SteveAJones
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Jimmy Page's Handwriting
Jimmy's notes explaining his concept for the laser pyramid violin bow solo he would perform during the 1979 Knebworth Festival:
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I LOVE lilacs.
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Are you for real? A lilac coloured one?
Can you tell me a little more about it?
Led Zeppelin IV (Rare 1978 UK orange and green Atlantic label limited edition LP pressed on
LILAC VINYL, gatefold picture sleeve complete with lyric inner sleeve.
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As far as I know, the vinyl wasn't colored. The person who had it was a lady from Ontario, which as you've said, had never heard the message because all she listened to was Stairway To Heaven, while the message was located between Four Sticks and Going To California.
Does anyone know what the message said? I've been looking for a while and can't find any info on this...
Edited to add: I'm not 100% sure, but rumour had it that the owner could claim a special diamond & gold Led Zeppelin pin.
Everything you've posted is consistent with my recollection. The whole point of the
message was to inform the purchaser how to claim the prize - a pin of some sort -
so it was something along those lines.
If memory serves correct there was a lilac (purple) vinyl edition of the album released
around the same time, but it had nothing to do with this contest.
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It was a special colored-vinyl pressing of the album. Apparently, the buyer did not notice for several years because they never broke the shrinkwrap.
I believe Rick Barrett had it for sale at some point.
Scott, my recollection is somewhat different: The person who bought the album claimed
they hadn't heard the pre-recorded Diamond Award announcement on side 1 because they bought the album for Stairway to Heaven, which is on side 2. Was it really colored vinyl as well? I can't remember. I'm going to contact Rick to see if what he can recall.
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Oh yes, the incident at Scafell Pike:
"We'll be back from Roy Harper's by Sunday if we run"
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Just to illustrate my earlier post on Zappa and LZ at Bath in 1970....
(edit)
Nicely done, Otto. Great to have you back on the board.
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How old was Zoe Bonham when her dad died? I wonder why the Murfet account doesn't mention her.
Zoe was just 5 years, 3 mos old. Murfet's account is entirely self-referential, meaning
he is simply sharing with us his own recollection of events as he remembers them.
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Frank Zappa(as did Ted Nugent) once said that Jimmy Page was the most overated guitarist after claiming to watch him from backstage at a gig where the Mothers of Invention and Zep were on the same bill. Any idea when and where that was?
Also when and what gig did Bonzo pour orange juice over Alvin Lee during Lee's set? Where Zep playing the same gig or just hanging out?
I'll look into the Frank Zappa anecdote. Meanwhile, I'd like to post this extract from
Don Murfet's book, which discusses the Alvin Lee incident in specific detail and also
resolves delicate questions in other threads pertaining to Bonham's death and burial:
Leave it to Me
by Don Murfet
AN ANVIL PUBLICATIONS
PAPERBACK
© Copyright 2004
Don Murfet
The right of Don Murfet to be identified as Author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
A CIP catalogue record for this title is
available from the British Library
ISBN 0-9547280-0-9
Anvil Publications
Printed and Bound in Great Britain
CHAPTER ONE
1963 – 1994
LED ZEPPELIN
‘Bonzo’s dead,’ said a shaky voice on the phone. It was Ray
Washbourne – the PA to Peter Grant, Led Zeppelin’s
manager.
The enormity of his words took a few moments to sink in.
And then that cold fact took its grip on my guts. I was
sickened. John Bonham was such a lovely bloke; I’d been
through so much with him...It was a shock. But there was no
time for grief – not yet. But maybe I’m starting at the end?
Before going into John’s tragic death, I’ll explain how I came
to be involved with Led Zeppelin and how I had come to be
so close to that legendary band’s members.
* * *
They say first impressions last – and that’s certainly true of
my first encounter with Peter Grant. The name Peter means
‘rock’, and no-one ever epitomised ‘rock’ – in both senses of
the word – like Peter. He was physically huge; an enormous
hulk of a man, a former wrestler who, on that fateful night in
1964, had landed the job of Road Manager for the evening’s
show at Edmonton’s Regal Theatre. With wild American
Blues legend Bo Diddley and the latest teen sensations, a
louche and motley bunch of kids called The Rolling Stones,
on the bill it wasn’t going to be an easy ride. But old Peter
was a rock in the face of any crowd, no matter how unruly.
And, as I was to find out later, he was ‘rock’ personified in
other ways too – notably in his unrelenting passion for what
became known as ‘rock ‘n’ roll habits’. But more of that
later...
I wasn’t exactly uninitiated in the esoteric ways of the music
business behind the scenes and I’d turned up to take care of
someone else on the bill: Tommy Roe, who’d just scored a
big hit with Sheila and who was represented in the UK and
US by G.A.C., the massive American agency into which my
mentor Vic Lewis had tied his own London firm. Used to
breezing my way unquestioned past Security to the backstage
area, I strolled through the front-of-house and made my way
easily to the pass door (the door at the side of the stage
leading into the auditorium that was a feature of all the old
theatres). There I was accosted by this towering giant with
piercing eyes and a Mandarin-style moustache and beard who
growled, ‘Who are you and where do you think you’re
going?’
I gave him my name and humbly explained that I there was
there to look after Tommy Roe and after a painfully long and,
on my part at least, very tense pause, the future legend
shrugged and let me pass with a gruff, ‘OK.’
Sad to say, the strikingly vibrant Regal Theatre’s days as a
Rank cinema, concert hall and focus of local social life are
long gone. Like so much that we took for granted as part of
the rock ‘n’ roll life’s rich fabric, it’s been torn apart and
now, where guitars and drums rang out almost nightly, you
only hear the ring of cash registers. No longer Regal – it’s
now a lowly local supermarket. Thinking back on it, I and
associates like Peter Grant, Don Arden, Mickey Most and
countless others were incredibly lucky to have been starting
out in the music business in the mid-sixties – a time now
acknowledged as one of the most creative, vibrant and
innovative that British rock ‘n’ roll has ever seen. At the
time, though, like the people who saw no heritage of great
import in the old Regal Theatre, we just saw every epoch7
making event as another ‘day at the office’. If only we’d
known the significance of the times we were living in – and
our impact on them!
It may not have seemed the most auspicious of introductions,
but increasingly my life was to become intertwined with
Peter’s – and those of the bands with whom we both became
associated. Within a year or so I found myself sharing the
same London business address – 35 Curzon Street – with
Peter and a whole gang of blokes whose names now read like
a Who’s Who of major music business figures: Don Arden,
Vic Lewis, Micky Most, Pat Meehan, Barry Clayman, Ken
Pitt, Alan Blackburn, Don Black, Barry Dickens, Irene Korf,
Colin Berlin and Richard Cowley.
I was still working for Vic – and Peter was the road
management supremo for another soon-to-become-legendary
rock figure: Don Arden. Don was one of the new and seminal
breed of band promoters that the Sixties sired – dynamic,
charismatic, creative and often even more outrageously
flamboyant than the artists they looked after. With a fast
growing stable of the hottest, brightest stars, including The
Small Faces and Black Sabbath, Ozzie Osbourne’s
Birmingham rockers, who were to become the definitive
‘Heavy Metal’ act, Don was something of a star himself.
Incidentally, his daughter Sharon later managed and married
Ozzie. And the more he shone, the more trouble gravitated
towards him, wherever in the world he showed his face.
Which, of course, was why he needed to be surrounded by
brick shithouses of men like Peter and his equally imposing
colleague, Pat Meehan. No matter what he got up to, you
simply didn’t cross Don Arden – and over the years there
were many who rued the day they’d tried. One hapless
accountant springs to mind. He made the (almost literally)
fatal mistake of mismanaging Arden’s financial affairs in the
early 70s. Don and his son David weren’t the types to call the
cops. They called the shots.
I don’t recall exactly what that poor accountant’s fate was,
other than that he was held prisoner for a while – but I’m
sure their vengeance was swift and terrible. It was certainly
illegal, because David ending up doing time for it and Don
fled to the States, just out of reach of the long arm of British
law. As Arden’s right hand man, and a force to be reckoned
with in his own right, Peter was a formidable character – and
one you definitely wanted on your side. Although I never had
any business dealings with him, I always got on well with
Don Arden and found him great company.
