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Some corporation was holding its convention at the Beverly Hilton and amidst a sea of striped sports jackets, Led Zeppelin's Robert Plant seemed incongruous as he strode across the lobby, a long-maned lion stalking through a herd of zebras.

It was half past five o'clock, about one hour before better than half the televisions in the world would be tuned in to the spectacle of Muhammad Ali giving British heavyweight contender Richard Dunn a blood-spattered five-round drubbing in Munich, Germany. Plant pried open the glass sliding door of his room and coolly but politely ordered two young friends to leave. Outside, the sun still bounced brilliantly off the swimming pool but in the room its light was effectively blocked by the kind of thick, rubberized drapes that must have been invented by either an insomniac or a vampire. "Do you think we can get this done before the fight begins?" he asked, his eyes darting over toward the room's TV. No, he wasn't all that much into boxing, but watching Clay is another matter, said Plant, whose enthusiasm for other sports particularly soccer is well known. Clay? "Clay, Ali, whatever you want to call him."

He sat down on a severely rumpled king-sized bed above which a poster advertising the film "Tunnel Vision" had been haphazardly tacked on the wall and, reaching for the telephone, ordered a couple of daiquiris from room service. As we began the interview, Led Zep's golden boy addressed the tape recorder as if he were facing a battery of network cameras, instead of a lone disheveled journalist sprawled on a hotel floor.

Circus: When you came over to the States on your first tour, how readily did you find the band to be accepted by the audience ? Was it an anonymous grind at first?

Plant: No, because Atlantic had done a good job with the white label copies of the first album, getting them out to the FM stations a couple of days before we got to town. The reaction was very good. We weren't even billed the majority of the time. I remember the marquee that read 'Vanilla Fudge, Taj Mahal plus Supporting Act.' I didn't care; I'd been playing for years and I'd never seen my name up there so it meant nothing to me. But the reception that we got was something else again, and that was especially surprising because in some of those towns the albums had not yet reached the stores. Even so, after about the third number you could feel that the buzz coming back to us from the audience was different than what they'd given the other bands. The first gig was the day after Christmas in Denver and then we came back here to Whisky, where Jimmy and I were both chronically ill and only played one gig out of three we were supposed to have played. And I saw the GTO's and I saw everything buzzing around me. I saw the Plaster-Casters, and I saw rows and rows and rows of possibilities, you know? And I said, "Man, there's no end." The day will never come when I stop looking at what did Joni Mitchell call her album, Miles of Aisles? Just as long as you can look out there and get a twinkle. So that was it, that was the first tour. By the time we got to the East Coast, it was really hot. It was really surprising; it just devastated me. The antics, the tricks and just the whole world that I'd slipped into, after having to struggle back in the midlands of England just to play. And suddenly we were in places like Steve Paul's Scene, where the mini-Mafia would be kicking the tables over and chicks would be sleezing up to you and everything like that I mean, why stop ever?

Circus: When did you first get really caught up in writing for the band?

Plant: It was with the second album, when I got into doing "Ramble On," which a lot of people say is a sort of Lord of The Rings type of thing. By then I had developed a wanderlust and that song was really just a reflection of myself.

Circus: Was that the first writing you had done?

Plant: I wrote one song with the Band of Joy called "Memory Lane." It was really quite funny, something about a chick on the back of a motorbike with a chrome horse between her legs. I suppose it was an early version of "The Wanton Song." But I've never considered writing to be a problem; I've always looked forward to it, it's just that sometimes it becomes a challenge. I usually just leave the phone off the hook, send the flesh on its way and shut the door tightly. "The Song Remains The Same" is possibly one of the few songs that I don't think I really did justice to.

Circus: Your last album was recorded in 18 days. Why was it done so quickly?

Plant: It was really like a cry of survival. I didn't know whether I was going to be able to work with the band again; I didn't know if my leg would heal. We had planned to do a world tour, but obviously that was nipped in the ankle, so to speak. I was stuck in Malibu for a long while, and I said "Please, let me do something to do with music; let me do something or otherwise I'm gonna go balmy." We already had some ammunition from our trip to Morocco Jimmy and I had put together some epic sort of material, but every time that we started listening and thinking about the ideas that we already had put together, we shied away. We hadn't been back to England in nine or ten months, and consequently I don't think that we were in one of our more mentally stable periods not in a condition that enabled us to come to grips with what would be a huge accomplishment in our eyes. So we went to S.I.R. [Studio Instrument Rentals a complex of rehearsal facilities] to work on some things. And it was hard in the beginning- I had to sit in an arm chair with my leg up in the air while the band was on the stage. And I'd go into another room where Detective were playing and Michael Des Barres was singing, aping all of my movements and looking in the mirror at the same time.

Circus: Did he make any cracks?

Plant: Nah, I was making the cracks.

Circus: So you signed him to Swan Song Records.

