Stairway To Heaven (20 page)

T
here was something lascivious about the very name Copenhagen. Maybe it was the memories of the sex clubs that brought me to attention whenever Peter even mentioned the possibility of returning to Denmark. Or perhaps it was the brothels, the bars, and the other after-dark activities.

In June and July 1971, Zeppelin had returned to playing larger venues, a refreshing rebound from the confined quarters of the Return to the Clubs tour. “It was like being in a fucking straitjacket,” Robert said about those tiny clubs. So when Peter scheduled a European tour through Denmark, Sweden, Germany, Austria, and Italy, it was back to Zeppelin-sized concert halls.

Throughout Europe, audiences responded almost deliriously to “Stairway to Heaven.” When the band performed at KB-Hallen in Copenhagen, the fourth Zeppelin album was still months away from its release. But judging by the audience frenzy that night as Robert guided the crowd through “Stairway” 's compelling journey, you might have thought that the song had been at the top of the charts for weeks. Word of mouth had obviously created a lot of enthusiasm about the tune. And when Plant introduced it as “something of an epic” and Jimmy gave it a distinguished touch on his red Gibson SG double-neck guitar, the performance of this single song clearly turned into an event.

“I bet there are a hundred tape recorders out there tonight trying to get ‘Stairway to Heaven' on tape,” Peter said backstage. “The bootleggers are going to make a killing on this one.”

At the end of the show, Jimmy just shook his head. “We've got a real monster on our hands,” he said, intoxicated by the audience response to “Stairway to Heaven.” “It's one of those songs that is developing a life of its own,” he said. Pagey knew that every musician waits for a song like this. Zeppelin had finally created one.

After the concert, Robert, Bonzo, Peter, and I were in a barhopping mood. We moved from one club to the next, having decided to prolong the night for as long as our adrenaline would keep flowing.

As we walked into one rather noisy bar, Robert said, “Let's see what we can corral here tonight.” Within ten minutes, we had met a cute blonde with a lean, angular body and full lips that kept my imagination running wild. She didn't recognize the band members right away, but as soon as we introduced ourselves, she became much more friendly. Within minutes, Robert was saying, “We gotta find a place with a little more privacy.” Every secluded corner was occupied, so I finally took the girl by the hand and led the three of us into the men's room.

“We'll be right out,” I told Robert as I took the young lady inside one of the stalls, closing the door behind us. I lowered my pants and sat down on the toilet-seat cover. Without saying a word, the girl dropped to her knees in front of me and began giving me a blow job. It was one of the perks of being a tour manager.

I could hear Robert pacing the floor outside the stall. “Let's hurry it up, Cole,” he said in a loud voice that echoed off the bathroom walls. But I was in no rush. “Patience is a virtue,” I yelled out in a noticeably excited voice.

Robert continued to pace. “Relax, Percy,” I hollered. “Her mouth isn't going to wear out.”

Just then, Robert's patience ran out. Like a black belt in karate, he lifted and cocked his right leg and then smashed his foot into the stall door. The force of the blow ruptured the latch, swinging it inward with such a force that the blonde was shoved forward into me, propelling me backward and upward, cracking the porcelain on the toilet. In an instant, a shattered sliver of porcelain slashed against my ass, creating a three-inch-long gash that immediately began gushing blood.

“You fucking asshole!” I screamed at Robert while grabbing my butt, quickly trying to evaluate how much of it was still left. “Couldn't you have waited another minute?”

I suppose I should have counted my blessings, grateful that as the door burst open, the girl didn't bite down, leaving me with a much more serious injury than a bleeding ass.

“That'll teach you,” Robert roared, chuckling as he surveyed the bizarre scene of his tour manager dabbing the gash on his ass with toilet paper and
the startled blonde crawling on her hands and knees toward the bathroom exit. “From now on, let
me
go first,” Robert said.

I was pissed. Not only did the girl never get the opportunity to complete her mission, but I knew I'd have to sit down very gingerly for at least a few days.

