Stairway To Heaven (6 page)

Of course, the band didn't have a recording contract yet. But Peter trusted Jimmy's instincts. “If you're already that good, let's do it.”

In October, they rented the Olympic Studios in South London and went to work. Without the backing of a record label, Peter and Jimmy had agreed to share the costs of the studio rental. And with the meter running, they didn't waste a minute.

In just thirty hours, the entire album,
Led Zeppelin
, was recorded. Jimmy and John Paul, who had literally lived in recording studios for years, pushed things along, carrying Bonzo and Robert on their coattails. Pagey orchestrated the entire event, trying to draw the best out of his colleagues. He had planned out every song. He kept the overdubs to a minimum, relying heavily on the group's live sound. Jimmy placed the microphones carefully, some just
inches from the instruments, others on the opposite sides of the studio. And the results were dramatic.

“There was nothing really that complicated about it,” Jimmy said. The band had sounded so good live on that Scandinavian tour that he knew they could go into the studio and make it happen there, too. He was confident, not cocky. The songs weren't altered that much from their live versions, except “Babe I'm Gonna Leave You,” which he rearranged on-site.

Robert loved what he heard during the playbacks of the tapes. He felt inspired and stirred up. Having such great musicians playing behind him had spurred him on. The whole experience, he said, was so sweet.

There was no holding back Plant's phrasing and passion. And in “Babe I'm Gonna Leave You,” when he crooned “Baby, baby, baby” with feeling and intensity, those words instantly became a Plant trademark that endured for the duration of the band's history.

Pagey said he felt liberated during those sessions, letting his guitar lead him as well as the other way around. He caressed a Fender 800 pedal steel guitar on “Your Time Is Gonna Come” and switched to a borrowed acoustic Gibson for “Black Mountain Side.” He brought a violin bow into the studio, letting it run rampant over his guitar strings in “Dazed and Confused” and “How Many More Times.” He even sang background vocals on “Communication Breakdown”—a rarity throughout Zeppelin's twelve-year career.

John Paul went about his work methodically, content to let the others gain most of the foreground attention, but still creating his own spotlight with sounds like the dramatic church organ on “Your Time Is Gonna Come.” He could bring electricity to the band that could send chills quivering down your spine for hours.

And then there was Bonham. He lived up to his billing in songs like “Good Times Bad Times,” where he sacrificed his single Ludwig bass drum to the gods, wrenching more out of it than most drummers could pry from a dozen of them. Jimmy would sometimes look over and became mesmerized by what John was doing on the drums.

The production costs were remarkably low—less than 1,800 pounds, including the artwork on the album jacket, that memorable scene of the zeppelin Hindenburg descending toward a catastrophic and fiery end. Ultimately, that debut album grossed a staggering 3.5 million pounds, a remarkable figure, particularly for the times.

 

As the recording session came to a close, the band was feeling so positive about their new undertaking that they collectively decided that they didn't need to lean on the New Yardbirds name to capture the attention they felt they deserved. “Let's go for it,” Jimmy said. “The music will speak for itself.”

So they changed the band's name to Led Zeppelin. It was a name that had emerged from a conversation I had months earlier with Keith Moon and John Entwistle in New York while I was touring with the Yardbirds. Moon and Entwistle were growing weary of the Who and were kidding about starting a new band with Jimmy Page. Moon joked, “I've got a good name for it. Let's call it Lead Zeppelin, 'cause it'll go over like a lead balloon.”

We all roared. The next day, I told Jimmy about it, drawing a laugh out of him, too. It apparently stuck in his mind. Ultimately, Jimmy changed the spelling of “lead” to “led,” thus avoiding any possibility of mispronunciation.

A
s enthusiastic as the band felt, as confident as they were in the music they could collectively make, that didn't immediately translate into universal acceptance. Peter Grant had lined up a series of gigs at British clubs like the Marquee and at a number of college campuses, including Surrey University and Liverpool University. The early audiences were sparse, however; they reacted, in fact, as though they couldn't be bothered. While the band was nearly inciting its own riot onstage, there was polite applause from the crowds but none of the raucous, shrieking enthusiasm that would soon become part of the whole Zeppelin scene. It was a sobering experience for the entire band.

