Stairway To Heaven (17 page)

D
o you think these cars really float?”

I posed the question to John Bonham, reminding him of the Volkswagen commercials that claim VW bugs are airtight and fare almost as well in the water as Mark Spitz. I was sightseeing in Iceland with Bonham, John Paul, and roadie Jim Dobson, and as we drained the bottles of champagne we had brought with us, we concluded that, except for Ralph Nader himself, no one was better prepared to conduct a Volkswagen consumer test than us.

“Well, I'm willing to try it,” said Bonham, always an enthusiastic recruit, particularly when he was a bit inebriated. “Let's find a lake or a river and get on with it!”

We were in Iceland in June 1970 at the request of the British government. Jasper Parrott, a British talent agent who was more accustomed to handling ballet dancers than rock stars, had been assigned the task of organizing a British cultural extravaganza in Iceland. He asked Led Zeppelin to represent pop music in the festival. Peter saw it as a valuable warm-up for the more important Bath Festival in England, scheduled just a week later. All of us also recognized the prestige of being chosen to represent our home country overseas.

The second day in Reykjavik was when we decided to act like tourists and rent some Land Rovers to see the sights. Hertz, however, wasn't cooperative.

“Sorry,” the Hertz agent explained. “I don't think there's a single Land Rover in the country. What other cars would you like to rent?”

We settled for Volkswagens—one green, the other white. Dobson and I climbed into one of the bugs, and John Paul and Bonzo slid into the other.

While sightseeing, we kept ourselves warm by nipping on a couple bottles of Dom Perignon. Finally, after about three hours of staring at glaciers, geysers, hot springs, and volcanoes, boredom set in. That's when we decided to see if a Volkswagen really could float.

“I'll drive mine into the water,” Bonham volunteered. “Let's find a lake somewhere and give it a try.”

We came upon a river, and Dobson and I got out of our car to survey the scene.

“This could be a historic moment,” I told Dobson. “Will it float or will it sink?”

We made sure the windows of Bonham's white car were rolled up tight. He remained in the driver's seat, with John Paul as his copilot. Bonham drove to the water's edge and stopped, looking out upon the water like Evel Knievel, concentrating on the death-defying feat to follow. He put the car in reverse and drove backward about fifty feet. The tension mounted. Finally, he shifted into first and gunned the engine, aiming for the water.

The VW left land—and hit the river with a thud. It bounced, it bobbed atop the water for a minute or two, and then it settled into a peaceful, rocking float as the engine stalled.

“The fuckin' thing's not sinking!” Dobson shouted. “I can't believe it!”

Dobson may have spoken a bit prematurely. The waterline reached above the door seals, and water began seeping into the car's interior. I suddenly got scared and felt this terrible chill running down my spine. I could envision a newspaper headline blaring, “Rock Musicians Drown While Tour Manager Looks On.”

“Shit, we better get these guys out of there,” I yelled at Dobson. The two of us frantically began to wade into the bitterly cold water. When we reached the car, the lake was still shallow enough for us to stand.

Dobson and I were on opposite sides of the car. Unbelievably, Bonham seemed to be enjoying himself; John Paul, on the other hand, was livid. For some reason, Jonesy had decided to wear a suit on our sightseeing expedition. I figured the poor fella was more concerned about his suit being ruined than anything else.

Dobson and I began pushing the VW to shore as quickly as we could. “Remind me never to drive one of these bugs off the Golden Gate Bridge,” I gasped, trying to ignore the numbness that was overtaking my toes.

In about three minutes, we had maneuvered the car onto land. Bonzo turned the ignition key and the engine started immediately.

“It would have made a great TV commercial,” I told Dobson as we drove
back to our hotel. “We should have filmed it. ‘From the band that brought you “Dazed and Confused” and “Whole Lotta Love”…now it's time to float along with Led Zeppelin!'”

Later that day, John Paul explained why he was so upset when the VW bug began to sink. “It had nothing to do with the suit,” he told me. “Someone gave me some grass last night, and I had stuffed it into my socks. I didn't want it to get wet!”

The Volkswagen incident was thoroughly frivolous, even childish. But the band members were still attracted to those kinds of capers as a release from the pressures they felt—or simply as an escape from an otherwise boring situation. In Iceland, things fell into the latter category.

