Stairway To Heaven (36 page)

That night, with the stress of the financial misunderstanding behind me, I felt the need to let off some steam. After the Forum concert, the band, Johnny Bindon, and I decided to go to the Rainbow for some partying. About two hours after we had arrived, one of Rod Stewart's roadies approached me with an invitation. “Rod's having a party tonight. Why don't you stop by? I'm sure he'd be glad to see you.”

I hadn't seen Rod in a few years and figured we'd both enjoy reminiscing a
little. Even more important, I knew his bar would be brimming with enough booze to give cirrhosis of the liver to half of California. So we got our limo drivers to take us up to Rod's house. When we got there, however, and pressed the buzzer at the iron gate and identified ourselves, we received a rather cool reception: “Mr. Stewart would prefer that you leave.”

I was already drunk enough from a couple of hours at the Rainbow that I wasn't interested in taking no for an answer. I got belligerent, and, along with one of our security men, began banging on the gate, finally lifting it off its hinges and tossing it onto the ground. We drove over it on our way up the driveway.

No one answered the doorbell—“Unhospitable bastards, aren't they?” I said to Jonesy—so I began to climb up the drainpipe, figuring that every party needs a gate-crasher or two. But apparently Rod didn't agree. He never opened the front door, but I could hear him screaming from inside: “Cole, I'm gonna call the cops if you and your asshole friends aren't off this property in sixty seconds!”

Normally, I would have taken my chances and tried to burst through the door. This late in the tour, after so many hassles, it wasn't worth pursuing. We turned around and headed back to the Rainbow.

 

For the last of those six Forum concerts, the band invited Keith Moon to join them onstage during the last encore. The crowd became delirious as Moonie played the congas and the kettle drums for “Whole Lotta Love.” In the excitement of the moment, however, none of us realized that Keith was standing directly on the part of the stage where the pyrotechnics crew had positioned the smoke bombs, which were programmed to ignite at the end of the song. As the last note of “Whole Lotta Love” drifted from the stage, the bombs exploded in something resembling a Fourth of July fireworks show—right under Keith's ass. Poor Moonie must have leaped three feet into the air, letting out a scream and running off the stage with a look of absolute terror on his face.

“You cunts!” he screamed at us afterward. “You knew that was going to happen! You wanted to scare the shit out of me, didn't you?”

 

During a three-week break in the U.S. tour, most of us flew back to London. But Jimmy planned to jet to Cairo with Mick Hinton, apparently to do some Aleister Crowley–related Egyptology research.

On the flight home, Bonzo said to me, “Do you know the reason Jimmy is taking Mick and not you to Egypt? He knows that if he decides to sacrifice someone, he'd find it a lot harder to do away with you than Mick!”

No problem, I thought. I had other plans in England, including renewing
my heroin connections. At that point in my life, they were as important to me as anything else. That's how far down I had slipped.

Bonzo stared out the window of the plane and said, “The longer you tour, and the more successful and the bigger you get, the more touring just becomes a fucking chore. It's work. We make a lot of money, but we don't have a life. With the bodyguards, we're imprisoned by our own success. Sometimes I think it's a fucking nightmare.”

A
fter three weeks in England, just a day before Zeppelin was scheduled to return to the States, I fell and broke a cap on one of my front top teeth. It was poor timing, and my dentist couldn't do the repair work before I had to leave. “Why don't you remove the gold stub that's left,” he said, “and when the tour's over, I'll do the recapping.”

That's what I agreed to do. With a gaping hole in the front of my mouth, I looked even meaner than usual during that last leg of the American tour.

On the polar flight to Seattle, I had taken three Mandrax and was pretty numb for the entire flight. I was probably a little obnoxious, too, and one of the first-class stewardesses took particular offense at a necklace I was wearing—it featured an artist's palette that read, “Fuck off!” It wasn't a gift you'd want to give Mom on Mother's Day.

The flight crew alerted the Seattle police, who took me into custody as I walked off the plane, claiming I had been disturbing the peace on the flight.

“Let's cut the crap!” I told the cops. “Maybe I was a little loud, but you can't arrest me for that.”

Still they looked like they were going to—until Bob DeForest, one of our security advisers, stepped in. He was also a Seattle police captain, and he hated to see us get harassed. The whole incident may have been smoothed over behind the scenes, because I never heard anything more about it.

“Over the years, we should have kept count of the number of times we
could have been busted but weren't,” Bonzo joked. “We probably should have spent more time in prison than on the road!”