Another nascent manager/producer star saw the value of
having a man of Peter’s magnitude in his orbit – and soon
Peter was installed at the Oxford Street offices of one Mickey
Most (now sadly departed) and Ron Madison. Mickey was
riding his first wave of success – and it was a big one. Not
only was his record label, RAK, immensely successful with
hits by the likes of Donovan and Herman’s Hermits but he
was also handling seminal acts such as The New Vaudeville
Band and, crucially, The Yardbirds – a group whose success
at this stage was to lead to undreamable prosperity in the
future for Peter.
Things were taking off for everyone around me – and by late
’65 I thought it was time I struck out on my own. I knew all
about the hassles the most popular acts faced – and the three
most important of them were security, privacy and transport.
With my new venture I was going to solve all three at a
stroke, fill what I saw as a gaping hole in the market – and,
with a bit of luck, fill my pockets at the same time!
I was right. Artistes Car Services, as I christened my new
enterprise, was an immediate success. The core of the idea
was to offer performers a genuinely luxurious ride to and
from their concerts with a minimum of fuss and total,
uncompromised security and discretion. This proved to be
exactly what the new breed of pop stars needed as their fans’
adulation began to feel like persecution. That year some very
big people rode in our sumptuously appointed limos,
including The Beatles and Donovan among many others in
an increasingly galactic list that began to read like a Who’s
Who of British rock ‘n’ roll. But undoubtedly the biggest
arse to grace the seats of my fleet of cars was that of Peter
Grant! From 1966 onwards he relied on us to get his
fledgling acts from A to B (and often via C and D and all the
way to Z!) and back again without incident or
embarrassment. Of course, that meant we saw each other on a
regular basis and, with so much in common, it was almost
inevitable that we became close friends. What it really all
boiled down to was trust. A simple thing, you might think –
but a rare and valuable commodity in that exciting, yet
frightening dog-eat-dog time and place. Ultimately, Peter
knew that he could rely absolutely on me – and, by
association, on the team of level-headed, broad-minded,
strong but utterly discreet men I employed. The old-school
rule books had gone out of the window and he knew we
could cope with any of the bizarre problems this new
untamed form of showbiz could throw up. More importantly,
he knew we could make them go away.
Nevertheless, it soon became apparent that many of these
problems were actually of Peter’s own making – certainly he
increasingly involved us in circumstances that had little to do
with our original remit: chauffeuring the artists to the gig and
back again and protecting them all the way. Drawn into all
sorts of disputes from run-ins with the authorities to
‘withdrawing’ illegal bootleg albums from record shops, I
found myself in the dubious role of Peter’s personal
‘troubleshooter’. I suppose it was a compliment really.
It showed his utter faith in my integrity – a faith that was,
though I say it myself, completely justified. However, over
the following years, it embroiled me in difficult personal,
even intimate, situations that, often, I could have done
without - even if Peter had convinced himself that he was
merely acting in his artists’ best interests. For example, if a
band member lost interest in a particular girlfriend, it was our
job to make her persona non grata and ensure that she was
no longer on the scene. Cast-off groupies were ‘cleansed’
from the band’s entourage with ruthless efficiency - the
unfortunate girl concerned would suddenly find that the
backstage doors and party venues that had once magically
opened for her were now firmly closed - and often slammed -
in her face. But it wasn’t only people who were intimate with
the band who we had to remove. Sometimes Peter simply
took an instant dislike to a face in the crowd for no apparent
reason. Ours was not, as they say, to question why, and it was
down to me to get the unfortunate owner of the face he’d
taken exception to removed. Of course I tried to elicit some
sort of rationale from the great man as to what constituted a
‘threat to security’ – but in the end it was a lot easier to just
‘do it’ than to try and reason with him.
All the hassle and heartaches paid off handsomely though
when Peter asked me to take on the Road Management duties
for the forthcoming US tour of his new management signings
– The Jeff Beck Group. It was quite an honour. Probably the
first ‘supergroup’, the band comprised four established faces
(two quite literally!) who were destined for a place among
the greatest in the history of rock ‘n’ roll: former Yardbirds
guitar hero Jeff Beck, of course, future Faces and Rolling
Stones strummer Ronnie Wood on bass, new boy Tony
Newman on drums and a fresh-faced former grave-digger
with a voice that sounded like it was made from the gravel he
dug – one Rod Stewart. Like everything else in the music
business in those days (and right up to this day I suspect) the
job description of Road Manager was an elastic one. I
imagine even the uninitiated would expect it to involve
overseeing the hotel bookings, flights, shipping, trucking,
setting up, soundchecking and breaking down the PA,
lighting and staging at each venue. In fact most of that would
be handled by the Roadies themselves – and the Road
Manager would only get ‘hands on’ when there were
problems to sort out, such as equipment going astray. Less
obvious are what you might call ‘ancillary’ duties – and they
were often the least predictable, most onerous and prone to
disaster. There were disputes and fights to settle, bills to pay,
concert promoters to harangue and haggle with over
percentages of gross and ‘dead wood’ to keep an eye on
(‘dead wood’ was the unsold tickets, which had to be
meticulously checked because they were our only means of
verifying the number of tickets sold – and therefore the
percentage owed to the band). And then there were services
of a more personal and often illicit nature that are always in
demand with a rampant rock group pumped full of adrenalin
and testosterone after a great gig. I’m sure I don’t need to
spell out the exact nature of such missions! Suffice to say I
jumped at the job and threw myself into it wholeheartedly as
always!
I’d already met Jeff Beck some years before – he’d turned up
at the office in his pre-Yardbirds days several times while
Vic Lewis was courting him for a management deal. Jeff had
recorded a single called ‘That Noise’ and CBS were keen to
sign him but he hesitated before signing just long enough to
get another offer. As you can imagine, Vic was gutted when
‘the one that got away’ joined the Yardbirds and began his
meteoric rise to stellar status. That single never saw the light
of day – and nor did Vic’s hopes of managing Jeff Beck. It
turned out that Vic’s loss was Peter Grant’s very lucrative
gain – and it was my baptism of fire in the sheer madness and
barely contained anarchy that was life on the road in the
States with one of the original hair-raisingly hedonistic rock
supergroups.
I didn’t meet the rest of Jeff’s boys until our rendezvous at
Heathrow. Like a dog urinating to mark out its territory, I
knew I had make my mark immediately – stamp my authority
on the lot of them. If I didn’t I might as well not get on the
plane. I should explain that some of the Road Manager’s
more banal duties are also the biggest nightmares. Like
coaxing a hideously hung-over musician from his hotel bed
and getting him onto the plane/tour bus/stage on time. They
don’t thank you for it and a lot of the time you had to be the
‘bad guy’. In fact at times I felt like some kind of satanic
scoutmaster!
The high jinks started almost the second that the plane
levelled out at cruising altitude and the seat belt lights went
out. The boys were in a particularly playful mood, like a
bunch of schoolboys on an outing with teacher – although
considerably less innocent. They seemed set on testing me;
goading me to see just how far they could push me and at
times it was hard to tell the playing up and play-acting from
whatever would pass as normal behaviour in the unique
world of a successful rock musician, which is, as far as I can
tell, one gigantic amusement park. I took the wind-ups and
pissing about with good humour until suddenly the
atmosphere of levity dropped like a.... well like a Led
Zeppelin...Young Rod was squirming in his seat, clearly
overcome with nausea. As he clutched his stomach in agony
and gagged and heaved those dry retches that make everyone
around feel sick too, a couple of concerned fellow passengers
got out of their seats and rushed to his aid. Right on cue he
shuddered, convulsed and spewed forth a torrent of evillooking
grey vomit all over his would-be Good Samaritans.
Bet that was the last time they rushed to the assistance of an
unruly rocker! It turned out that the disgusting globby mess
that splattered out of Rod the Mod’s mouth wasn’t vomit at
all – just an unpleasant papier maché of superstar spittle and
the paper he’d been chewing up since take-off. Not, I
imagine, that this was much consolation to the people whose
clothes were soaked in it!
