Stairway To Heaven (21 page)

“I never thought touring would become this much of a grind,” Robert said. “But it has.” It wasn't as much fun as it used to be for anyone.

Peter and I talked a lot about the band's safety and agreed that the more time we spent in hotel rooms, away from the maddening crowd, the better. For the most part, we could hire someone to bring just about anything we wanted to our hotel rooms, from the most expensive foods to the ripest girls. In Montreal, we were staying at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, having checked in the day before our concert at the Forum. One evening, Bonzo was visiting the suite that Peter and I shared, and the three of us were becoming nostalgic for home comforts. We called room service and ordered a few rounds of our favorites—egg and chips, and HP brown sauce. No matter how expensive the delicacies we could afford by then, we couldn't pass up a real working-class dish like this.

As we finished our meal, there was a knock at the door, and when I answered it, there were two young girls—one a redhead, the other a brunette. “Hi,” the redhead said. “We met in New York last year. I thought we'd come up and say hello.”

I invited them in, and within half an hour, Peter had left and the girls and I were in bed in one of the bedrooms. Things usually happened that fast. There was little if any courtship or game-playing; it was the sex I was interested in, and apparently so were they.

Bonzo, who couldn't be bothered with our partying, was watching TV in the living room. It didn't seem to distress him that we were making love just a few feet away. However, the noise from the girls finally started to bug him. He picked up one of the girls' shoes by the front door. “Let me give her something to really shout about!” He proceeded to drop his pants—and shit in the shoe!

A few minutes later, when the brunette went to retrieve her shoe, she discovered Bonzo's memento. A horrified expression came over her face, but she seemed too frightened to say anything. She gingerly carried her shoes out the door as she and her friend left.

The next night, during the show at the Forum, Bonzo came offstage for a few moments in the middle of the concert and said, “You're not gonna believe this, Richard. The girl with the shit-filled shoe is sitting in the third row. I hope she doesn't throw it at me.”

At the end of the concert, we were climbing into our limos, preparing for our getaway to the airport. Just then, the brunette appeared out of nowhere, running toward the cars. “Fuck, this is all we need,” I mumbled to myself.

A security guard grabbed her a few feet from the front limo. She shouted out to us, “Remember me? You shit in my shoe yesterday! I just wanted to thank you for a wonderful night!”

You never know what's going to make people happy.

 

Although we didn't venture out as much as we once had, this trip to America was far from uneventful. More than in any other U.S. tour to date, we received a flurry of death threats. Even in the earliest days of Zeppelin, there had been occasional threats, but, perhaps naively, we ignored them. By 1971, however, the threats had almost become weekly occurrences. In Chicago, the promoter got a telephone call claiming that “Jimmy is going to be shot by someone in the audience tonight.” In Detroit, a scrawled message was surreptitiously left on a hotel porter's desk; it read, “Two members of Led Zeppelin aren't going to get out of Detroit alive!”

Maybe some demented cranks were just having fun. But I knew we couldn't take a chance that some disturbed nut was really aiming for a member of the
band. The police were always notified of the threats, and in some cities we hired extra security. But Peter and I were never confident that we had hired enough. And when we were away from our hotel suites, I was almost always paranoid, fearing that something was about to happen.

Fortunately, the tour proceeded without incident. Maybe these things are part of the price of fame. But it was terribly disturbing.

The band members themselves were generally less anxious than I. In fact, I occasionally got chewed out when they'd see me or one of our security people beat up someone in the audience. “Damn it, Richard, go easy on 'em,” Robert told me one evening after I had tackled a fan in Minneapolis. But Peter and I had decided that we would never underestimate what kind of potential damage these crackpots might cause.

“You do your job and I'll do mine,” I shouted at Robert. “A lot of these fans are stoned, and their state of mind is just too unpredictable. Whether you like it or not, I'm going to be aggressive if I feel I have to.”

By the early seventies, our contract with every promoter stipulated that a crash barrier had to be positioned in front of the stage. We never went on without it, although on occasion it wasn't built to our specifications and fans could reach the stage just by leaning over it.

The 1971 American tour ended with two concerts in Honolulu. The band rented the same mansion at Diamond Head that we had used in 1969, but this time Jimmy insisted on having it all to himself. The rest of the band members had decided to invite their wives to join them, and Jimmy—still the only unmarried one—felt that the presence of the spouses was no reason to put a crimp in his own sexual shenanigans.

So the rest of us camped at a Hilton down the road. Some members of the crew were a little upset, having heard about the luxury of the mountaintop home. But the Hilton wasn't bad, either. We stayed in the high-rise suites, with a breathtaking view of the Pacific. We also could take full advantage of hotel room service, and by the end of our four-day stay we had literally drained their liquor stashes. It helped take my mind off my concerns over security.