 

Zeppelin stayed at the Edgewater Inn in Seattle. As we had routinely done at the Riot House in L.A., we took over an entire floor of the Edgewater for security reasons. At times, when I'd hear unusual noises, I'd sometimes walk the halls or peer down from our balcony to see if the commotion was directed at us. It eased my anxiety, and, overall, things remained calm.

Late one night, however, I spotted a couple of unfamiliar faces exiting the elevator on our floor, and I cornered them. “I'm Jimmy Page's brother,” one of the fellows said. He had a strong Southern twang, which didn't help him make his case.

They didn't realize that I didn't find a breach of our security very amusing. A fan wanting an autograph could be politely turned away, but I saw these guys as troublemakers. They hadn't started off on a good footing by lying about their place in the Page lineage.

“If you assholes know what's good for you, you'll get the fuck out of here!” I shouted at them. One of them began to turn to go, but Pagey's “brother” was apparently insulted by my request. Without warning, he took a wild swing at me, missing by at least two feet. That showed poor judgment on his part. I took a step forward and, with two quick blows, knocked them both to the floor.

By this time, one of our security men, an off-duty cop named Charlie, had raced over to help me. We dragged the intruders out of the hotel and threw them into the parking lot.

“I'm getting tired of this,” I told Charlie. Frankly, I was pretty tired of just about everything having to do with this tour. Despite the hiatus in London, things still seemed out of kilter just days into the last leg.

I headed back to my room only to find that the hoodlums apparently hadn't had enough. They had called the police, who arrived at the Edgewater and listened to these fellows explain how I had assaulted them. The cops, however, were aware of Led Zeppelin's presence at the hotel and realized that some of their colleagues were part of our security team. They called me down to the parking lot to confront my accusers.

“So you guys are telling us that Mr. Cole assaulted you!” one of the cops bellowed.

“Yes,” one of them said meekly.

“Mr. Cole, show them your front teeth.”

I flashed them a big, toothless grin.

“You bastards knocked his tooth out!” the cop said. “You better get the hell out of here before I arrest
you
!”

For the first time in a while, I had something to laugh at. The cops escorted the blokes off the hotel property.

 

On our last day in Seattle, Bonham and I had wandered into Plant's empty hotel room. We were on the balcony, gazing out on Puget Sound. I was lost in my own thoughts, and Bonzo was bouncing on one leg, either having an anxiety attack or in need of a quick stop at the bathroom. As it turned out, he was plotting a going-away present for Seattle.

“Let's toss the room refrigerator into the ocean!” he snickered. Why not? We picked up the small refrigerator in Plant's room, carried it onto the balcony, and heaved it over the side, sending it splashing into the Sound.

Robert happened to be in Pagey's room down the hall and from his vantage point had seen the refrigerator doing a belly flop. “That's great!” he shouted, moving out onto Jimmy's balcony. Then he spotted us perched outside his own room, laughing hysterically. He suddenly realized that it was
his
refrigerator that had taken the dive.

“You assholes!” he screamed. “There were six bottles of Dom Perignon in that refrigerator! Damn you!”

“Oops!” Bonzo quipped. “Do you sense that Robert is angry? Why is Robert always so angry?”

A few minutes later, we watched two fishermen maneuver toward the floating refrigerator and drag it onto their boat. Once they had it on board, they opened its door and tossed the bottles of champagne into the water. “That's wonderful!” I roared. “That Dom Perignon was nineteen sixty-six vintage. It was worth more than the fucking refrigerator!”

 

From Seattle, after a sellout performance in the Kingdome, we flew to Tempe, Arizona, for a concert at the Activities Center. As I was checking the band into Marriott's Camelback Inn, two girls approached me in the lobby. One of them reminded me that I had slept with her during the 1973 tour and then added, “We have some gifts. Can we bring them upstairs?”

I helped her carry about a dozen wrapped presents upstairs, and we set them down in my room. I offered the girls some booze, and they spent the afternoon with us. About an hour after they left, Johnny Bindon came in and asked me who the gifts were for.

“Well,” I said, “let's open 'em. If there's anything we like, they'll be for us!”

There were Indian string ties, belts, and beautiful jewelry. I figured Johnny and I might divide them between ourselves.

At about that same time, one of the girls had called Robert, who she also apparently knew. “Did you like my presents?” she asked him.

“What presents?” he said.

“The ones I left with Richard.”

Robert came storming down the hallway toward my room. He barged in and found Johnny and me sitting on the floor, still admiring the gifts, with torn wrapping paper and boxes everywhere. We must have looked like a couple of kids on Christmas morning.

“You fucking cunts!” Robert screamed. “Those are
my
presents! How could you open
my
presents?”

Oh, brother. The guy's a damn millionaire, I thought to myself, and he's in a rage over things like a couple of string ties.