Unfortunately that was just the start. They got down to some
serious drinking and some bright spark suggested a game of
‘Kelly’s Eye.’ What that involves you really don’t want to
know. OK, maybe you do! Here’s how it worked. One of the
group, sitting in the window seat (which is important) would
call out weakly for a stewardess (and they were generally
female in those days. Somehow the game wouldn’t have the
same appeal these days with as many males as females in the
flight crew). When the stewardess arrived and asked what
was wrong, the occupier of the window seat would mumble
incoherently in reply. So she’d lean forward, cocking an ear
to hear what he was trying to say. He’d groan something
equally unintelligible under his breath. Keen to do her duty
and help an ostensibly sick passenger, she’d lean further
forward, now almost prone across the aisle seat. He’d gasp
helplessly. And what the hapless stewardess took to be the
whimper of a seriously ill man was actually the strain of
stifled laughter – because the further she stretched over, the
higher up her thighs her skirt would ride and the better the
view for the rest of the group, ogling enthusiastically from
behind. I don’t think the name of the game needs any further
explanation! And from there things went downhill fast.
Halfway into the flight the band were considerably higher
than the plane that carried them. Their raucous laughter,
shouting – screaming even – was getting out of control. And
it was out of order. It was time, I decided, to draw the line.
Not the kind of line usually associated with rock stars – but it
certainly got right up their noses! Ironically, the relative
newcomer to rock, Tony Newman, was by far the most
obnoxious of the four. So I decided to single him out – make
an example of him; lay my cards on the table and see if he’d
call my bluff (and it really, really was not a bluff!).
I lunged across the aisle and loomed over the back of his seat
– and my face was right in his face, livid with pent-up fury.
The hearty guffawing instantly shrivelled to the sheepish
titter of chastised schoolboys (or boy scouts).
‘Listen you!’ I roared at the top of my voice, ‘Two of us can
play this game – and I don’t mean Kelly’s bleedin’ Eye! We
can do this tour two ways. I could make it hard for you –
really hard – or...we could learn to work together!’
It worked. I suppose that when my words sunk in they
thought about just how unpleasant I could make their life on
the road – how their post-gig sexual and chemical proclivities
could be curtailed by a martinet of a Road Manager bent on
laying down the law to the letter of their contracts. They had
little option but to toe the line for a while. I’d made my point
– and made my mark. Temporarily at least, I’d tamed the
wildest of party animals and for the rest of the tour The Jeff
Beck Group were, if not exactly model citizens, admirably
civilised. They’d learnt a valuable lesson from that little
contretemps – and more importantly, so had I.
That Jeff Beck tour set the tone for my future life on the road.
The hassles, the chaos and the loose cannons would be the
same despite that fact that in my career I’ve worked with a
diverse range of artists that includes Led Zep, David Cassidy,
Adam and the Ants and The Sex Pistols among many others.
In the end, as I learnt, the musical trends may come and go
but that quintessential rock ‘n’ roll attitude, like the song,
remains the same. And long may it stay that way! Frankly, it
wouldn’t have been much of a challenge if I’d been in charge
of a bunch of choirboys – and nor would it have been as
lucrative!
The attitude was a constant – and so were the hassles. They
might be different in their precise nature, but I learned to
anticipate the unexpected so that in the end there wasn’t
much that could shock or faze me. I became an accomplished
‘firefighter’. When things got heated I cooled the situation.
When tempers blazed I extinguished them and when bands’
self-destructive urges looked like making them crash and
burn I usually managed to control the fire without losing the
vital spark that made these guys legendary. I think it was Neil
Young who said it’s better to burn out than fade away – well
I’m not so sure, but I certainly got the impression that most
of Zep (with whom I was to work later on) and the Jeff Beck
Group would have gone along with that philosophy! Sadly,
there were to be times when I couldn’t prevent a great talent
from falling prey to his own volatility and unquenchable lust
for excess, more of which later...
A perennial problem that always rankled with the acts was
when greedy agents booked them into venues that were
entirely unsuitable – in terms of size, access, acoustics or
even sheer mortal danger for fans and performers alike. One
of Jeff and the lads’ gigs was a perfect example of the
bookers’ total lack concern for their performers’ image and
style of music. To their horror they found that they’d been
booked to perform at a kids’ summer camp – one of those
places where American parents dump their stroppy teenagers
for the school holidays. Playing to an audience of thirteen
and fourteen-year-olds was not a job for serious rock
musicians – that was for children’s entertainers and cutesy
pop performers. To say the band were unhappy would be an
understatement – and, when the inevitable on-stage
shenanigans started and they began to treat the gig as little
more than a private party, the organisers and their charges
were unhappier still. Always the wild card, Tony Newman
abandoned his drum kit and kept up the percussion as he
staggered from table top to table top by banging his sticks on
anything that would make a noise – bottles, pipes, chairs, you
name it. At least he stopped short of banging out a paradiddle
on a teenage head – well, at least I think he did! And then
Jeff and Woodie joined in. Not to be outdone by their
drummer’s antics, they picked up a fire extinguisher and
liberally doused the first few rows of the audience with foam.
Talk about dampening the audience’s spirits - sheer bloody
pandemonium broke out! The organisers were evidently not
amused. As they picked up the phone to call the police I
realised that it was time for action. The ability to think on
your feet is one of the first attributes anyone should look for
in a prospective Road Manager – and I pride myself on the
number of scrapes and brushes with the law I got my bands
out of over the years. On this occasion a quick getaway was
called for – my speciality!
I bundled the band out of the hall and into the waiting
Limousine as quickly as I could and the sleek stretched motor
screeched out of the compound in a mad dash for the state
line and immunity from arrest. We made it in the nick of time
– but that wasn’t much consolation to my assistant, Henry
(the Horse) Smith, who’d had to stay behind with the truck
and all the band’s gear. When the cops arrived they didn’t see
the funny side. Quite the contrary, in fact, because they were
determined to confiscate anything they could lay their hands
on in an attempt to force the band to come back and face the
music. And when you consider the vast value of a major
band’s touring technology, we probably would have had no
alternative but to turn ourselves in and cough up the fines
and/or backhanders, if not face jail sentences, to get it all
back. But the appropriately named Henry had horse sense.
He claimed that all the equipment belonged to him and that
he’d simply lent it to the group for the performance and
didn’t expect to ever see them again. Unbelievably the police
swallowed the story and let him – and the band’s equipment
– go free. All we lost was Ronnie’s bass guitar and a few
odds and sods – not that that stopped the boys sulking about
it for a day or two! I’ve had better times – but few of them
were entirely without some kind of incident...
...Like the Jeff Beck Group’s gig at Schenectady Hall in
upstate New York, for example. It seemed that things were
really looking up when we heard that Peter Grant’s latest
managerial signing – Led Zeppelin – were also on the
American east coast at the time on their inaugural US tour
and arrangements were quickly made for the two bands to
hook up for some serious partying. Led Zep and the Jeff
Beck Group – talk about an explosive combination!
Those two now legendary bands may have been volatile – but
their signing was a major coup for Peter. The downside, for
Peter and for me was that great talents are notoriously ‘too
hard to handle’, as the song goes. In Beck, he had one of the
world’s greatest guitarists and a proven record seller –
temperamental, often stroppy but always ready to pull a
rabbit out of the hat. In the end, though, it was Zeppelin that
was to be Peter’s great cash cow – and one he’d take to rich
new pastures and milk for all it was worth.
Right from the off, everyone knew that Led Zeppelin was a
cut above the rest of the rockers – a true supergroup in the
making. Formed by Jimmy Page, one of the key
songwriter/producers of his generation, from the ashes of The
Yardbirds, Zep blended vintage blues and heavy rock with
consummate musicianship and made all those elements add
up to something far greater than the sum of their parts. Added
to Page’s prodigious talents was lead singer Robert Plant.
And what a find he was! An imposing handsome blond
Viking of a man whose sex appeal was as powerful as his
thunderous, yet soulful and vulnerable voice. John Paul Jones
on bass was no less gifted – both at laying down the deep,
throbbing basslines that melded the Zep sound together and
at laying the countless women that fell willingly at his feet.
And then there was Bonzo on drums. I would grow to love
John Bonham (that was his real name) dearly. He was a good
- even great - man; a funny man and a great friend. He was
also one of the wildest I’ve ever known – and I’ve known
some very wild men in my time, as you can tell from other
chapters in this book! I’d describe him as a playboy – but the
term has too many suave and pretentious associations to sum
up an irrepressible character like Bonzo. He was a walking
bag of contradictions: a gentle soul who was nevertheless the
epitome of the ‘wild man of rock’ with an iron constitution
capable of withstanding his prodigious and insatiable appetite
for booze and drugs. His formidable drumming was the
kingpin of Zep’s musical direction and rightly made him a
rock legend – but his offstage antics were equally hardhitting
and were to become equally famous.