One afternoon, Peter, Bonzo, and I had returned from the beach and were sitting on the balcony of my suite, plotting the rest of the day. Johnny Larke, a member of the crew whose job included keeping our room refrigerators fully stocked, came into the suite and asked if there was anything we needed.

“Larke,” Bonham said, “we've been here almost twenty-four hours and we haven't gotten into any mischief yet.” Bonzo hadn't changed; if there was a chance to create a little havoc or get into trouble, he'd find it. “What's there to do around here?”

“Well, the exotic drinks are good!” Johnny said.

“What kinds do they have?” Peter asked. Johnny grabbed a menu and handed it to him. Peter took a quick glance and then said, “It takes too long to read this fucking thing. Larke, have room service send up four of every drink on the menu. You can join us.”

In twenty-five minutes, two room service valets were pushing their carts into our suites, bringing in enough alcohol to neutralize the senses of every sunbather on Waikiki Beach. There were nearly a hundred drinks on those carts—and we began attacking them, one after another. Not a single one went to waste. After an afternoon guzzling mai-tai's and Hawaiian highballs, green dragons and Waikiki wowees, the rest of the day was a complete blur. With the stress of this American tour, I was only too happy to lapse into a fog for a while.

 

Late that afternoon, we used Jonesy's camera to take a few pictures of each other. With several shots left on the roll of film and some drinks in us to warp our thinking a bit, Bonham made a suggestion.

“Let's take pictures of each other's dicks! We've got to have something to remember Hawaii by!”

And so we did. Jonesy, Bonham, Plant, and I took turns posing for the camera. Long shots. Close-ups. Even a wide angle or two now and then. It was all in good fun, and we were laughing hysterically throughout the entire episode. At one point, Bonzo suggested that we make a few bucks by selling the photos to the
National Enquirer
, but cooler heads prevailed.

 

Later that year, at a family party at John Paul's house, Jonesy brought out the slides of Hawaii, forgetting about the “dick shots.” He showed about a dozen beach photos and a few pictures by the pool. Then the dick shots flashed up on the six-foot screen in the living room. John Paul's in-laws gasped as they got real insiders' looks at Led Zeppelin.

The next day, Mo Jones called Maureen Plant and said, “Oh, I saw a lovely photograph of your husband last night taken in Hawaii. Absolutely lovely!”

I
n the early days of Led Zeppelin, Jimmy Page and Robert Plant established an ambitious goal for the band: Eventually to perform in every country in the world.

Robert had a love of traveling and exotic places. He wanted to see everything, everywhere. If he wasn't going to do it with the band, he wanted to do it on his own. But Led Zeppelin provided him with the perfect opportunity to globe-trot.

Jimmy was possessed with the same kind of wanderlust. Unlike Robert, he had the advantage of having no family ties to keep him close to home. In particular, Jimmy was attracted to the Far East, thanks to his increasing fascination with Eastern philosophy and the mystics. He wanted to suck up some of that Eastern culture firsthand and introduce the countries to rock and roll at the same time.

John Bonham and John Paul Jones were not as enamored with the prospect of traveling. They were much more comfortable as homebodies, content to spend time with their families rather than deal with airports and hotels. In fact, when you'd mention their families to them, the softer side of both Bonzo and Jonesy would surface. Particularly with Bonzo, that surprised a lot of people. After all, on the road he would sometimes behave like a raving lunatic, but his wife, Pat, provided him with stability and a haven that allowed him just to be John Bonham. A lot of people never saw Bonzo's warmth; I thought it was one of his most precious attributes.

 

In 1971, Jimmy and Robert wouldn't back away from pressuring their mates to explore new frontiers overseas. Finally, after weeks of discussion, John Paul and Bonzo agreed. That translated into six performances in a week in Japan—in Tokyo, Hiroshima, Osaka, and Kyoto.

We flew first-class to Japan in late September 1971, and from the opening day I could sense that this was going to be an eventful tour, however short. Yes, the music was why we were there. But offstage, things never calmed down. It was one bizarre incident, one weird episode after another.

At the very first concert at Budokan Hall in Tokyo, before Robert had even sung a single note, he was already nursing a split lip. Amazingly, the injury never really interfered with his ability to perform. But it attracted a lot of attention from reporters, although Robert consistently declined to discuss it with them.

“It's really none of your fucking business,” Robert shouted at one journalist. “It's just between me and Bonzo.”

Bonham and Plant had an interesting love-hate relationship. They had been pals for a long time, but sometimes they bickered like spouses who knew each other too well. Their quarrels were usually over trivial things, and any bad blood never really lasted very long.

Backstage at Budokan Hall, the two of them continued an argument they had been having for weeks—a dispute over which of them would assume responsibility for a thirty-seven-pound petrol bill for an automobile ride to Scotland they had taken together. Bonzo had paid for the gas but became tired of asking Robert to reimburse him.