I handed the gifts over. “I wouldn't want to put a damper on the tour for you, Percy,” I said. “The rest of us are having a lot of fun, too.”

 

From Arizona, we flew to Oakland for a pair of concerts in the Coliseum in late July. Judging by the way the rest of the tour had unfolded, I should have guessed that disaster would strike in Oakland, too. Even so, I never expected that some of us would end up in jail.

Problems started during the first show. We rarely stuck around once a concert was over, but promoter Bill Graham had convinced us to stay for a catered dinner, part of his “Day on the Green” program. Backstage, in the middle of the concert itself, Peter Grant's son, Warren, spotted a wood-carved dressing room plaque that read “Led Zeppelin” and asked one of Bill Graham's assistants if he could have it. For no apparent reason, Graham's employee slapped Warren on the side of the head. Bonham, who had come offstage for a few moments, saw the incident, sprinted toward the assailant, and, with a kick that would have made Pele proud, booted him squarely in the balls. The fellow screamed, staggered backward, slumped to the ground, and was out of business for a while. Bonham cursed at him, then returned to the stage, probably figuring the confrontation was over.

Meanwhile, Peter heard about the incident and went looking for the fellow who had slapped his son. The chap was in no shape to defend himself, but Peter and Johnny Bindon cornered him anyway and pushed him into a dressing room trailer to “discuss” the matter. Over the years, I had seen Peter angry from time to time, but never
this
angry. From where I was positioned, it sounded like Grant and Bindon were being a bit physically agressive with the fellow, shouting obscenities all the while. I stood guard outside the trailer to make sure that none of Graham's friends could get inside to put a halt to things. Until later, I didn't realize how bad the situation had gotten in there.

When the concert was over, we climbed into our limousines, having decided not to stay for dinner after all. At the same time, Graham's assistant
was being loaded into an ambulance for a ride to the hospital to sew up his face.

The next day, Zeppelin had another Oakland concert to do for Graham, and everyone on both sides of the fracas kept a low profile. But less than twenty hours later, when we were back at our suites at the San Francisco Hyatt, the confrontation escalated again. I was in my hotel room, snorting some cocaine with a local girl whom I had invited to spend a couple of days with me. My phone rang, and it was Peter.

“Come up to my room, Cole, and make it quick. Also, make sure you don't have anything on you.”

The floor was swarming with cops. Bill Graham had apparently called out half of the Oakland and San Francisco police departments, including the SWAT team. Some had their guns drawn. Others had their billy clubs poised for action. Bill Graham must have told them that we were Jesse James, John Dillinger, and Baby Face Nelson all rolled into one.

Gregg Beppler, one of our own security men, recognized one of the SWAT team members—someone he had once worked with on the Cleveland Police Department—and tried to intervene on our behalf. “I don't know what you've heard, but these guys with Led Zeppelin are not dangerous. The incident at the Coliseum was blown way out of proportion. Put away your guns.”

The cops served arrest warrants on Bonzo, Peter, Bindon, and me. All the while, they were polite and never brought out their handcuffs. But they meant business. The four of us were arrested, read our rights, and taken to police headquarters. More than anything, I was disgusted. “I guess Bill Graham's showing us how much power he has in this city,” I told Bonzo.

From the police station, Peter phoned Steve Weiss, who immediately began working to get us released. Within two hours we were out of jail, each freed on $250 bail. Our limousine met us at the jail entrance, and we returned to the Hyatt. “What bullshit!” Peter shouted. “What is Graham trying to prove?”

Bonzo just shook his head. “Did you notice that he waited until the second concert was over to turn the police loose? He didn't want to lose any money by arresting us too early.”

“Let's get the hell out of this fucking city,” Peter said. Within two hours, we were in the air, heading for New Orleans.

Battery charges were pressed against all of us. The incident ultimately turned into a legal quagmire that dragged on for months. We finally received suspended jail sentences and were put on probation.

Bill Graham was outraged that our sentences were so lenient. “I can't believe that these guys can kick the hell out of somebody, and then a judge tells
them, ‘Run along now!'” he told the press. The chips usually fell Led Zeppelin's way; this time, they did again.

 

The following weekend, we were scheduled to play before a sold-out crowd at the New Orleans Superdome. The governor of Louisiana had plans to make us “honorary colonels.” That sounded like a lot better treatment than we were getting in California.

Not long after we had checked into the Maison Dupuy Hotel, Robert got a phone call from his wife. I transferred the call to his suite. A few minutes later, Robert appeared in my doorway in a daze.

“What's the matter?” Bonham asked.

“It's Karac,” Robert said, shuffling forward and lowering himself into a chair. “My son's dead.”