Given their origins, it was almost inevitable that media
interest in the band verged on the rabid – even before the
release of their first album. And if the critics were a little
sniffy about them at first, the live audiences fell in love with
Zep at first sight and sound! America was similarly smitten,
thanks largely to the heavy radio promotion of Whole Lotta
Love, (later the Top of the Tops theme for many years – and
recently revived in that role!).
Anyway, Zep were coming along on The Jeff Beck Group’s
tour bus to the Schenectady Hall gig – but it soon became
clear that they weren’t just there to appreciate the
performance. Richard Cole, their notorious Road Manager,
lost no time at all in getting up to mischief with the rest of
Zep following his lead. While Jeff, Rod, Ronnie and Tony
were grooving away on stage the majestic Zep boys held
court in the dressing room with numerous excited females in
attendance. Knowing their reputation, you’d have thought it
would be John Paul, Jimmy or Bonzo who’d make the first
lecherous leap on the compliant assembly of girls – but no, it
was Richard Cole. When a pleasantly plump, rather innocent looking
girl walked shyly through the dressing room door in
search of her rock gods, Richard lunged at her and literally
swept her off her feet, spinning her upside down and rubbing
his face lasciviously in her crotch. And that was just for
starters. For all I know she enjoyed it – but I’m pretty sure
the victims of the next little prank weren’t at all happy.
One of the boys, unnoticed in a corner of the dressing room,
decided to urinate into a big jug of Coca Cola – and, as
you’ve probably guessed, he offered this foul tainted chalice
to every hapless girl who stepped tentatively into the room in
the hope of having some contact with her heroes. Poor girls, I
thought. It wasn’t funny. Just crude. And cruel. But it wasn’t
the worst abuse of these innocents who threw themselves at
the rock ‘n’ roll animals they lionised. I’d just about had
enough of that kind of behaviour and had stepped outside
with Peter for a breath of fresh air – both literal and
metaphorical – only to walk straight into a distraught young
girl as she emerged from the toilets in floods of tears. Clearly
grateful to find two potential knights in shining armour, she
turned to us and wailed, ‘There’s a guy in there who’s just
been groping me!’
Fired up with righteous indignation, Peter and I stormed into
the toilets (or should I say ‘Rest Rooms’ since we were in
America!) and immediately confronted the groper – who was
about to regret the sexual assault bitterly because he, and I,
were introduced to Peter’s celebrated ‘kicking trick’. This
involved taking the terrified bloke by the scruff of the neck
and kicking him in the shins, again and again. And then again
and again. And again. And again - boot cracking against bone
with a rhythmic precision that Bonzo would have been proud
of. This treatment was followed up with Peter’s other mode
of administering punishment – namely a stiff four fingers
shoved into and under the ribcage, which really takes your
breath away! As I’ve mentioned, Peter was a whale of a man,
about six foot two and weighing in at something over 300lbs.
A kicking from Peter was like one from a carthorse – and one
that the groupie groper wasn’t going to erase from his
memory or his shins for a helluva long time! After a minute
or so, that must have seemed like a lifetime to the groper,
Peter finally laid off, dragged the guy’s limp and crippled
form to the door and hurled him through it like the sack of
shit he clearly was. Unlike a sack of shit, however, he
actually bounced off the floor before hauling himself
painfully to his feet and wobbling off, dazed and confused, in
the immortal, and accurate, words of the Led Zep song. The
message came over loud and clear: urinating in a bottle was
one thing, but nobody messed with Zep’s fans when Peter
was around, whether they were male or female.
The two bands’ paths were to cross several times over the
next few days as their respective tours wended their way
across the States – but it was at the Singer Bowl, a massive
sports complex doubling as a concert venue just outside New
York’s Flushing Meadows that things really came to a head.
Jeff and the boys were supporting America’s flavour of the
month, Vanilla Fudge. More significantly, as it turned out,
Alvin Lee’s new band, Ten Years After, were opening the
star-studded bill. The Zep boys and their entourage said
they’d be there to lend Jeff a bit of moral support. I thought
that was quite touching to begin with – such selfless
solidarity between two of the UK’s best bands while they
were touring on foreign turf. But of course it wasn’t as
simple – or as innocent as that. Nothing ever was! Hindsight
being 20:20, maybe I should have sussed that there was more
to their eagerness to attend than geeing their mates along. In
fact that had nothing to do with it. The Zep boys were there
to get their own back on Lee for some pretty nasty remarks
he’d once made about Jimmy Page – and Jeff Beck’s roadies
seemed happy to help them wreak their revenge, egged on,
inevitably, by Bonzo and Richard Cole. Chick Churchill –
one of Ten Years After’s associates – was unlucky enough to
be caught without backup in a locker room by a vengeful
rabble of roadies who scared the crap out of him before
ruthlessly stripping him of his clothes. Then they stripped
him of his dignity by dumping him naked and trussed like a
lamb to the slaughter in the starkly lit corridor outside.
Next it was Ten Years After’s turn for the revenge of
Zeppelin. Hidden in the anonymity of the shadows in a
corner in front of the stage, the Zeppelin crew pelted Alvin
Lee mercilessly from the moment he took the stage with
anything that came to hand – including hot dogs, burgers,
orange juice and probably much messier and more painful
missiles. It was glorious! Lee and his band had no idea who
the mysterious assailants in the shadows could be. The
shower of debris stole their thunder, undermining the
storming performance they’d had their hearts set on and,
understandably enough, mediocrity was all they could
muster.
In retrospect, Peter and Jimmy – the two partners in crime –
had to be behind this. It was their way of saying, ‘Don’t ever
mess with the Zeppelin!’
If that had been the sum total of their retribution for an off colour
comment, I guess it would have been ‘fair dos’. But
they’d already planned a masterstroke that would add insult
to injury. Of course, as far as the audience was concerned,
Led Zep’s joining The Jeff Beck Group on stage was an
impromptu jamming session. I knew different! Having ruined
Alvin Lee’s set, a band that hadn’t even been booked to play
was about to steal the show. And steal the show they did. But
even the Led Zep boys hadn’t planned the finale that was to
be the highlight of the night!
Bonzo had been at the backstage booze. Nothing unusual
about that – or about the fact that, drunk as a lord, his
drumming on the fast blues the galaxy of rock stars was
playing was as blisteringly bang on the nail as ever. What
was a bit unusual was the fact that he’d suddenly decided to
do a ‘Full Monty’ while he was at it, still hitting that kick
drum with mechanical, maniacal precision and venom despite
the strides and underpants tangled round his ankles. For most
of the audience, the sight of his private pubics made public
was just a bit of a Bonzo bonus to the already exciting event.
But, among the ogling crowd, some punters were less
impressed at the sight of Bonzo’s manhood flapping about on
the drum stool. I clocked one humourless woman talking
animatedly to one of the fairly heavy local police presence.
Like a chill wind, the prudish outrage swept through the
crowd and it was clear to see that the cops were not amused.
Now I’m not saying I’d normally think Bonzo getting his kit
off was going too far. On the contrary, high spirits and
outrageous behaviour like that are the all part of the sheer joy
of rock ‘n’ roll – and long may it stay that way. A few people
will always be upset by it - but when the police are among
the ones with the hump, that’s when the fun stops and the
trouble starts. Of course, it was my job to make sure it didn’t.
I could see the cops rallying together, conferring and calling
for backup. I had to get Bonzo off the stage before they could
arrest him. Suddenly I had a plan. I took Henry the Horse
aside and told him to kill all the lights the moment the
performers finished their song. He did so, plunging the stage
into darkness for about ten seconds – just long enough for
Richard Cole and I to grab Bonzo by the arms, pull his pants
up and drag him full pelt backstage. Obviously we couldn’t
hide him in the band’s dressing area – that was the first place
the cops would look for him. So we lugged him into another
locker room nearby which, since it was fully equipped with
shower facilities and suchlike and plastered with sporting
paraphernalia, I assumed was an American Football players’
changing room. Somewhere out there, the police were
stumbling about in the darkness, their mood turning as black
as the blackout we’d plunged them into.
