“Ten Years Gone” completed the side, a melancholy ballad burst open by Page’s rapid fire in the “did you ever really need somebody” section.
On to side four. Led Zeppelin launches “Night Flight” with fiery energy, originally recorded in 1970 and left off what the fans refer to variously as Zoso, Four Symbols, and LZ IV. “The Wanton Song” was closely related to “Trampled Under Foot” and led into “Boogie with Stu,” a rumble through fifties rock with the original sixth Rolling Stone, road manager Ian Stewart, recorded in 1971. Robert Plant sang “Black Country Woman” (from the 1972 Houses of the Holy tapes: It was recorded outside in the garden of the old country house they were using as a studio) as if he were complaining about his wife. Physical Graffiti ended with a new song, “Sick Again,” whose cool, descending guitars seem to emerge from the wreckage of the Brown Bomber, LZ II.
Taking the headphones off, I was impressed by how well the band’s older material meshed with the newer songs. It told a story about a quest, an adventure that had both transcendent and carnal aspects. The story would be different for everyone who heard it. There would be millions of them, the largest audience in history. Their yearnings would be validated by this music. Their fantasies would be expressed—and respected. The amplified power of the music, its visionary themes, its intense rhythms, and its mystique-laden charm would open expansive spiritual vistas for its audience, far beyond the routines of everyday life. It was a romance, in the best sense of the romantic traditions of the West.
It will, I thought, also be interesting to hear songs like “Kashmir” and “Trampled Under Foot” performed onstage. I remembered Jimmy Page’s words from six years earlier: “If we can’t do it live, we won’t do it.”
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic Ocean, Jimmy Page caught his left hand in the sliding door of a train at Victoria Station and yelped in pain. At first he thought, with not a little relief, that he’d broken his hand, and the American tour would have to be postponed or canceled. But X-rays revealed only a badly sprained ring finger. Peter Grant pointed out that they sold out forty shows in twenty-six cities and would have to give back five million dollars if they canceled. Danny Goldberg issued a press release announcing the accident and that Jimmy was experimenting with a “three-finger fretting technique” so the shows could go on.
Flying commercial from London, Led Zeppelin arrived in Chicago on January 16, 1975, and took over an entire floor of the Ambassador Hotel, overlooking Lake Michigan. Access to the floor was monitored by two former FBI agents. The Windy City welcomed them with the coldest weather ever recorded. Veteran tour manager Richard Cole, one of rock’s greatest buccaneers, was dispatched to buy the heaviest fur coats available, but not before Robert Plant’s persistent sniffle turned into a cold. Robert’s illness was attended by a new member of Zeppelin’s entourage, a handsome young doctor who had previously worked for the Rolling Stones and other bands. The doctor carried two large medical cases and was reportedly prepared to treat anything from overdoses to gunshots to homesickness. “Worth his weight in gold,” Jimmy Page said later.
The next day, Led Zeppelin flew their chartered jet to Minneapolis, where they spent the evening rehearsing in the cavernous Met Center. They opened the tour the next evening, January 18, with a Saturday night concert that was, Robert Plant apologetically admitted to the kids ($8.50 per ticket), “a bit rusty.” The opener, the thunderous “Rock and Roll,” was the usual Zeppelin blastoff, but Robert’s voice was strained because his cold was getting worse. “Dazed and Confused” was cut from the set because of Page’s injury, but Jimmy managed to deliver some sensational blues improvisations that drew loud applause. John Bonham played his drum solo, “Moby Dick,” for fifteen minutes. When the band walked off, after two and a quarter hours, and the houselights came on, the kids (who expected a three-hour show) stood and booed for as long as “Moby Dick” had lasted.
Somewhat dispirited, with the tour doctor unnerved because Robert wasn’t responding to treatment and felt horrible, Led Zeppelin boarded its Starship and flew back to Chicago in bone-chilling, subzero weather.
CHAPTER 10 Savant of the Occult
Chicago was freezing, well below zero. From the windows of their hotel suite, the band could see that Lake Michigan was frozen over. In a brief phone call, Danny Goldberg told me morale was low in the Zeppelin camp. Robert Plant was now running a fever. The doctor diagnosed influenza and put him on antibiotics. Jimmy Page’s hand hurt like hell, and he was drinking Jack Daniel’s to deaden the pain. John Bonham was irritated that he had placed below girl drummer Karen Carpenter in Playboy magazine’s music poll. John Paul Jones was never around, showing up only for the concerts.
The first concert at Chicago Stadium (January 20) was an embarrassment for the band. Robert was trying to perform with the flu, about which he reminded the 20,000 customers five times during the show. (Many girls in the audience realized that they had the same kimono-wrap blouse that Robert was wearing onstage.) “Sick Again” now came right after the opening salvo of “Rock and Roll,” and “How Many More Times” was brought from a four-year oblivion to sub for “Dazed.” Then the backline—the electric cable that powered the stage—went dead. It took a while to get it right, as Peter Grant fumed with rage at the side of the stage. During a strenuous guitar solo in “Kashmir,” a fan up front threw a white sock, which hit Jimmy Page in the face. This was followed by the sock owner’s sneaker, but Page was able to duck. The show ended with “Whole Lotta Love,” followed by a cannonade of encores: “Black Dog” and “Communication Breakdown.”
In the past, the band liked to go back to its hotel for refreshment and then go out to discos and clubs. (Richard Cole later told me he preferred to take the band to gay clubs because no one ever pestered them.) They tried this in Chicago, without Robert, usually the life of the party; the doctor had sent Robert to bed. No one had much fun.
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