 

After a few days in Reykjavik, we were delighted when the festival ended and we could finally head home. Peter kept reminding us that the Bath Festival was right around the corner and that it would be another important turning point for the band. As usual, his plans for Zeppelin were very well thought out. “If things go well at Bath,” he said, “we'll be as big at home as we are in the States. That's why this gig was worth making some sacrifices for.”

What kind of sacrifices? Peter had turned down engagements in the U.S.—including a $200,000 offer to play two concerts at the Yale Bowl and in Boston—in order to perform in Bath on July 28 for just $60,000. It was an easier decision for him than you might think. Freddie Bannister, who organized the open-air concert, had promised Peter a crowd of 200,000 people. You don't get crowds much bigger than that, unless you happen to be the Pope.

Led Zeppelin wasn't the only big band on the bill. The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, Dr. John, Country Joe and the Fish, Santana, the Flock, and Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention were also scheduled to perform. The Moody Blues were booked for the festival, too, but they were chased off the stage by an unexpected downpour at midday.

As much as Peter wanted Led Zeppelin to perform at Bath, he went into the negotiations with some inflexible demands. He cared about little else other than making the most of the event for his band. It was more important than money or anything else that might be promised. During the discussions with Bannister, Peter said, “Led Zeppelin
has
to close the festival on Sunday night. And I want us to take the stage at sunset. Precisely at eight o'clock. No later.”

Bannister was puzzled. “Why eight o'clock?”

“That's the exact time that the sun sets,” Peter explained. “If that's when Zeppelin comes onstage, we can have the lights turned on, creating an aura over the band as the sun disappears behind them.” Peter certainly hadn't lost his flair for the dramatic.

Bannister agreed to Peter's starting time, and preparations began for the
event. Jimmy insisted that the set feature songs from the upcoming album, not only to help promote the new record but to introduce the songs to British audiences for the first time. The band spent a couple of days locked away in rehearsals. On June 28, the day of the festival, they were ready.

The Flock preceded Led Zeppelin onstage that night. But as it neared eight o'clock, the Flock apparently had no intention of relinquishing the stage. They played one encore. Then another. As the minutes passed, Peter's impatience turned to rage.

“Get those fuckers off the stage,” he howled at Bannister.

Freddie was desperately trying to keep everyone's feathers unruffled. He pleaded with Peter, “They're almost done. I'm sure they're almost done.”

Peter finally couldn't control himself any longer. At ten minutes before eight, he said, “Take care of those bastards, will you, Cole?”

Tough guy was a role I still could play very well. I rounded up Henry Smith and another roadie, Sandy McGregor. Together, the three of us looked like a bunch of thugs intent on causing some serious bodily injuries. We had reputations as guys you didn't want to fuck with—and those were reputations well earned.

We marched onstage and methodically unplugged the Flock's equipment. “The party's over,” I shouted at the startled band. Henry and I began moving the drums offstage, and the other equipment followed. The Flock was shouting at us to stop. So was Bannister from the wings of the stage. For about ten minutes, it was sheer pandemonium on the stage, but we accomplished our mission. Bekins couldn't have done it more efficiently.

Barely five minutes behind schedule, Zeppelin began its set, with Jimmy wearing a topcoat and a rather ridiculous yokel's hat. Robert, attired in a long-sleeve sweatshirt and jeans, had sprouted a beard that made him look more unkempt than usual. John Paul wore a leather jacket, as though he were fully prepared to join the Hell's Angels. Bonham wore a simple white T-shirt that he tore off before the night was done, even though the weather became cooler as the hours wore on. None of them seemed to have been disturbed by the commotion onstage a few moments earlier.

Zeppelin started the set with “Immigrant Song” and never looked back. It was one of the songs from
Led Zeppelin III
, scheduled to hit the record stores later in 1970. From that song to the end of the set, the crowd was incredibly responsive. As the band played song after song from the new album, the audience fluctuated between trying to listen intently to the lyrics of the new material to letting their own shouting and clapping compete with the music.

Zeppelin played “Since I've Been Loving You,” then “Celebration Day,” then more familiar songs from earlier albums—“Bring It On Home” and “Whole Lotta Love.”

“We love Led Zeppelin,” someone shouted at Robert between songs.

“We love you, too!” Robert exclaimed into the mike. “We're here to help you have fun tonight! Let us know if you are!”