I kicked the door shut and locked it. Hearts banging as loud
as Bonzo’s drumming and holding our breath in case we
were heard, Richard and I set about tidying up the legless
sticksman. We waited. Bonzo, by now, was unconscious,
draped lifelessly over a chair, marooned helplessly in the
empty tiled expanse of the backstage changing room. The
distant rumble of angry men echoed along the corridors
outside – then suddenly loomed uncomfortably close. And
then there was an explosion of outraged voices. At first it was
an incomprehensible babble. Then it was way too close and
way too clear.
‘Where is the dirty motherfucker?’ one loud American voice
kept roaring with an authority that cut through the general
furore. At least, I thought, we were safely locked in this
room. No one could hear us. Bonzo was temporarily out of
the game. Keep schtum and we’d be in the clear.
But then there was a thunderous banging at the door - the
kind of banging that won’t take no for an answer. The door
burst open to reveal five or six huge cops with waists as wide
as their minds were narrow. Some traitor must have given
them the master key. We were outnumbered, out muscled,
outweighed and, most importantly, outlawed.
Richard and I stood in front of Bonzo in a forlorn attempt at
solidarity – as if we could hide him; protect him. Two of the
police posse strode forward – too close for comfort,
intimidating, demanding to know if this was the drummer
who’d just given his public a pubic performance (not that
they put it that delicately!).
‘Look, he’s just drunk – he’s harmless,’ I spluttered. ‘Look at
him – he didn’t mean any harm...’
The cops looked with distaste over my shoulder at the inert
figure sprawled over a chair in the middle of the bleakly lit
and Spartan room. Neither was impressed. Their collective
sense of humour bypass was obviously complete. I suppose it
wasn’t much of an excuse. It can’t have been - because then
they whipped out their batons threateningly, making it utterly
clear that they meant business.
To be honest, at that point, Richard and I had given up the
ghost. We were all going to get nicked and that was that. But
neither we nor the cops had reckoned on a far superior
authority. I’d thought the police had made a fairly impressive
entrance just minutes ago. But the door through which they’d
marched with such self-righteous import suddenly exploded
open to admit the furious and fighting mad figure of Peter
Grant. He was always almost ludicrously huge – but fluffed
up, furious and bristling with rage like a giant Mother Hen
hell bent on protecting her chicks he almost took the door off
its hinges. The door wasn’t the only thing almost unhinged
by his entrance: the cops clucked in panic – overshadowed
and overawed and chickening out completely.
‘I’m the manager of the band,’ Grant boomed imperiously.
‘Who’s in charge here?’
The gobsmacked police officers silently pointed out their
Captain, whose eyes met Peter’s and were fixed in his glare.
‘You and me need to talk – alone.’ Peter said quietly. ‘Get
your men out of here.’
With a wave of his arm the Captain dismissed his troops and
Richard and I followed suit – we didn’t need telling. Closing
the door carefully behind us, we left Bonzo, Peter and the
Captain in the room and waited. And waited. And waited.
Finally, after about ten minutes that seemed a lot longer, the
Captain emerged, all that anger drained from his fat face, and
beckoned his men to follow. Bemused, we gingerly stepped
back into the locker room, where Peter greeted us with a
smile.
‘Well done!’ he beamed. ‘Now, let’s get Bonzo on the bus.’
I didn’t need to be told twice. I grabbed the still-prone Bonzo
and hauled him bus-wards and within minutes Peter and Led
Zep, complete with their semi-conscious drummer, were
speeding out of town. No charges. No arrest. In fact, it was as
if the incident had never happened. I was in awe of Peter’s
unique brand of diplomacy that had somehow convinced the
outraged cop Captain to let the matter drop. It was amazing
the authority that guy commanded. Maybe it was his sheer
size and physical presence...Well, that and the sheer size and
physical presence of his wallet – as I found out when I asked
Peter later on the bus.
‘That was a cheap get-out, Don!’ he laughed heartily. ‘It only
cost me $300!’
So now I knew how Led Zeppelin did business – and how the
big man made problems just disappear. It was a lesson I’d
take to heart – and which would take me to the very heart of
the stellar supernova that Zeppelin were about to become.
The irony was that the quiet, understated style of getting
things done that I’d developed for myself was sometimes at
odds with Peter’s methods. The further their balloon went up,
the more money there was sloshing around – and Peter’s
preferred way of dealing with problems was to throw money
at them. And that may have taken the edge off tricky
situations – but it also brought a whole new range of
complications. Despite – or maybe because of – his
unquestioned authority within the rock ‘n’ roll sphere, Peter
was drawn to people who had power of other kinds. He
seemed to be influenced by anyone who was ‘connected’ –
whether in government circles or in the underworld. One
gentleman – although I’m not sure the term is accurate in this
case – seemed to hold particular sway over Peter. Herb
Elliott. That was his name. Ex CIA or ex-Agency, he
appeared on the scene after a huge US tour that Zep had just
completed and he soon became instrumental in smoothing the
band’s way through the States. The powers that be move in
mysterious ways and this Herb guy was clearly connected.
As if by magic the band had police escorts on demand and
incidents such as that Singer Bowl debacle were ironed out
and wiped away without the need for negotiation.
One time outside Peter’s favourite London hotel – the
Montcalm at Marble Arch – I spotted three dodgy looking
men in a car, who were definitely staking out the hotel.
Naturally, I mentioned it to Peter and Herb.
‘What make of car? Registration?’ Herb asked in a flash.
I told him – having made a mental note of the licence plate
just in case. Herb left the room purposefully and was back in
ten minutes.
‘It’s OK. They’re police – but they’re looking for someone
else,’ he said with an air of confidence that could only come
from a man with some serious contacts at the highest level...
* * *
Maybe here’s the right place for me to go back to the
beginning, where, you may remember, I opened with the
tragic end of John Bonham.
‘Get down to Jimmy’s and take care of things,’ Ray had said
in that awful phone call to tell me Bonzo was dead.
‘OK, leave it to me, I’d replied. And I knew from long
experience that Ray and Peter Grant wouldn’t have called if
the shit wasn’t about to hit the fan. I had to get down to
Jimmy Page’s place sharpish. It was down to me to contain
the situation, limit the damage – and that probably meant
keeping the police and the press at bay.
I put the phone down, grabbed my keys and in minutes I was
out of my office in the NOMIS complex in Sinclair Road,
W14 and gunning my BMW onto the A4 and speeding west
for Windsor, where Jimmy, the prince of rock’s royal family,
had a palatial mansion, the Old Mill House in Mill Lane,
Baggott (incidentally, formerly owned by Michael Caine) - a
stone’s throw from another royal household: Windsor Castle.
My mind raced faster than the car’s screaming engine. John’s
dead. How? Was it accidental? Did he suffer? What about
Pat...And Jason, his wife and son? That frantic half-hour’s
drive was on auto-pilot as a cascade of John’s larger than life
exploits flashed through my mind - fleeting recollections that
made me smile despite the Bonzo-sized hole deep in the pit
of my stomach. This tragedy was the latest in a run of bitterly
bad luck for the band. Whether by sad coincidence or
something more sinister, the Grim Reaper had been knocking
at Zeppelin’s door much too often for comfort of late – as I
was reminded when I stumbled breathless into the guest
room at Jimmy’s mansion to find Bonzo’s body, lifeless on
its side where Benji le Fevre, his personal roadie, had put
him to bed after his drinking session, having taken care to
prop his back with a bolster to ensure that he couldn’t roll
over and choke on his own vomit. The central heating had
been left on but later someone had opened the windows – and
it was the fresh air, I was told, that had caused the strange
discoloration of his face. It was as if John’s life and soul
went out of the window as the fresh air blew in.
Arriving at around noon, I’d beaten the police and press to
the scene. Professionals to the end, the roadies - Benji and
Rex King - and, Jimmy’s manservant Rick Hobbs had
already ‘cleaned up’, by which they meant that they’d got rid
of anything potentially incriminating or embarrassing to the
band or John’s family. The one thing even they couldn’t
conceal or control, though, was his blood – and whatever that
contained would be revealed in the post mortem. To the
uninitiated that might sound impressively level-headed and
professional; but to a seasoned roadie it’s pretty much
standard procedure; as routine as tuning a guitar and placing
the monitors correctly – especially if your man indulged
heavily in all the usual extracurricular rock ‘n’ roll habits!