Jimmy just shook his head. “I don't get it. Their response is
under
whelming. Why aren't they taking us seriously? What a joke!”

Bonzo, his ego bruised by the lukewarm reception, had a theory: “Maybe we're just too much for them, and they just don't know how to react.” Their music, he reasoned, was so spirited and so potent that audiences were just stunned by it all. It measured 8.0 on the Richter scale, and the crowds were apparently just holding on, trying to ride out the convulsions and keep their beer glasses from being jolted out of their hands.

That's when Peter turned his attention to America—an American tour and a highly publicized recording contract. He had just returned from the States, where he had emerged from some tough negotiating with Atlantic Records with an unprecedented recording contract for the new band. Atlantic—the
same label that had helped turn Cream into a huge although short-lived phenomenon—was looking for the next Supergroup, and Peter convinced them that Led Zeppelin was the answer. Even before Atlantic's Ahmet Ertegun had heard the tapes from that first Zeppelin recording session, he decided that he didn't want to let this band get away. Eventually, he brought out his checkbook, wrote out a $200,000 advance—the kind that only someone like Elvis Presley could command in those days. Even more important, especially for Pagey, Peter had insisted that the band itself retain full control over its music. No exceptions.

Immediately, Atlantic issued a press release that began the high-powered hype that critics of the band immediately attacked. According to the record company's initial promotion, “Top English and American rock musicians who have heard the [first Zeppelin] tracks have compared the LP to the best of Cream and Jimi Hendrix, and have called Led Zeppelin the next group to reach the heights achieved by Cream and Hendrix.”

After the disappointments in the British clubs, the Atlantic contract couldn't have been more delicious. The band was ecstatic over the deal—Bonzo raced out and bought a Jaguar XK 150 with his share of the money. But as the news hit the rock press, the initial publicity was negative. Thanks in part to the Atlantic hype, columnists referred to Zeppelin as a commercial, capitalist, overly promoted group that still needed to prove itself musically. Those were the kinds of demoralizing articles that Zeppelin read—and tried to ignore—as they headed for the States for their initial U.S. tour.

 

My first hands-on exposure to Zeppelin came in America in December 1968. Before the debut album was yet released to support those U.S. concert dates, Peter Grant felt it was still worth the gamble to see if they could find a niche in America. “England doesn't seem to be rushing to buy tickets to see you play,” he told Jimmy. “Let's see what happens across the Atlantic.”

Peter painted a best-case scenario of what might happen in America. If the band could create some excitement, he said, that enthusiasm might snowball into an avalanche that could sweep not only North America, but boomerang back to England and Europe as well.

Peter realized it was an unusual, perhaps even foolish strategy. After all, the band was even less known in the States than in England. The first album would not be released until January. But Peter became convinced that waiting for something to happen in England might be suicidal.

“A new group can sit around for months in the U.K. and no one even notices,” Peter told Jimmy. “There aren't that many places to play here.”

By comparison, America was a potential gold mine, if not now at least in the future. Peter had five years of experience in the U.S. with bands like the
Yardbirds, the Animals, Herman's Hermits, and the New Vaudeville Band. He was a gutsy guy, willing to take risks, even with an unproven commodity like Led Zeppelin.

Peter felt he knew America inside out—which cities, which clubs, which amphitheaters to make part of that first tour. As Jimmy had done months earlier when he recruited the members of the band, Peter began making a list of his own, jotting down U.S. sites that would be critical to maximize Zeppelin's exposure. The Fillmores in New York and San Francisco. The Boston Tea Party. The Grande Ballroom in Detroit.

The list grew. By the time the itinerary was complete, it included more than twenty cities. “Let's give it a shot,” Peter told his secretary.

