead to choose a different symbol for each member of the band, supposedly representing their individual characters. As this was featured on the inner sleeve, the album was sometimes known to fans as Four Symbols. Jimmy Page was represented by the mysterious word ‘Zoso’ which he later stated wasn’t a word at all. Robert Plant was symbolised by a feather inside a circle, John Paul Jones was given intertwining ovals and John Bonham had three linked rings, which, he suggested in characteristic down-to-earth fashion, resembled the logo of Ballentine’s beer. The cover showed a portrait of an old man bent beneath the weight of a huge bundle of sticks. The rear cover shot showed slums being demolished to make way for high-rise buildings. Inside the gatefold sleeve was a drawing called ‘The Hermit’ depicting another old man holding a lantern and perched on a mountainside.

  There was no information on the sleeve whatsoever concerning either the name of the group, the contents, price or even the record company. One worried Atlantic executive described it as ‘commercial suicide’ but he hadn’t reckoned on the mysterious power of Led Zeppelin and the manner in which their fans related to them. This was something Peter Grant understood all too well, probably better than anyone by this time. Neither was there anything suicidal about the music or its prospects in the charts. For this album contained such classics as ‘Black Dog’, ‘Rock And Roll’, ‘When The Levee Breaks’ and the incandescent ‘Stairway To Heaven’. ‘Stairway’ became the most played track on American radio, arguably the biggest rock ballad of all time. John Bonham’s massive drum sound on ‘When The Levee Breaks’ was cited as a prototype for the r
hythm-heavy dance music of the Eighties and Nineties.

  But all that lay in the future. When the sleeve design was delivered to Atlantic it caused considerable anxiety. Peter was supremely confident that Jimmy Page had taken the right approach. “We had trouble initially but Ahmet Ertegun believed in us. It was a case of following our instincts and knowing that the cover would not harm sales one bit. And we were right again.”

  The whole world wanted Zeppelin but Peter was astute enough not to overspend on travel arrangements. “We went to Australia that year and the record company made a deal with Air India, so we got a round the world trip for £500. We went to Perth where the police raided us, but I slept through it all! Then we went to New Zealand where the gig was the biggest public gathering in the history of the island.”

  Despite the band’s international fame there were still moments when they ran up against official indifference, or sheer ignorance, which stopped them in their tracks. One such incident became legendary after Grant’s ultra cool response. He received a letter from Bernard Chevry, the organiser of the annual Midem Festival in Cannes, the trade fair for the music industry, informing him that ‘Led Zeppelin and his musicians’ had been selected to perform at the Midem Gala. The letter drew attention to the promotional advantages of this appearance, suggesting that it was an honour not to be taken lightly. As Midem was supposedly a gathering of the great and the good of the music industry, it seemed even more ridiculous – insulting even – that they had no idea that Led Zeppelin was a group, not an individual with a backing band. Peter’s response was swift and devastating. He didn’t reply to the letter, and instead took out a full-page advert in the edition of Music Week that was published during the week of Midem. The ad comprised a facsimile of the letter, reprinted in full, above which Peter had penned the inscription ‘Mr Zeppelin regrets’. It was guaranteed to be seen by the entire European music industry and all those from elsewhere attending Midem. “I mean … Bernard Chevry, the guy who sent it, was a prat,” said Peter, echoing the thoughts of just about everyone who read Music Week in Cannes.

  But misunderstandings like this struck a raw nerve. For all their success Led Zeppelin were in many ways a secret society, an underground phenomenon understood and much appreciated by their multitudes of fans but largely ignored by the media beyond the cliquish music press. To a certain extent this was their own fault, the result of Peter Grant’s uncompromising tactics. Tabloid newspapers have always been more interested in cheerful, publicity-hungry pop groups who top the singles charts and are willing to be photographed with dolly birds or jumping in the air with inane grins on their faces. Serious, contemplative rock musicians who concentrate on albums and want to discuss their musical influences simply don’t appeal to tabloid readers. Similarly, their decision never to appear on TV precluded exposure in a medium watched by millions. Led Zeppelin were selling out big shows, collecting gold albums and doing the business, but in media terms The Rolling Stones, also tearing up America with a massive tour, were overshadowing them all the way. Mick Jagger and Bianca, his sultry South American bride, had Led Zeppelin over a barrel when it came to charisma.

  This was the reason why Peter decided in 1972 that perhaps he had better get another publicist. Bill Harry had already left the camp after John Bonham ripped off his trousers in a London pub, apparently the price Bill paid for refusing to arrange an interview for him. “To be honest, doing PR for Led Zeppelin was a strain,” says Bill. “Bonzo leaned over and ripped the pocket off my trousers and all my money and keys went flying all over the floor. He ripped my shirt as well and I was absolutely furious. I said, ‘I’m finished with you. I want nothing whatsoever to do with Led Zeppelin ever again. If I see you in the street, you’d better cross the road.’”

  Peter Grant told Bill to buy the most expensive pair of trousers he could find and send him the bill, but it was too late. His PR wanted out. That same day Bonham and his drinking partner Stan Webb, guitarist with Chicken Shack, met up in the Coach & Horses in Poland Street and planned a day of mayhem. They broke down Bill Harry’s office door, then tied up an executive of Chrysalis Records in sticky tape and left him bound from head to foot on the pavement in Oxford Street. Later they met up with Richard Cole and Phil Carson. Attired in Arab robes hired from a theatrical costumier, they borrowed a Rolls-Royce Phantom Six and drove to the Mayfair Hotel, where they claimed to be Arab princes. Booking themselves into the Maharajah suite they ordered champagne and fifty steaks, which they threw all over the room. In the melee that ensued they managed to smash a priceless terracotta statue of a Maharajah and horse. John Bonham was subsequently banned from every hotel in the West End. It was this kind of escapade that anyone relatively sane associated with Led Zeppelin, like Bill Harry, tried to avoid.