Led Zeppelin seemed as though they could have played until sunrise. In the final few minutes, the band coaxed the crowd into a frenzy. The last encore consisted of “Communication Breakdown,” followed by a free-form medley that included “Johnny B. Goode” and “Long Tall Sally.” When they were finally finished, an MC/disc jockey named Mike Raven was swooning at the microphone, “Unbelievvvable…Led Zeppelin…You're fantassstic…Led Zeppelin…England adores you!”

England really did. When Zeppelin had finally left the stage, three hours and five encores after their set had begun, they were beside themselves. Robert was convinced they had hit a grand slam for the home folks. In fact, with nothing left to prove, Led Zeppelin would not perform in the U.K. again for nearly nine months.

A
bout a week after the Bath Festival, just as Led Zeppelin was finally catching its breath, we departed for a brief tour through Germany. In Frankfurt, the band performed before 11,000 fans at the Festhalle, the biggest crowd ever to watch a rock concert in Germany. In Cologne, about a thousand fans rioted outside the Sporthalle, throwing rocks and breaking windows when they couldn't get into the concert.

Still, as enthusiastic as the crowds were in Germany, Zeppelin was experiencing an emotional letdown after the Bath Festival. It was hard to top the 200,000 people who had seen them perform a few days earlier. The band did more than go through the motions, but there wasn't the exhilaration of the Bath performance, either.

“It's inevitable,” Jimmy thought. “We can't get up for every show. We're human, too.”

After the Frankfurt concert, we found a nearby bar, located a comfortable corner, and drank nonstop until the place closed its doors. During the course of the evening, our alcohol excesses became quite apparent to others in the bar. The six of us—John Paul, Jimmy, Robert, John, Peter, and I—could all tolerate liquor quite well, and before long the small table at which we were sitting was crammed with bottles and glasses. Only the bartender was keeping track of just how much we were drinking.

When I finally went to pay the bill, I was shocked. “Are you sure you added this up right?” I asked. “There were just six of us at the table.”

“I know there were just six of you!” the bartender exclaimed. “But you guys almost cleaned me out. I've never seen anyone drink like you!”

During a four-hour period, we had ordered and consumed 120 slivovitzes plus about 160 beers—a total of 280 drinks among the six of us!

At one point, Bonzo exclaimed, “Let's keep running this fucking bartender ragged! By the time the bar closes, the poor bastard might be too tired to throw us out when they close!”

As immense as our alcohol consumption was, I wasn't about to lecture the band. First of all, I was just as caught up in alcohol abuse as they were. Also, I didn't yet think the alcohol was impairing the band's music or my ability to keep them moving from city to city on the road. “We're all fine,” I told myself. “We're just lucky that we can hold our liquor so well.”

 

That short German tour was a prelude to our return to the States in August for our sixth U.S. tour. Thirty-six concerts in seven weeks. Every performance was a sellout, and the band never took home less than $25,000 a night during the tour.

Most of the press was still hostile. “We're not immune to it,” Bonzo said with resignation in his voice, “but their negative reviews don't hurt as much as they used to.” Nearly everyone but the media, however, couldn't get enough of Led Zeppelin, even local dignitaries. Some city officials may have never heard of Led Zeppelin, but we were bringing the biggest act in rock music to their city, and they apparently felt the need to roll out the red carpet, particularly in smaller towns like Tulsa and Albuquerque that rock bands often overlooked.

Memphis was typical of the first-class treatment we got. We had played in Memphis the previous April, and the city fathers were happy to have us back. The afternoon before the concert, the mayor of Memphis presented the band with the key to the city at the Memphis City Hall.

“Memphis may be the home of Elvis,” the mayor boasted, “but you boys are welcome here anytime, too.”

Led Zeppelin was always well behaved during formal ceremonies like this. But none of us could ever figure out why we even bothered with them. Yes, we were flattered that we had joined the ranks of Elvis and Carl Perkins as recipients of the key to the city. And Peter told us, “I think there's some PR value to it”—but he didn't sound real convinced.

More than any of us, Jimmy thought it was a complete waste of time. As we left the mayor's office and headed back to the limos, he muttered, “These city dignitaries are probably the same guys who shout at us in airports to cut our hair. What bullshit!”

That night, the hot air soared to new levels. As with most other concerts in
that tour, the band went out and worked the Memphis audience into delirium. But about midway through the performance, some fans in the crowd of 10,000 people were becoming unruly. Cups of beer were tossed into the air. Firecrackers were ignited. The sweet smell of marijuana drifted through the darkness. As the concert approached the two-hour point, the fellow who seemed to be in charge of the auditorium, a fellow we'll call Bill, was becoming increasingly agitated.