And there’s no denying that John Bonham indulged – in fact
he was the epitome of the wild man of rock, modelling
himself on his boyhood hero, the late, great Keith Moon. It
transpired that the boys had been rehearsing that day and
Bonzo, characteristically, had been hitting the vodka hard –
at least four quadruples, by all accounts as well as who
knows how many speedballs, the last of which was to be
John’s final hit. But, ironically, it wasn’t that heady mix of
coke and smack that killed him. Tragically, despite Benjy’s
diligent precautions, it was later found that John had vomited
and inhaled at the same time in his deep drunken sleep,
setting up a fatal siphon effect whereby the contents of his
stomach were pumped into his lungs.
Shaking off my initial shock, I took charge of my emotions –
and then I took charge of the situation.
You have to be pragmatic at times like that. It was too late to
do anything for John – and I could take care of his family
later. Right now, damage limitation was the name of the
game – and the first threat was the police. I briefed everyone
in the house: keep your mouths shut and make sure the cops
confine their investigation to the guest room. They must not
be allowed to nose around the rest of the house! I didn’t
know what they might find – but whatever they turned up, I
was sure it wouldn’t do the band any good. And once the
press got wind of it they’d have a field day - especially since
Bonzo was the second visitor to have died in one of Jimmy
Page’s guest rooms in just over a year. In fact that earlier
incident served as a sort of rehearsal for this latest tragedy...
On October 24th 1979 Paul McCartney’s company, MPL
Communications, hired us to provide men to check the guest
list and handle the overall security at a very prestigious
award ceremony that The Guinness Book of Records was
holding at Les Ambassadeurs nightclub just off London’s
Park Lane. Everybody who was anybody was there,
including the press, paparazzi, liggers and jibbers (jibbers are
people who blag their way into gigs, receptions or backstage
without a pass or invitation), largely because Paul was being
presented with a medallion cast in rhodium (which is a very
hard, silvery platinum-like metal element) by a government
minister. I was just checking out the members of Pink Floyd
when one of my men said that there was a call for me
upstairs (obviously this was a long time before the advent of
mobile phones!). At the reception desk I found the call was
from Ray Washbourne – and it wasn’t the best of news!
They’d just found one of Jimmy’s guests dead at his home at
Plumpton Place, Sussex. Predictably, he wanted me to get
down there and take care of things.
‘I think someone may have phoned for an ambulance,’ he
said, ‘but that’s all I know.’ ‘Leave it to me,’ I said before
telling Gerry Slater, my business partner, what had happened
and taking off like a scalded cat.
I arrived at the same time as the police. Obviously that was
because they’d been called out by the ambulance crew –
which is standard procedure. Their presence meant that I
couldn’t ‘clear up’ the way I’d have liked to. All I could do
was confine their investigations to the guest room where the
guy, whose name I later found out was Richard Churchill-
Hale, had popped his clogs. And that annoyed the cops
intensely! If I’d arrived ten minutes later they’d have been all
over the house like a rash – so I was very lucky, timing-wise.
I didn’t get a chance to ‘clear up’ completely so they did find
‘substances’ by his bedside. It transpired that the poor bloke
had overdosed – but because he was a guest, staying in a
guest room, the room he slept in was where the police’s
snooping stopped...
Anyway, going back to Bonzo, I knew that the press would
hound his family pitilessly – and that simply wasn’t an
option. I had to keep a lid on it for as long as I possibly
could, at least until Peter turned up and started throwing his
weight around – and, as demonstrated that time at the Singer
Bowl, that was a lot of weight to throw!
The police weren’t happy about being stymied at every turn.
But what could they do? It was apparently an accidental
death – nothing suspicious about it. A drunken man had
seemingly inhaled his own vomit - period. There was no
good reason for them to snoop around, no matter how much
they’d have liked to. Anyway, it was the law – they knew it
and so did I. Funny how rock ‘n’ roll makes lawyers out of
everyone involved – just like crime!
Sure enough, by the time Peter and Ray arrived and John
Bonham had ‘left the building’ for the last time in the
ambulance, the road had filled with reporters and the mob
was growing by the minute as the circling vultures homed in
on the smell of death. The three of us discussed all the
angles, analysed the kinds of problems that might ensue,
made contingency plans and decided how we would box for
the next few days. That resolved, Peter and Ray went off to
console the boys in the band. It was only after his unusually
subdued departure that it dawned on me that Peter hadn’t
been in his normal control-freak manager mode. Far from it –
he was obviously deeply shocked by the event and, after our
preliminary talk, left the whole affair to me to deal with.
At least I didn’t have to worry about the rest of the band –
they’d made a hasty departure minutes after John’s body had
been discovered and I’d arranged for more of my men to go
and look after them until they were safely ensconced in
secure retreats where there would be no intrusions. That may
sound callous. It wasn’t. It was, again, standard procedure.
When there was a ‘death in the family’ unwritten rule
number one was to make sure that the band were as far away
from the action as possible. It meant fewer questions for
them to answer. But more importantly it allowed them to
grieve in private, protected from the press (which in such
situations might as well be an abbreviation of pressure!).
The platoons of press and police set up camp at The Old Mill
House for days. So I did too. I hardly left Jimmy’s place for
the following few days. Keeping the hounds at bay was a full
time job and a hard one, with the more dogged photographers
climbing over the walls – and driving me and my men up the
wall in the process. There were a few little incidents – but
nothing I couldn’t handle – and I managed to contain the
situation as effectively as anyone could. Maybe I shouldn’t
have bothered. They’d caught the whiff of a story that was a
tabloid hack’s wet dream: rock star, booze, drugs and death –
and if there wasn’t any sex they’d find a way to work some
in. So, if they couldn’t get the story from the horse’s mouth
they’d let their imaginations – and Led Zep cuttings archives
– run riot. Predictably, they added that Ol’ Black Magic to
the lurid mix, concocting ludicrous fantasies involving
Jimmy Page and his admittedly strong interest in the occult in
general and Aleister Crowley in particular. For example, he
owned a house that had formerly belonged to Crowley and in
which there had allegedly been a terrifying catalogue of
murders and suicides. The place was also apparently haunted
by the spirit of a man who’d been decapitated there some
three hundred years earlier – all lurid grist to the newspaper
mill!
Having been so close to so many famous people whose lives
had been blighted and hacked to pieces by the lies and
sensationalism of the gutter press hacks, I knew exactly what
they’d do to John’s memory, given the chance. They didn’t
care whose feelings they hurt as long as they could drag up
enough dirt to muddy the issue – because they know mud
sticks. Any little association, any name, any snippet of gossip
or unsubstantiated innuendo would do if they could cook it
up into a tasty dish for their hungry public. I wouldn’t mind
so much if what they printed were true – but in my
experience they get it wrong most of the time and hurt people
more than they’ll ever know. But they never, ever apologise.
Worse still, they never, ever, seem to care. Luckily enough,
because John was so well-liked by his friends, there were
very few new revelations about him. In fact, it’s a tribute to
his friends’ loyalty and integrity that all the press could do
was dig up and rehash old stories.
Despite the press, I at least partially succeeded in controlling
the way the whole tragic affair was perceived by the public
by keeping a lid on everyone involved and ensuring that they
didn’t disclose anything. And now I faced another, far more
unsettling, task: to make sure John looked his best for his
swansong show for all the family and friends who wanted to
pay him their last respects. To do him justice, the mortician
needed to know what this vacant frame had been like in life –
larger than life was what Bonzo had been. I found a photo
that captured that free spirit we’d lost and made an
appointment at Kenyon Morticians in Kensington – at which
I duly arrived, full of trepidation.