  Peter Grant understood why mild mannered Bill Harry freaked out. But he just shrugged and blithely ordered up a fresh, unbroken PR. What arrived was B.P. ‘Beep’ Fallon, a genial little Irishman adept at talking his way into and out of tricky situations with all the skill of a leprechaun. He began his pop career in Dublin as a local DJ and TV personality and at one point engineered his own kidnapping as a publicity stunt. Visiting London in 1969 to interview John Lennon and Yoko Ono during their ‘peace’ period, he opted to stay on and seek work in PR. His ready wit soon endeared him to music writers in London, first as the PR for various acts handled by E.G. Management – including ELP, King Crimson and Roxy Music – and later as Marc Bolan’s constant companion and media adviser. His catch phrase was ‘good vibes’ and he had a not unpleasant habit of ringing up journalists and opening the conversation with the words: “I need to lay a verbal on you, man.” He was also something of a ladies’ man, rarely seen at night without an attractive companion on his arm. Jimmy Page, no mean judge of female beauty himself, looked kindly on ‘Beep’ and for a while they became fast friends.

  “It really shook me up when our US tour seemed to be overshadowed by the Stones,” Peter admitted. “So I got hold of B.P. Fallon. Beep came with us on the UK tour and we played at Greens Playhouse. Beep had a lot of make-up and glitter on and managed to get himself a good kicking outside the gig. John Bonham came up with a classic line. We came off stage and there’s Fallon looking the worse for wear and John shouts out, ‘Look who bopped the Beep!’”

  Bill Harry merely had to put up with having his trousers ripped in public. B.P. Fallon had to endure having a pony and chickens deposited into his hotel bedroom at the dead of night, one of many practical jokes played on him during his tenure with the band. Nevertheless, he was a wise choice to help dismantle the wall of mistrust that existed between Led Zeppelin and their management on the one hand and the general media on the other.

  As the band became bigger, so their responsibilities increased. The endless touring exhausted the young musicians. Jimmy Page, never the most robust specimen of manhood, was always in poor health anyway and the travelling and gigging didn’t help. Robert suffered from sore throats and John Bonham began drinking far too much, which didn’t help his temper. Only John Paul Jones, whose deliberate low profile cast him as Zep’s ‘quiet man’, seemed immune to the strife. Quite often there would be fights between Robert and John when they wound each other up. Blows were even struck among the higher echelons of management. Such scenes were the cause of great alarm to eyewitnesses, but most incidents were hushed up and kept secret until many years after the band’s demise.

  One night in a Dublin hotel there was a pounding on the door of Peter’s bedroom. It was gone midnight and John Bonham was in a great panic. “Peter, I’ve done something terrible. I’ve hit Robert!” wailed the drummer.

  “Shut the fuck up and go to bed. We’ll talk about it in the morning,” responded Peter.

  Worse was to come. Later the same night Bonham forced himself into the hotel kitchen to try to make himself a sandwich after the hotel chef refused to provide any more food. This led to a violent altercation, which had to be sorted out by tour manager Cole.

  Say
s Richard: “It was when we were in Ireland that I broke Bonham’s nose for the first time. The chef pulled a knife on Bonham and it was easier to knock Bonham out and quieten him down than attack the chef who had a 12-inch blade knife looking at me. So John then rang Peter and said, ‘Richard has broken my fucking nose. I’m leaving the band.’ Peter said, ‘Fuck off then you cunt, and don’t you wake me up again at this time of the night!’ The next day we were drinking Irish coffees together.”

  Sometimes the tension grew so great that even Richard Cole and Peter Grant came to blows. “We had a strange relationship,” says Cole. “I had a black eye from Peter and I nearly stabbed him one night. Oh yeah! It was a strange organisation. Actually, he hit me on the chin because I wouldn’t go out with him one night. He’d had some trouble and had a big security guard with him and for some reason it was my fault. He caught me with a left hook under my eye. I had been out fishing and had this serrated fish knife with me. I punched a hole in his wall and was going to stick the knife in him. That’s the way it was in those days. We did a tour once in Japan and something went wrong and Peter whacked John Bonham. The promoter called Ahmet Ertegun in New York and said, ‘Oh, Mr Ertegun, the band has broken up. The manager has hit the drummer and the road manager has thrown a bottle at them.’ So Ahmet said, ‘Don’t take any notice of ‘em. They’re like that all the time. They’ll be all right in the morning.’

  “There were always arguments. They’d argue over the petrol money for the Rolls-Royce. As if they needed twenty pounds! The other great one was Bonham went round to a petrol station and the guy who was filling up his car said, ‘Oh, Robert’s always in here filling up with petrol. What are you gonna do. Are you gonna give me in albums or pay me in cash?’ John is puzzled and says, ‘What do you mean?’ And the guy says, ‘Oh Robert always pays me in record albums.’ It turned out that Robert used to ring Atlantic, tell them to send him four boxes of Led Zeppelin records and then he’d go round to the garage and use them to pay for his petrol.”