Plant: Sure, we figured that if I don't go out on the road again, we'd just change his name quickly and send him out as me. But anyway, slowly and painfully we began working on the album and it gradually came together. And then we went straight to Germany; that was where we did the 18-day shuffle. We worked pretty much straight through. We didn't or at least I didn't go out at all at night. Normally after hard work we always take our rewards; but that time there were no rewards for Robert.

Circus: What do you think of Presence in terms of its musical accomplishments?

Plant: Well, there won't be another album like it, put it like that. It was an album of circumstances; it was a cry from the depths, the only thing that we could do. I honestly didn't know what was going to happen and neither did anybody else. If it had been six, seven or eight years ago, it would probably have been a good deal more raw. It was taken from the balls, you know; that was where it was coming from.

Circus: How about the film that's about to be released? Were you very actively involved with it?

Plant: Everybody was. We knew exactly how we wanted it, I mean, we knew the material so we knew just what should be illuminated at what point of the film. So all of us were equally involved with it there was no other way to do it, because we couldn't leave it to anybody else. It was a big thing for us to do, and I don't think you do it more than once.

Circus: Do you enjoy working with film?

Plant: Film people really puzzle me. I believe that music is the master; that is, it can bring you elation and sadness and satisfaction while the visual part of film is just the diversion. The attitude and antics of the people involved with film, the way they follow their own odd trips are really beyond my comprehension altogether. I could never imagine being involved in movies by myself. If I had to repeat the work on that film again, I would refuse to do it.

Circus: You would never be interested in doing any acting?

Plant: No, not at all. I don't premeditate how I act or react or motivate myself onstage. I know what to do, but I don't know when to switch what on; it's just a case of how I'm driven on by the people who are with me. If I weren't with the other three gentlemen in the band, I probably wouldn't be worth interviewing. Whereas the idea of the solitary man standing in front of the camera repeating himself time and time again to some irate lunatic sitting in a chair with "Director" written in back ‹yecch>, no thanks.

Circus: What were your travels in Morocco all about?

Plant: Well, I'd been there before with my wife Maureen and I'd started to touch beyond the usual clip-cloppity "This way mister, this way mister" kinds of places. I went back with Maureen directly after the Earl's Court gigs, which were the last gigs before the accident. I went straight off the beaten track. I'd had three days lying in the sun in a glossy hotel and then we just took a car and went. I had one friend in Morocco- he was a friend of the infamous Harold, who hangs around with us and a few other bands occasionally. As it happened, this Moroccan guy had spent 11 years learning the Koran to be a holy man but he turned out to be a hustler instead. He'd been to London and so he was a big deal locally, and he'd do things like get hold of a telephone in the Hilton hotel, cut the cord, and put it in his car‹so he'd be driving around Marrakesh pretending that he was talking on the telephone. A real gassy guy, always trying to sell you things even though he was your friend. It was with him that we went down to the Sahara.

Circus: Jimmy Page was along for some of that trip. Do you imagine that his music would be affected by it?

Plant: I'd imagine so. It doesn't manifest itself as a direct emulation of their music, but when you've seen it and felt it, it has an effect on you, just like a car accident has its effects too. Everything washes off on you, although some things aren't so immediately apparent as other things But I don't think Morocco is the most inspiring place that I shall ever go to. It's my ambition to go to Kashmir, and I'm saving that as the last trek. What I want to do is to travel north from India, but not singing Hari Krishna or anything like that. My old lady comes from India, and her uncle was chief of the Calcutta mounted police during the '40s. He can speak about 10 different dialects and he's a really great guy. In fact one of the times that I worked before the Zeppelin days, I had a job as a production control manager in a factory that he ran. I got the sack because I ordered enough steel to keep three factories going for about a year, but I managed to remain his friend and one day I'd like to take him with me and go right up through Kashmir and then stop. Then I'd like to just disappear for about four or five years. It's not a Marco Polo trip, it's just that I know that you can mingle; I know people who have lived in those places for a long time. Of course it's not wine and roses or even the spiritual aspect of life there that I'm interested in It's day to day experiences, and you have to work because as you work you become a part of society. There's so much to learn there, so much that we here in the West have lost.

Circus: Do you think you would be accepted into Kashmiri society?

Plant: I think so. I have a lot of friends in England who have done a lot of traveling over there. A guy who currently works for me escaped the police by virtually walking to Bombay from England; he just hitched and went and went and went. He'd take buses here and there and catch rides wherever he was able. He slept in caves in Hindu-Kush, came out covered with these big flies and had to jump in a ditch full of shit to get the flies off him. I mean, he just had the most amazing time; life and deathin the palm of his hand. He had to play games with the guards on the borders of India and Pakistan, where the borders close at six o'clock and there's nobody who's going to take any responsibility for your safety when you go through. There's that excitement, a little less of the expected if you compare it to going to Philadelphia, for example, and getting your rocks off. It's just my ambition to see if I can do it, to see if I've got it inside me to live with those people. I noticed when I was in India that just because we admired the people there, they looked upon us as idiots. Because they're scratching to get into Western society, and we were just trying to touch upon the pulse of the very things they were trying to leave behind. But I shall still go to the Roxy tonight, I haven't yet given up that part of my life. But the time will come when I will do that. And without a four-wheel drive vehicle, too. And no stimulants.