Finally, in Japan, Bonzo grew weary of the debate. He figured that the most expedient way to make his point was with his fists. He swung at Robert, connecting with his lip, drawing blood and leaving it cut and swollen.

Robert was stunned, more from emotional rather than physical pain. He began cursing at Bonham while dabbing his lip with a handkerchief. Within minutes, however, the concert began. I never heard them discuss Bonzo's punch again.

“Robert and I have known each other for so long that there's never any maliciousness in these fights,” Bonzo told me later. “We just lose our tempers sometimes.”

By 1971, Led Zeppelin had become so successful and so wealthy that we could afford to pay the price to ensure that every show came off without a hitch. We brought Rusty Brutsche, one of the owners of Showco in Dallas, to Japan with us, along with his company's sound system, which was the best in the business. Rather than rely on local equipment and local engineers, I felt it was worth the cost to bring the best from home. It was the right decision.

Throughout Japan, Zeppelin's music was remarkably well received. Even though rock music was relatively new in Tokyo and throughout Japan, the kids obviously knew our music well. While the Japanese have a reputation for being quieter and more reserved than Westerners, fans loosened their kimonos and let their hair down when they came to Zeppelin's concerts. From the first notes of “Immigrant Song” to the final downbeat of the last encore, the audiences cheered. There was some variety in the shows from night to night. But the crowds saved their loudest response for some rock oldies, including Bo Diddley's “I'm a Man,” Chuck Berry's “Maybellene,” and the Isley Brothers' “Twist and Shout.” Maybe they knew more about rock 'n' roll than we had figured.

For me, however, the music seemed to be overshadowed by other events on Zeppelin's agenda. Free of the paranoia that I had felt in America, we began to eagerly sample Japanese nightlife. On our first evening in Tokyo, Tats Nagashima, our promoter-host, took us to what he called the most elegant restaurant in Tokyo. “You will be quite impressed,” he promised.

Tats was right. There was plenty of sukiyaki and tempura. Live, traditional music was played on the koto and the samisen. Most important, the sake flowed and the geisha girls were everywhere and very friendly.

The girls served us the sake in little white thimbles, the traditional way of drinking the winelike beverage. But Robert complained for all of us: “At this rate, we won't get drunk until we're old men!”

Bonzo seemed just as impatient. “Can we get some bigger cups?” he finally pleaded with one of the geishas. “Maybe a coffee cup. Or a beer mug. Or some buckets!”

That night, we learned that in the Japanese tradition, if you offer a geisha some sake, she has to drink it. So to be friendly, the band kept giving the girls as much sake as we were drinking ourselves. As the evening wore on, we watched them become more and more giddy.

Of course, better than most human beings, Zeppelin could hold their alcohol, whether it was sake or Scotch. But still, there were things that we didn't quite understand that night. “Here's what somebody needs to explain to me,” Robert said, trying to get his equilibrium. “Usually, when we drink a lot, the women begin looking better and better. Here, while we're getting drunker and drunker, these geisha girls are looking older and more haggard!”

“He's right,” I chimed in. Then I directed a question at Tats: “Why do these fucking birds seem so old and ugly?”

Perhaps I had phrased the question a little too bluntly. Tats, a tall man who fit the stereotype of the polite and proper Japanese, appeared startled. But he cleared his throat and answered, “These girls who are now serving us are the kitchen staff, not the geisha girls. You got all those girls so drunk that
the restaurant had to send them home! They were too courteous to tell you that they had too much to drink.”

Later that night, despite our inebriated state, the partying continued. We ended up at a discotheque called Byblos, where we started drinking Japanese beer, almost by the case. We might have also snorted some cocaine except we couldn't get it there; it seemed to be taboo in Japan. Yes, alcohol was still our primary substance of choice, but elsewhere, we had begun using cocaine more frequently, simply because it was so available. When it came to getting high, we were never too discriminating.

At one point, as we watched the action at the disco, Bonzo exclaimed, “Look at that fucking disc jockey! He's playing records inside a cage that doesn't stop moving!”

The DJ was on a mobile platform that rose and fell like a runaway elevator. “That guy is not only a fucking joke, but he also hasn't played a Led Zeppelin record the entire night,” Bonzo said as we stood on a balcony watching the elevator continue to rise and fall below us. “I think we need to let him know how we feel.”

“Oh, oh,” I thought. “I have a feeling this could be trouble.”

Bonzo unzipped his pants, and, before I could react, he began pissing on the cage—and on the disc jockey in it—as it rose toward us. John's aim was impeccable; the disc jockey would have needed an umbrella to keep from being bathed in Bonzo's bodily fluids. Fortunately, there was no law in Tokyo against urinating on a disc jockey!

I quickly led Bonham out to the street, where we jumped in a limo that had been waiting for us. The driver took us back to the Hilton, but when we arrived, Bonzo was so drunk I could barely get him out of the car, much less help him through the lobby up to our rooms. On the hotel steps, he dropped to one knee and didn't seem as though he was going to get up.