There were some immediate complications, however. Peter had scheduled the first American gig in Denver on December 26. Peter realized he would need to fly the band out of England just before Christmas. “I'm shitting just thinking about telling the band that they'll have to be away from their families on Christmas,” he said to one of his assistants. “This may turn out to be a scheduling nightmare.”

Three of the band members—John Paul, Robert, and Bonzo—were married and seemingly committed enough to their relationships to perhaps send out an SOS at the mere mention of leaving their families behind at Christmas. Jimmy, the only single member of the band, was dating an American girl name Lynn whom he had met in Boston when he toured with the Yardbirds and had brought her to England to live with him; Peter figured that pulling Jimmy away from her wouldn't be easy, either. So Peter put off telling the band the details of the American tour for as long as possible.

Finally, Peter got up the nerve. He called the band together in his office and told them about the basics of the U.S. tour. “Through much of it,” he said, “you'll be opening for Vanilla Fudge. Oh, and you'll be starting on Boxing Day, the day after Christmas. That means you've got to leave England on December twenty-third.” Peter also told them that he wasn't going with them; he would be home for Christmas.

Peter waited for the fireworks to begin. To his surprise, no one even flinched, at least not visibly. “Well, let's just do what we have to do,” Robert said. “When does the plane leave?”

Weeks later, every member of the band would swear that he'd never do anything like that again. But for the moment, they seemed determined to turn Zeppelin into the next Supergroup, and they trusted Peter's judgment.

Peter felt confident about what awaited the band across the Atlantic. “Why shouldn't it go right?” he asked himself. He couldn't come up with any answers.

Led Zeppelin packed their bags, ready to test America's waters.

 

“Be at L.A. airport at four tomorrow,” Peter told me during a long-distance phone call. “That's when the band's plane touches down. And, Richard, don't let them get into any trouble.”

I had been in Los Angeles for nearly a week, wrapping up my work with Terry Reid during his American tour. But I was eager to begin my new assignment with Led Zeppelin. Of course, I knew Jimmy Page from the Yardbirds tour earlier in the year and figured anything he touched would, by definition, be first-class. My expectations were further boosted during several phone calls with Peter, during which his enthusiasm and optimism about Zeppelin seemed to grow more profuse with each subsequent conversation.

“You better brace yourself, Richard,” Peter said. “You won't believe their sound. It's sensational.”

At LAX, Jimmy came off the plane first, then Robert Plant and John Bonham. Kenny Pickett, a roadie on that first tour, was with them, too. John Paul Jones planned to meet us in Denver, arriving on a separate flight from Newark, New Jersey, where he and his wife had spent the Christmas holidays with singer Madeline Bell.

Jimmy wasn't the only face in the band that was familiar to me. I had known John Paul from my early days in the music business in London. Also, back in October, as Zeppelin had begun to take shape, I had briefly met Robert and Bonzo at Peter's office on Oxford Street during a short break in my own touring with some of Peter's other bands. Since Led Zeppelin was a client of Peter's, I figured I'd be working with them someday, and we exchanged some brief pleasantries. But at that moment, the possible significance of this band didn't register. Frankly, I was only in London for ten days and was much more interested in finding an open pub than spending too much time getting acquainted with Plant and Bonham.

During those first few days in America, however, I took an immediate liking to Bonzo. He was a congenial fellow with a rich sense of humor and a contagious laugh. “Is this your idea of Christmas, Cole?” he exclaimed as we drove along the Sunset Strip in eighty-degree weather. “I didn't pack any fuckin' T-shirts or a swimsuit! You better change this weather before I get really pissed off!”

Robert, on the other hand, was harder for me to figure out. From the beginning, he had an aura of arrogance around him—arrogance coupled with anxiety—that created a shell that was difficult to penetrate. This was the first time he and Bonzo had been to America, and Robert in particular appeared nervous about what awaited him. “I'll be fine once we get that first concert behind us,” he told me. Until then, however, he was moody, irritable, and tense.
While Bonham joked about America, Robert seemed genuinely upset about being there. You could feel his nervous stomach a block away.