“Why don't you come back to the hotel with us?” Robert tried to convince the girl. But she seemed traumatized by what had happened. “No thanks,” she said, checking to see if any of her teeth were loose. “I better get home. My friend is waiting for me in the bar. Yeah, we definitely better go home.”

Robert glared at me, as though I had ruined his entire evening. Then he broke into laughter. “You look like a damn fool, dabbing your fucking ass like that.” I felt like knocking him for a loop.

 

Back at the Palace Hotel, Robert and I paused in the lobby to continue our argument. Since the earliest days of Zeppelin, the two of us had never become particularly close. There was some ill will early on that probably got blown out of proportion, and although we certainly acted civil toward one another most of the time, an incident like this one brought all the animosity to the surface.

“I wish she had bit it off!” he shouted, turning a few heads in the lobby. We began shoving one another, then throwing elbows and spicing up our language with expletives. As hotel security arrived to separate us, the desk clerk called the police.

“They're just my sons,” Peter explained to the local cops who showed up a couple of minutes later. “I can take care of them.”

Peter was more amused than anyone by the whole episode. But as we headed for the elevator, he pretended as though he was going to read us the riot act. “I'll let you boys have it when we get upstairs,” he said, fighting to keep a straight face, putting on a good act for the hotel management.

“Just don't whip me on my butt,” I pleaded.

 

Frankly, I was ready to go home. But near the end of that European tour, we encountered one more traumatic incident—this one threatening to the band's life and limb. Although we hadn't run into any security difficulties throughout most of the tour, my concern over the potential for problems kept me awake nights. When we played in Milan, that concert turned into a living nightmare.

Zeppelin was booked into the Vigorelli Cycling Stadium in a government-sponsored festival on a bill with eighteen other acts. By this point in their career, Zeppelin was usually demanding—and receiving—its fee up front, including airline tickets. It was a precaution against the quicksand that can unexpectedly engulf even the most carefully planned concerts—concerts like
the one in Milan. Later, Peter would say, “The Milan festival is the classic case of why you don't even bother to unpack the instruments until the check has been cashed and deposited.”

Almost 15,000 people had crammed into the Italian stadium, and from my vantage point by the side of the stage, the crowd seemed well behaved for most of the afternoon. But about thirty minutes before Zeppelin began its set, a series of explosions erupted in the rear of the audience, leaving clouds of smoke hovering over the back of the stadium.

I figured the police would bring the crowd under control, but the situation seemed to be getting more, not less, chaotic as the minutes passed. “I'm going to strangle those fuckers,” I told roadie Mick Hinton as I waded into the crowd. In a less than rational moment, I figured I would take care of the hoodlums myself.

But as I pushed my way toward the site of the confusion, I could barely believe my eyes. The real anarchists were the police, not the fans! In a bizarre attempt at crowd control, the riot squad was flexing its authority by wildly swinging batons and tossing tear-gas canisters into the crowd. Choking, coughing, panicky kids fled in all directions—including toward the stage. Pandemonium was beginning to break out.

Ironically, when we had arrived at the stadium, I had been impressed by the sight of dozens of police and even uniformed soldiers patrolling the gates and the grounds, gripping riot shields and seemingly prepared to keep the lid on any unruliness. “If all concerts were as well secured as this one, I'd feel a lot more comfortable,” I told Peter. At the time, I didn't realize just how deeply I was putting my foot in my mouth.

As the situation deteriorated, Zeppelin decided to take the stage anyway, beginning its set with “Immigrant Song” and blasting into one tune after another from the fourth album. However, perhaps for the first time in their career, the band's music was being overshadowed by what was occurring in the crowd. I had returned to the side of the stage, and as Zeppelin continued to play, fans were literally throwing themselves onto the stage in a desperate attempt to escape the tear gas and avoid being trampled by the frantic, charging crowd behind them.

“Please!” Robert pleaded into the microphone between songs. “Don't panic! We will keep playing if you calm down!”

Peter, who was usually more prone to take these things in stride, was clearly worried. “Those fucking cops are inciting a riot,” he exclaimed. “This is completely ridiculous.”

At one point, a despondent Robert turned to Jimmy and yelled, “How the hell do you say ‘calm down' in Italian? Shit, this is terrible.”