After polite introductions in the office, I was ushered into the
area where the bodies were stored, silently awaiting their
burial or cremation. It was cool like...well, like a morgue
really. I, on the other hand, wasn’t cool at all. I was chilled to
the bone when the mortician reverently drew John out of
what looked like an oversized filing cabinet – the one where
they file your life when it’s no longer current. Desecrated by
the autopsy and horribly discoloured, this wasn’t the Bonzo
I’d known and loved. John’s wasn’t the first dead body I’d
seen and wouldn’t be the last, but that didn’t make that ‘death
mask’ any less mortifying. I was calmed, though, by the
mortician – a kind, congenial and fascinating man – who
soothingly discussed the whole mysterious process of his
profession with me. It’s a tribute to his professionalism and
integrity that when he looked at John’s body, having talked
about John with me and examined the photo I’d brought
along, he saw him through my eyes. He explained the way he
would use make-up and style his hair and assured me that by
the time he began his quiet sojourn in the Chapel of Rest,
John would look peaceful and serene – and no-one would see
any sign of the autopsy or the discoloration that had so
disturbed me. Bonzo, peaceful and serene. That’s a first, I
thought.
A consummate professional in the art of sending people
gracefully to their final rest, he was just as skilled in bringing
peace to the living – and, having put my mind at ease, he
shared some of the intimate and touching aspects of his craft.
In another ‘file’ was another body – that of a sixty-year-old
Greek or Cypriot woman. She was fully clothed and looked
as if she’d just fallen asleep. But it had been a very long
snooze because, amazingly, she’d been dead for nearly two
years. Evidently her husband had requested that they kept her
there, perfectly peaceful and preserved, until he died – which
apparently would be soon – so that they could make their
final journey together; go home to be buried in their own
country. And this wasn’t a one-off – he told me he’d once
kept the body of an exiled African head of state for more than
six years because his family was waiting until their country’s
political climate changed before they could take him home
and bury him in his native soil. I found myself moved by the
reverence with which this gentle man accommodated
people’s last wishes in God’s departure lounge. There
couldn’t have been anyone better to administer this art to
John: a great and talented artist performing his art for another
great and talented artist.
A few days later I returned to see his handiwork and my faith
was fully justified – John had been transformed. He looked
lifelike – perhaps better than he’d looked for several years.
All his confusion and conflict was resolved; the stress and
strain relieved. He just looked bloody handsome and, finally,
the wild man of rock was completely at peace.
I phoned Peter to tell him that the funeral arrangements could
go ahead and also that people could now go and pay their last
respects. John was to be buried near his home at Rushock in
Worcestershire, where he had lived with his wife, Pat, and
Jason, his son.
My involvement in John’s demise had been a tragedy in three
acts. Act One: the death scene at Jimmy’s house. Act Two:
the Chapel of Rest. Act Three was the funeral – and again my
own grief had to be put on hold because my team and I had
been employed to ensure that it would be a dignified and
respectful occasion, unsullied by intrusive press or fans. It
was the last meaningful thing I could do for John – and I was
determined to do that sad duty well, despite the irony that
‘quiet and dignified’ were hardly what the wild man would
have wanted. What he definitely would have wanted, though,
was for Pat, his beloved wife, to be spared any more stress
and strain than she was already suffering. And that, I’d make
sure of – for Pat, for Jason and for John. My lads and I met,
appropriately, at John’s favourite watering hole just opposite
the graveyard where he was to rest, to toast him the way he’d
have wanted us to. In fact Pat made a remark that June (my
wife) and I will never forget.
‘From his grave, John can see this pub, so he can see us
celebrating his life as he would have wanted us to.’
With that deeply moving thought in mind, I reluctantly left
John’s close family and many other friends – many of whom
were my friends too – to say their final goodbyes while we
prepared to fortify the church against the inevitable
onslaught.
Security was just one aspect of the operation. There were
more sensitive duties to deal with too and I’m proud to say
that the busload of my men I brought in did an admirably
discreet and respectful job and behaved impeccably. You’d
never have known that their background was in the rather
less formal world of rock ‘n’ roll – but it was clear that their
solemnity and dedication to the job was inspired by the fact
that most of them had worked with Zeppelin at one time or
another. They acted as ushers for the collected family and
friends and were invaluable in helping to receive and lay out
with due solemnity the innumerable floral tributes that
poured in. Of course I made sure that the men were
strategically placed and blended in – the last thing we wanted
was for them to look oppressive, like a bunch of bouncers.
And to their credit they blended with considerable diplomacy
and aplomb. In the pub, then before, during and after the
service, they kept the hordes of press, autograph collectors
and souvenir hunters at a respectful distance with nothing
more dramatic than a wagging of fingers, a meaningful look
and a shake of the head that said ‘that’s a no no!’. The
respect with which the onlookers treated the proceedings was
impressive – particularly the national press boys, who aren’t
renowned for their sensitivity. Mind you, they weren’t
behaving themselves out of any sense of decency! Just to
make sure they behaved, we had quietly pointed out that if
they took any liberties on that day they’d pay dearly for them
in future. They knew we were the boys in charge of most
major rock ‘n’ roll happenings they’d want to cover and took
the warning to heart – as well they might – and were on their
best behaviour.
That day a cornerstone of one of the world’s greatest bands
was lowered into the ground – and the lack of Bonzo’s
unbeatable beats undermined Page, Plant and Jones. Soon
they announced that they felt they couldn’t go on without
him. It was the end of an era. Yet another rock legend had
succumbed to the lethal cocktail of self-doubt, temptation
and adulation that only the great stars ever sample. Because
when you’re very, very high there’s a very long way to go
down. John was history – and so was the band. History in the
real sense of the word.
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What does Jimmy think about Jazz and who does he admire?? If you think long and hard about this and you live in the UK you will know where to meet him,
When Jimmy went to see Terry Reid perform at Ronnie Scott's Jazz Club (11/20/05)
Jimmy said he had never been there before because he "never liked jazz". Granted,
that was just one remark made during a lifelong musical journey.
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Did Clive Davis ever try and win Peter Grant and the Zep back after the boys went with Jerry Wexler and Ahmet Ertegun of Atlantic after Clive and RCA didn't want to sign Zep to such a large signing fee?($200,000 was it?)
There paths must have crossed somewhere. Maybe when Zeps contract expired with Atlantic?
The band enjoyed such unprecedented success with Atlantic and a close relationship with Ahmet there was never really any question of them leaving Atlantic. Even when Swan Song was launched Atlantic was still handling the distribution.
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I recall there was a rumour circulating in early 1978, during Plant's break from the band, that Page was writing new material with Roy Harper. It was of course flatly denied by Page. I don't remember anything earlier though between 75-77.
Meg
Led Zeppelin had of course reconvened at Clearwell Castle in May '78, rehearsing medleys and Carouselambra. I can't recall Jimmy and Roy ever having written
anything together for use in Led Zeppelin.
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After Plants car accident in '75, rumour has it that Page wanted to take the band out as a trio.
Any truth to that?
None, for as you may know, the band went on hiatus from performing to allow Robert time to heal. They went on hiatus again in '77 following the tragic loss of Robert's son.
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I'm surprised no one has made a comment on this yet.
How reliable is this source considered?
I replied to this in another thread. They did play Preston and Mick would have no reason to lie, but the date provided (Nov 27th) is incorrect. The correct date is in the official
timeline. No audio or video recordings have surfaced yet.
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During the Royal Albert Hall show !983, a Metronome, Guitar tuner & widget(something?) were stolen from his dressing room. It was mentioned in a music paper at the time.
I'll look into this and post any findings.
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Steve, any plans for some book reviews? There has been a spate of new Zeppelin titles recently. I finally picked up this morning Whole Lotta Led: The Illustrated History of the Heaviest Band of All Time by Jon Bream.
Well, not within this thread; the new books should have their own review threads.
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He wasn't going to perform with Plant. Their performances would have been seperate.
FWIW:
Page & Plant to Play at Montreux Jazz Festival
From: LED-ZEPPELIN.COM 2006.04.27
Jimmy Page and Robert Plant are scheduled to perform together at the upcoming Montreux Jazz Festival for a tribute to Atlantic Record's founder Ahmet Ertegun on June 30th. Also scheduled on the bill are: Jeff Beck, Solomon Burke, Ben E. King and others.
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Hey stop flirting with her, she's spoken for.
Sorry Steve, I will no longer contibute to the derailing of your thread.
Thanks Paul. I cannot fathom why they just don't put each other on ignore, but it's not
a mystery I wish to examine.
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Could we just all possibly agree that Robert and Jimmy have equally good reasons, in their own minds, for doing whatever it is that they do?
In their own minds this probably holds true and they are only human.
