of antique landscapes and misty mountains. (The head bangers were still served by rampaging “Immigrant Song” and the sludgy blues of “Since I’ve Been Loving You.”)
In 1971, Led Zeppelin’s officially untitled fourth album began its reign as one of the greatest productions of the rock era. “Stairway to Heaven,” with its chiming guitars and lighthearted mysticism, became the anthem of its generation and the most requested song in the history of American radio. In 1972, Led Zeppelin’s tours began to outsell even the Rolling Stones, and the band’s four albums remained high up in the sales charts. A fifth album, Houses of the Holy, came out in 1973 with a garish jacket that spoke of spiritual quests and human sacrifice. Like-wise, the band’s riotous, high-energy concerts became rites of passage for the youngest members of the postwar generation. Alone among the great rock bands, Led Zeppelin’s fans began to identify with the band beyond the music itself. Led Zeppelin, it was generally agreed, had an aura of mystery, mystique, and genius that no other band could touch.
I remained (mostly) oblivious to this. It was totally uncool for a professional rock critic like myself to appreciate Led Zeppelin, whose music was deemed suitable only for cannon-fodder youth intoxicated on cheap wine and pills. As a music editor at Rolling Stone, I didn’t even know any writer who wanted to touch them. Led Zeppelin was out there, alone, with its crazy young audience: a secret society composed of four musicians, their management and roadies, and about twelve million kids.
That’s when Peter Grant hired Danny Goldberg.
So now we’re back in January 1975, and I had to get a magazine assignment if I wanted to ride on the Starship. I called a friend at Rolling Stone to see how the magazine was going to cover Led Zeppelin this time around. In the past, Rolling Stone had mostly ignored Zeppelin’s tours, even when the band began setting attendance records for single-act concerts—no one ever opened for Led Zeppelin after they got big—and became known as the highest-grossing band on the planet. But that attitude of the magazine was over when other publications featuring Led Zeppelin on their covers reported sold-out press runs.
Still, Rolling Stone would not be punching my ticket to the Starship in 1975. Already assigned to Led Zeppelin was a teenage reporter, Cameron Crowe, who had a reputation for writing glowingly positive mash notes about the bands he covered. Clearly, Danny Goldberg had gotten there ahead of me and was taking no chances that a more seasoned rock writer would smear Led Zeppelin once again in Rolling Stone.
Who else would give me an assignment? Danny wanted a national publication, so that ruled out my local newspapers. The other national music magazines—Creem, Crawdaddy, Circus, Hit Parader—I simply did not want to write for. An editor at The Village Voice told me I was out of my mind. So I called my mentor, Bob Palmer, the greatest of the contemporary music writers, who had written for me at Rolling Stone and was now the senior pop music critic at The New York Times. Bob told me that he had recently written a piece about jazzman Ornette Coleman for The Atlantic Monthly, the venerable American political review. There was a young editor there who was trying to inject pop music coverage into the stodgy old magazine. Bob told me that he was treated well, his copy almost untouched, and the pay was good. So I called the editor, Richard Todd, and he invited me to the Atlantic‘s venerable premises at 8 Arlington Street, overlooking the Boston Public Garden. They’d been there for a hundred years.
I was familiar with the Atlantic because my father had sold them a couple of short stories back in the fifties, and the magazine was a fixture in our household. I was under no illusion that the Atlantic—then under the editorship of a former State Department hack—was actually going to publish a feature story about Led Zeppelin. But something told me that I really needed to get on the Starship. The Atlantic Monthly was still a prestigious American magazine, and Mr. Todd clearly was on a mission to try to reach a younger, more with-it audience than the academics and literary types who were the mag’s core readership. He had barely heard of Led Zeppelin, so I pitched the idea as the story of a band that was bigger and more important than the Rolling Stones, but no one, outside their high school fan base, knew about it. Richard Todd had heard of the Rolling Stones. He was a nice guy, and I got the assignment.
I called Danny Goldberg and told him. “The Atlantic? You’re kidding. The Atlantic Monthly? What the fuck! Who cares? You’re on the plane. When can you come to New York? I’ve just signed a friend of mine to Swan Song; she’s really cool, and I want you to hear her.”
CHAPTER 6 Hell-Bent for Valhalla
Meanwhile, back in England, rumor had it that no one in Led Zeppelin really wanted to go to America except the road crew. And it wasn’t just America. The band was planning to spend the entire year on the road, in tax exile to escape Britain’s draconian Inland Revenue. There was talk of playing in Australia, Japan, even South America later in the year.
Zeppelin was six years old now, and the constant touring of 1972–73 had taken its toll. Robert Plant’s voice was shot. Sometime after the last show in 1973, he had undergone a secret operation on his vocal chords, which left him unable to speak for three weeks. There were fears at the Swan Song office, on the King’s Road in the Chelsea district of London, that Robert’s trademark battle cries—hell-bent for Valhalla—and wailing pleas for blow jobs might be more subdued this time out.
Jimmy Page was exhausted from long nights spent mixing the tapes for Zeppelin’s new album, which he had finished only the previous November. The tracks dated from as far back as 1971, and equalizing them to sound somewhat alike for an analog record was exacting and time-consuming. Jimmy was also said to be using heroin, which left him weak, anemic, and spectrally thin. And he was anxious about the death threats that Peter Grant told him were being phoned in to the record company and the promoter in America. The threats were, supposedly, aimed not at Led Zeppelin but only at the shadowy guitarist himself.
John Paul Jones had reportedly gone to Peter Grant at the first Zeppelin recording session after the last tour and told him he wanted to leave the band. Jones said he was unhappy with his role in Led Zeppelin and wanted to stay home with his wife and daughters and play the organ in Winchester Cathedral. Grant had told him to go home and think it over. The sessions were canceled, and Bad Company used the studio time to make their first album for Swan Song. Jones arrived at the next Zeppelin session and said nothing about leaving, but to the others he seemed sullen and more withdrawn than usual.
And then there was John Henry Bonham, also known as Bonzo or (behind his back) the Beast. Led Zeppelin’s brilliant drummer, the driving pulse of the best rock band on the planet, was miserable about leaving his wife and two children and his cozy farm in the wintry English midlands for three months of touring in America. He was drinking a lot and had put on a ton of weight. He arrived at the only known rehearsal for the American tour; looked fat; drank more than usual; may also have been dabbling in heroin; but played with his usual stomp and drive.
This rehearsal took place at a theater in Ealing, West London, in late November 1974. The atmosphere was light, with a few journalists from the music papers hanging about, and a photographer getting some images of the band sitting on the new drum riser. They first ran through some old rock & roll songs, like Elvis Presley’s “Little Sister,” and then some of the new songs, especially the one originally titled “Driving to Kashmir.” Also tried out onstage were “Trampled Under Foot,” “In My Time of Dying,” “Sick Again,” and “Custard Pie.” Then they played “Hound Dog” and “Don’t Be Cruel” as a souvenir of their meeting with Elvis after one of his concerts in Los Angeles, earlier in the year.
In the past, Led Zeppelin had never mounted any kind of stage show other than a rock concert by a four-piece guitar band. Jimmy