The backstage area was suddenly jammed with people. Refuge-seeking
fans were rubbing their eyes, brushing away tears, nursing their bruises, and—in a few cases—plundering whatever they could stuff into their pockets or carry out on their backs. It had become sheer anarchy.

About thirty minutes into the set, Peter and I had seen enough. Fans were running across the stage in their flight for safety. Others were seated on the stage, watching the chaos escalate throughout the stadium.

Even the bodyguards provided by the promoters to protect the band had been frightened into running for cover, leaving their positions unoccupied in front of the stage. By this point, I was absolutely terrified, literally fearing for our lives. I knew we had to get out, but had no idea where to flee.

Finally, while Zeppelin was performing “Communication Breakdown,” a beer bottle sailed toward the stage and struck Mick Hinton on the forehead. He was dazed, knocked nearly unconscious, and a gash on his skin began dripping blood. At almost the same moment, a tear-gas canister exploded about twenty-five feet in front of the stage. “This place is a fucking war zone,” I yelled. That's when Peter ordered Zeppelin off the stage.

“Let's get the boys out of here,” Peter shouted at me as he ran toward the band. We grabbed Robert and John Paul, literally by their shirts, leading them through the tear gas that had drifted toward the stage. Bonham and Jimmy sprinted after us. By this point, the gas was so thick that it was like groping our way through an attack of London fog, with the added problem of stinging eyes. We could hear more tear-gas canisters bursting as we headed into a tunnel filled with smoke. I was becoming increasingly frantic as we searched for some kind of escape.

With the help of Gus, one of our limousine drivers, we finally found our way into a first-aid room, and I locked the door once we were inside. Jimmy was coughing, trying to catch his breath. All of us were rubbing our eyes. But at least we were safe for the moment.

We stayed in that room for an hour until the pandemonium outside had quieted down. There was occasional banging on the door, perhaps by fans desperately searching for a safe refuge. “If anyone opens that door, I'll personally wring his neck!” Peter shouted. “We'd have ten thousand people trying to squeeze in here!”

The roadies had rescued Jimmy's and John Paul's guitars and had found a secure place for them in another room backstage. But Bonham's drums had been left behind. As he paced the floor backstage, Bonzo realized that his drums were probably being pulverized in the free-for-all outside.

 

Led Zeppelin never returned to the stage. In fact, there wasn't much of a stage left after the rioters dismantled it. Ten well-armed policemen finally escorted us out of the stadium, an hour after we had taken shelter backstage.

On the flight home, the band became increasingly somber. “You don't expect this kind of shit at a rock concert,” a downcast John Paul said. “Those fans came to listen to music, not to have their heads bashed in and their bodies trampled. Whose side are the cops on anyway?”

Robert was running his fingers through his hair and was almost in tears. “I tried to calm them down. But those fucking cops were out of control. What a nightmare. What a fucking nightmare!”

Led Zeppelin never again played in Italy. We had seen enough of Italy to last us several lifetimes.

 

It took us a while to recover from the Milan riot. For days, Peter kept saying, “I just don't get it. Nothing like that should
ever
happen.”

We probably all could have benefited from a lengthy break in the action, a time to catch our breath and make some judgments about which directions to head in next. But Peter already had lined up dates for a summer 1971 North American tour, which was to begin in Vancouver on August 19. It was tough to get up emotionally for it, but this band always found a way to meet its professional commitments, including this one.

There were thirty-one concerts on the itinerary, including three at the Los Angeles Forum, two at Boston Garden, and one at Madison Square Garden. Ultimately, that tour would gross at least $1 million.

This was the band's seventh American tour, and the novelty of being in the U.S.—and of touring in general—was beginning to wear thin. Every concert was a sellout, every crowd seemed almost possessed in its fanaticism toward the band. Yet the incident in Milan had taken a lot out of us. Once we arrived in America, Zeppelin almost seemed to become reclusive as we moved from city to city, rarely leaving the hotels except for the concerts themselves. Occasionally, Jimmy would venture out to an antique store in New Orleans or Dallas, but those expeditions were more the exception than the rule.