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Or are you saying Page himself misled the organizers, was wishy-washy, said yes, then no, then maybe? Honestly, I would appreciate having the point clarified.
It's pretty clear to me what I'm saying is I believe that an unfortunate situation prior to the event was improperly handled and Ahmet's death accentuated this fact. If you can
provide any substantiation whatsoever Jimmy's absence was communicated with no
equivocation and well in advance I will entertain a change to my viewpoint.
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Maybe, Led Wallet felt cheated. Didn't they file suit against Atlantic/Warner bros around this time? Did Ahmet still have influence, and what was the the outcome of that ugliness?
Had nothing to do with it! Jimmy and Ahmet had socialized more than once since that lawsuit was filed March 12, 2002 http://www.thesmokinggun.com/archive/ledzep1.html
I think it's still in litigation. I also like to think Ahmet remains influential in this world.
Apparently, Jimmy and Robert may have had a falling out the month prior in Stockholm,
where they along with JPJ and Zoe Bonham went to receive the Polar Music Prize award from Sweden's King Carl XVI Gustaf.
Bottom line is he wasn't there but he was out with Ross Halfin in London the same night.
Anyway, it's all water under the bridge now.
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I didn't want to open a new topic for this so I write it down here (perhaps it is a "Mystery"):
In the book "John Bonham- The powerhosue behind Led Zeppelin" Mick writes that he appeared on stage at the concert in Preston, Town Hall on November 27, 1971. I never found this gig listed on any concert-list. But it seems to me that it happened. He writes about it:
"...it was an extra date added the original tour dates hat been confirmed, so the gig was never written about an there were no photos....it was about the only gig not to be recorded on bootleg"
Steve, can you clear it up?
Led Zeppelin performed at Preston Town Hall on November 23rd 1971, not the 27th.
It is indeed among the few Led Zeppelin gigs for which no recording is known to exist.
However, there is an authentic ticket stub and two comments from attendees in the official timeline, lending credence beyond a reasonable doubt to it actually having been performed. Perhaps there was an advert or review published to further confirm the date
and details.
Mick would certainly have no reason to embellish having appeared with them onstage
(it is he who blows the whistle on the studio version of 'Fool In The Rain') but clearly
the date provided is a typo. They would have had no inclination to return to Preston just four days after having played there during a brief month-long UK tour!
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Not Page's fault the promoters didn't tell the public farther in advance. And what a shame, since there are such hard feelings about it. Seems to me they owe Jimmy an apology.
Page has busted his ass his entire life. What's the big deal if he didn't feel like travelling and performing several weeks after surgery?
Claude Nobs owes Jimmy no apology. I believe notice was not given further in advance because all interested parties were offering Jimmy ample opportunity to summon up the wherewithal to at least appear, if not perform. Claude ensured full refunds at the door were offered for any ticket holder who preferred one.
If you must know what the big deal is it's that Ahmet passed away fairly soonafter.
As one who was at his tribute in Montreux, this is still a highly sensitive and personal issue for me. You see, to this day I cannot understand why Jimmy willfully failed to honor his commitment to Ahmet in life, and it's the precise reason why so far as I was concerned he and Harvey Goldsmith could stick their 02 gig where the sun don't shine.
Nothing personal, just raw emotions.
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An investigation of original and reproduction Led Zeppelin Objects courtesy of my friend,
the incomparable Rick Barrett:
The Presence “Object”: Real Or Repro?
by: Rick Barrett
I get LOTS of questions about the famous statue that was on the cover of Led Zeppelin's Presence album, which is called “The Object”. Hopefully this feature will give some background on it and answer some questions that commonly arise!
First of all, after Hipgnosis designed the Presence album cover, in which The Object was painted into the various scenes, Led Zeppelin had real Objects produced. That's what was used to photograph the album's black and white inner sleeves. Shortly thereafter, Alva Museum Graphics in New York was contracted to produce 1000 individually numbered 12" tall black Objects for Swan Song to use in their promotion of the record. On the base of each Object was imprinted the following on four sides:
1) LED ZEPPELIN (1/4" tall lettering)
2) "THE OBJECT" c 1976 SWAN SONG INC (VERY small lettering)
3) PRESENCE (1/4" tall lettering)
4) ____/1000 (The individual number was here; this information was etched by hand onto each Object
The originals came in brown cardboard boxes taped shut with brown paper filament tape. On the side of each box was a flat white sticker with "The Object" and "Copyright 1976 Swan Song" written in red. Some boxes have the number of the Object inside written in black magic marker on the outside of the box, on top. These brown cardboard boxes were nothing fancy; without the sticker it was just a plain brown cardboard box. When opened, one could see that The Object was packed in a brownish padded blanket of sorts...like those padded mailers filled with that shredded newspaper stuff. (Originals were NOT packaged with bubble wrap, and the cardboard boxes did NOT originally come shrink wrapped.) This is the only way and the only time The Object was ever released by Swan Song/Atlantic Records.
In the late 1970's-early 1980's, somewhere in the vicinity of 500 reproductions were made. Seems like there were lots more than that, but this is fact. There WERE many variations of the bogus Objects and they were all from the same source. None of the repros were numbered higher than 650 if memory serves me well, though there was one numbered 666! I do recall that there happened to be an overlap of some numbers on the fakes. I doubt there are any more than three of the same number on any of the repros. The numbering of these were done by hand, but they were not done chronologically; it seemed like whatever suited the bootleggers at the time was the norm. Most of the first run of repros had some cheap green felt on the bottom of The Object; subsequent ones were just plain black bottomed.
The differences between the originals and the 1980’s reproductions are as follows:
1) Originals: flat black paint;
Repros: glossy or semi-gloss black paint
2) Originals: very smooth sides and base; little or no imperfections
Repros: bulges and pits were prevelant, though not all that noticeable from a fair distance away; various flaws abound...brush marks from the paint, difficult to read etchings on the base, bulging top edge
3) Originals: underneath the thin coat of paint, a flesh-color appears IF a scratch or chip is not very deep; if deep then white shows through
Repros: Only a white color shows through if scratched or chipped
A REAL Object is in the left of these photos; a reproduction Object from the 1980’s is in the right of each photo:
**Both Originals and Repros were made of a hard plaster called hydrocale, and weighed the same. The originals were made of a higher quality material, which is one reason why there are less flaws than the hastily produced fakes. Both are also the same height.***
It is fairly safe to say that once one has seen an original Object, then you'll always be able to tell the difference between genuine and fakes. The differences are subtle enough for some to have been fooled by bootleg ones. Original Objects are not easy to find; most people who have them seem to want to keep them. Unlike many Zep items that seem to just appeal to hardcore Zeppelin fans, there are a LOT of music fans and collectors of promo items that want or have an Object. Real ones in an unopened box are becoming very rare; most people that get them open them up! I can't tell you how many people opened ones that we sold when we had a batch in the early 90's; one of our foreign customers had the unfortunate experience of having their original Object in the box opened by a Customs agent.
Finally, there has been another incarnation of reproduction Objects, manufactured by an artist in Oregon. These are very easy to tell from both the originals and reproduction Objects from a several decades ago because they have very rounded edges, are lighter in weight, and are usually numbered 310/1000:
The Object is a REALLY cool item; it's a GREAT conversation piece in any room and is quite an attention getter on a coffee table or shelf. If you're looking for an Object, good luck in your search!
Zeppelin Mysteries Hosted by Steve A. Jones
in Led Zeppelin Master Forum
Posted · Edited by SteveAJones
Jimmy outbid David Bowie for Tower House in June 1973. He purchased it from the actor Richard Harris. More Page-Burges trivia:
December 1972
Whilst touring with Led Zeppelin in Cardiff Jimmy knocked on the door of Cardiff Castle, a William Burges-interior designed landmark but he could not enter as it is was closed
for renovations.
May 27 2002
Jimmy opened a Burges room exhibit at Knighthayes Court near Devon, England for which Jimmy lent a Victorian Gothic wardrobe from his personal collection for three months.
May 19 2004
Jimmy returned to Cardiff Castle for a book launch at the request of Matthew Williams, curator of the castle and author of a William Burges book with Jimmy's cooperation.
October 6 2005
Jimmy opened a William Burges exhibition called "Conserving the Dream - Treasures of St. Fin Barre's Catheral" in Cork, Ireland.