On occasion, we would encounter unpredictable and even rude treatment from the management of the halls where we played. But this particular evening, even I was surprised by what happened next. “Hey, fella,” Bill shouted over to me. “This place is about to erupt into a full-fledged riot. Let's end this concert right now!”

I looked at Bill a bit bewildered, wondering whether he was joking. No one had ever asked us to cut a concert short. But apparently Bill was dead serious.

“You'll have to talk to that big guy over there,” I told him, pointing to Peter.

We walked over to Peter, and Bill repeated his demand. “Your band needs to come off the stage after this song! The concert's over!”

Peter gave him a cool stare. “We don't do that,” he said calmly.

“Well, you have no choice. This show's done! I'll cut the power if I have to!”

“Like hell you will!” Peter snarled. “Why in the hell are you selling alcohol in the first place, you asshole? That's what's causing all the problems!”

Bill turned to face Peter and put his right hand into his coat pocket. “I've got something that'll make you change your fucking mind, big fella.”

It wasn't a bluff. Bill pulled out a .22 pistol and stuck it in Peter's ribs. “Do you believe me now?” he shouted.

At that moment, the whole scene seemed surreal. City officials were sitting in the front row, still enjoying the music of Memphis's honored guests. Yet Peter was on the verge of being blown away. It was like watching a bad B movie. But I was scared, and everyone around us was afraid to move.

Peter, however, didn't panic. “What the fuck is this?” he exclaimed. “Memphis gives us the key to your goddamn city, and now you're gonna shoot us? This is gonna be all over the national press tomorrow!”

Bill apparently had second thoughts. He backed off just as a couple of our security people grabbed and disarmed him and threw him against a wall. He slumped to the floor, with the wind knocked out of him. Zeppelin played for nearly another hour without incident.

 

Throughout that tour, I sensed a growing need for tighter security for the band. Zeppelin often felt claustrophobic in their hotel rooms and in
sisted upon going to bars and clubs, enjoying the attention and willing to put up with the occasional obnoxious fan who became too loud or intrusive. But I was becoming terribly anxious about the physical safety of the band. This, after all, was the U.S., where guns and violence were a way of life. And there were times when I was frightened and times when I probably overreacted.

After a performance at Madison Square Garden, our limos took us to Nobody's, a club on Bleecker Street. After a few beers, Bonham and I made a stop at the bathroom, where I noticed a bloke with a black leather jacket and three days' growth of beard. All that was missing was the Hell's Angels emblem and the motorcycle.

I made brief eye contact with him as I moved next to him at the sink and began to wash my hands. He was standing just a few feet to the right of me, staring at nothing in particular. He looked like an escapee from the Charlie Manson gang.

After a few seconds, he opened his jacket. Without saying a word, he quickly pulled a knife from an inside pocket. It had about a six-inch blade, clearly capable of inflicting some damage.

I didn't ask any questions. I cocked my right arm and with a closed, soapy fist lunged forward to sting him on the chin. He toppled backward, the knife flew into the air, he hit his head on the tile-covered wall, and sunk to the floor. He was out cold.

Bonham, who just then emerged from a bathroom stall, was not aware of what had happened or why.

“Holy shit! Is he a friend of yours, Richard?” asked Bonzo, with his eyes transfixed on the blood oozing out of the poor fellow's mouth and the knife resting about three feet away.

I didn't answer. We walked out of the bathroom and back to our table, leaving behind the unconscious troublemaker. We departed for our hotel a couple of minutes later without ever finding out the extent of my sparring partner's injuries.

Maybe I went overboard. Maybe not. But during that tour, I became hypersensitive to what was going on around us. Sometimes I may have made mistakes. But I felt I couldn't take chances.

That Madison Square Garden gig set a Zeppelin record—the first time the band had grossed more than $100,000 for a single concert. In fact, they did it two nights in a row.

On the flight back to London, I was sitting next to John Paul, sipping my fourth drink, wondering what kind of security arrangements we'd have to make for the next tour. John Paul was seated next to me. Zeppelin's Rock of
Gibraltar, he got the job done. On this tour more than the others, he tended to keep to himself. Maybe he was trying to back away from some of our lunacy. Perhaps he just enjoyed his own company more than ours. And although Jonesy indulged in his share of booze, he seemed more in control than the rest of us.