During those three days in L.A. before we flew to Denver, the band submitted to a couple of press interviews, but they decided to forgo rehearsals. “The act is sharp,” John Paul said. “We've had some time to get it into shape in England.”

We ate Christmas dinner together—cooked by Bonzo—in our hotel rooms at the Château Marmont off Sunset Boulevard. There wasn't much talk as we ate, with the homesickness and the loneliness of Christmas Day really sinking in. “I hate to dwell on it, but this is really shitty being this far away from my wife on Christmas,” Robert complained. “Really shitty!”

Jimmy agreed, but asked us to keep things in perspective. “It's a sacrifice,” he said, “but there's going to be a payoff. This band has a lot going for it. Let's make the best of it.”

The morning after Christmas, we headed back to LAX, boarding a TWA flight to Denver. That night, we met up with John Paul and assembled backstage at the Denver Coliseum, with Zeppelin's first American concert just minutes away.

Almost futilely, the band tried to stay calm backstage. Clearly, Robert and Bonzo were the most uneasy and restless. “Let's knock 'em dead, but let's get it over with, too,” Robert said. There was nervous pacing and biting of fingernails.

Zephyr, a band headlined by an attractive vocalist and keyboard player named Candy Givens, opened the show. Throughout their set, the tension built backstage. Bonzo nervously tapped on some cardboard boxes piled up in our dressing room. John Paul leaned silently against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest, staring silently at the floor, lost in his own thoughts.

After forty-five minutes, Zephyr left the stage, and Led Zeppelin was announced. “Ladies and gentlemen, for their first American appearance, from London, England, please welcome Led Zeppelin!”

Jimmy, John Paul, Robert, and John glanced at one another, heaved a collective sigh, and paraded single file down the concrete stairs toward the stage. The applause was steady but not overwhelming.

Led Zeppelin performed on a revolving platform that night. Jimmy dreaded the thought of playing on a moving stage; he had done it a couple of times with the Yardbirds and despised it. For the other band members, it was their first time. “It's like a fucking merry-go-round that's out of control,” Jimmy told the rest of the band just minutes before their set began. “The stage moves slowly, but it just never stops spinning. It's disorienting. When the stage finally does come to a halt, you might be facing in any direction.”

As a joke, as a way of cutting the ice backstage, I asked the band if anyone wanted some Dramamine before the show began. No one even cracked a smile. All of them were feeling the strain.

Most of those Denver fans, of course, had come to see Vanilla Fudge. But Led Zeppelin didn't appear inhibited by their supporting role. Robert, his flaxen curls aglow under crimson lights, his shirt half open, pranced barefoot across the stage, striking contorted poses with Mick Jagger confidence, releasing his high-voltage voice toward the heavens.

“Good Times Bad Times”…“Dazed and Confused”…“Communication Breakdown.” I could see the band begin to relax as the set progressed. After the early tunes, a gentle smirk came over Bonham's face that seemed to say, “Not bad…not bad!”

Jimmy, like a magician pulling surprises from his top hat, became more aggressive, teasing raw, unpredictable wah-wahs out of his Fender, his fingers dancing from fret to fret, bending the strings on the flashy guitar that Jeff Beck had given him.

“I Can't Quit You Baby”…“You Shook Me”…“Your Time Is Gonna Come.” With each song, the crowd's excitement built.

While John Paul projected an aura of coolness, his calculated bass line gradually helped escalate the band to just this side of anarchy. And then there was Bonzo. More than midway through their set, he was engineering a frantic, passionate attack on his drumskins, showing no mercy, never relinquishing control. If he were a bombardier pilot, you wouldn't want to be in the line of fire.

One moment, the music was delicate and precise; the next, it was violent and reckless. It was the kind of music that almost makes your ears bleed. At the end of the set, just an hour after it started, Zeppelin had announced to the rock world that they had arrived.