“Bonham, get your goddamn feet moving,” I said, trying to drag him toward the entrance. But it was no use. Exasperated, I finally just left him there on the sidewalk, only a few feet from the gutter, and headed up to my room. Japanese passersby walked around Bonzo, letting him sleep it off. Before dawn, he had somehow found his own way up to his room.

I realized later that Peter probably would have taken a samurai sword to my midsection if he ever found out that I had left Bonham sleeping on the curb.

 

Although we were in Japan only a week, it seemed as if we were trying to make up for any depravity we may have missed on earlier tours. At one point, Bonzo and I decided to go shopping for samurai swords in the hotel gift shop. That night, with our swords in hand, we began swinging them at one another
like a couple of maniacs. As the swords clashed against one another, I joked, “Do you have the phone number of the nearest emergency hospital? I think it's best to be prepared.”

Within minutes, we had switched the target of our aggression to the hotel room itself, slashing anything in the room that would cut…the drapes, the bedspread and mattress, the wallpaper, the paintings. With each swing, we probably added hundreds of dollars in damages to our hotel bill.

John Paul was asleep next door, and we decided to invite him to participate in the anarchy. We knocked on his door, then banged a little louder, and finally broke in, only to find him still sleeping peacefully, having been tranquilized by an overdose of alcohol.

“Let's take him out into the hallway,” Bonzo suggested. “I challenge him to keep sleeping out there.”

I grabbed John Paul's legs while Bonham lifted him from under the armpits. We set him down in the hallway, threw a blanket on him, and left him there for the rest of the night.

When the hotel staff spotted Jonesy, they were too polite to awaken him. Instead, they brought three portable screens up to our floor and positioned them around him to minimize any disturbances. He slept that way until morning.

Still, the Tokyo Hilton didn't know quite what to make of us. When I checked the band out of the hotel, the manager called me into his office. In his best and most apologetic English, he said, “I know you are very good musicians, but we can't have this kind of behavior in our hotel. There was a lot of damage in your rooms. One of your people got drunk in the gutter. Another one slept in the hall. I'm sorry, but I cannot let you stay in this hotel ever again. Please look elsewhere next time you come back to Tokyo.”

Sayonara!

But even lectures by hotel managers didn't have any effect on our behavior. It just never connected that we were out of line and that we needed to bring our excesses under control. Later in the tour, on the bullet train to Osaka, our high spirits hadn't been tempered at all. I had asked Tats to have some items waiting for us on the train. “Be sure the band has twelve flasks of hot sake, six bottles of Suntory whiskey, and some sandwiches for the journey.”

He didn't blink an eye. “Consider it done,” he said.

Once on the train, it didn't take us long to devour the liquor—and then to start creating trouble. Jimmy had met a woman in Tokyo—a cute Japanese girl named Kanuko with beautiful brown eyes who didn't seem to know much about Led Zeppelin. Jimmy invited her to accompany us on the rest of the
tour, and I guess he expected us to treat her with respect. Bonham, however, had other ideas.

“She's much too sweet for Jimmy,” Bonzo told me. “I'll show her what the world of rock and roll is really like.”

While Jimmy and Kanuko were eating in the dining car, Bonzo found her purse in her sleeping berth and took it into the bathroom with him. When he emerged, he had a sadistic grin on his face. “Guess what!” he said. “I just shit in the handbag!” This was becoming a pattern.

Bonzo closed the purse and put it back where he had found it. Thirty minutes later, Kanuko retrieved her purse and took it with her to the ladies' room. No more than a minute later, she emerged from the bathroom—pale, stunned, crying. Bonzo whispered to me, “It looks like the shit hit the purse!”

Kanuko walked over to Jimmy and showed him Bonzo's work of art. In an instant, Jimmy went absolutely berserk. “Who the fuck did this?” he screamed, storming down the aisle of the train, frantically trying to decide whose neck to wring. All of us scattered, figuring that he was furious enough to butcher the first person he got his hands on.

Bonzo leaped into Peter's sleeping bunk, not realizing that Peter was already in it. Not only did he land on top of the oversized, burly manager, but as he did, the drink in Bonzo's hand spilled over both of them.

“You fucking asshole!” Peter growled. “Get off me! Get the fuck off me!”

Bonzo leaped up, absorbing a glancing blow to the stomach from Peter before he could extricate himself and spring away.

Robert had sought refuge in my bunk, forcing me to seek an alternate hiding place. Meanwhile, a very damp Peter began lumbering through the train, taking a swing at any familiar face he saw, including mine, causing screams from other passengers, who were convinced that terrorists had the train under siege.

“Cole, you're fired!” Peter roared. “As soon as this fucking train stops, make arrangements for the next flight back to England! You're through!”