Circus: Don't you expect that it will be difficult to give up all those things?

Plant: I'll not give them up forever, I'll just soak it in and come back. Everybody will think I'm a complete loony by the time I return I've already declared myself this week as the Billy Graham of rock; I'm trying to clean up rock & roll for a week. But who knows what could happen up there after four years in the wilderness?

Circus: So what is it that you'll do when you get back from Kashmir?

Plant: Uh, become a Mormon.

Circus: Well, with the money you've made, they'll probably let you in.

Plant: All what money? You've gotta be kidding.
Robert Plant Interview
By J.D. Considine

"You'd think with 20,000 people every night that there would have to be some people screaming for 'Stairway To Heaven' or 'Kashmir' but we haven't heard it" says Phil Collins, fidgeting happily. The scene is a small room in the backstage labyrinth of the Philadelphia Spectrum. Collins is there to play drums for Robert Plant and about 18,000 fans, with the latter waiting noisily a few yards of concrete above us. As a "permanent member, for a couple of months," Collins is happy to have the opportunity to join the former Led Zeppelin singer on his first solo tour , and as his gaze wanders about the room, past a Kapryo computer displaying several columns of tonight's statistics and a televison showing the Phillies game across the street, he talks about his surprise with how the tour has shaped up. "I haven't heard any cries for Zeppelin. The vibe hasn't been like that onstage. The guys in the front row know the words and you feel like a pioneer a bit. " Collins is right - the vibe has not been what you might expect, particulary if you base your expectations on the reputation fostered by Plant's last stadium band. Just how different things are becomes apperent a few minutes after I finish my chat with Collins. Wandering out into the hall in hope of figuring out where my seat is. I notice the band making its way out of the dressing room to take the stage. As they file past, guitarist Robbie Blunt, whom I had interviewed earlier in the evening, smiles and says hello. Plant turns to Blunt further down the hall, and then suddenly dashes back to where I'm standing. "Oh, look sorry" he smiles, "I'm the fellow who's been keeping you waitning. But we'll have a chance to talk later tonight, eh?". Copletely taken aback, I smile and fumble my way through an "Oh, sure absolutely no problem." As he sprints back down the hall to join his bandmates, I stand feeling slightly stunned that Robert Plant, whose time I had worried ablut taking up, would go to the trouble of apologizing to someone he hadn't even met. I wander away muttering, "What a nice guy," and wondering what could have possibly started the rumors of Led Zeppelin's consummate arrogance.

But then, I should have figured that Plant's personal behavior would defy expectations, because evrything about his solo career thus far has. Instead of making the obvious move of serving up an album of insta-Zep, his solo debut, Pictures At Eleven, was both distinctive and succesful in its own rights. Even so, Plant would later confess that his greatest worry wasn't that the record wouldn't sell, but that it would sound too much like Led Zeppelin. For his second album, this year's Principle Of Movements, the Zeppelin association was even less a problem, as Plant and his band move still further away from both that signature sound and heavy rock in general.

Perhaps most surprising af all is that Plant has been able to manage his shift without alienating his audience. Pictures At Eleven debuted in the Top Ten, just one notch above The Clash, while Principle Of Movements, has done even better, fielding a hit pop single with "Big Log". Tonight's Crowd at the Spectrum is as rabid as any at a heavy rock show, even as Plant & Company unleash a decidely un-guitar-like synth prefase to "Thru With Two Steps," slip into a Bob Marley number in the middle of "Horizontal Departure," and bring "Wreckless Love" to a climax with a jam that sounds like an unholy union of Persian classical music and Southside Chicago blues. By the end of the show, most of these kids aren't sure where they have been, but they're sure as hell eager to go back there soon.

Later after a band dinner in a spare room at Plant's hotel, he explains part of the difference in his new material as being the result of an intense concentration on melody. "I try to get it as melodic as I can on record," he says. "Sweet, if you like. At the same time, I also try to get the attack and the drive which are part of my waking and being. But it's far more scrutinizing now. Some people might say that loses a lot of the edge of the thing, but in the end, that's my whim, that's my choice, and I like to do it this way." Of course, doing it Plant's way takes some getting used to. As much as he desires control and precision in his own work, he encourages spontaneity in his bandmates. But given some of the influences he himself draws upon, that occasionally takes a bit of doing. It's typical of Plant that what he carried over from the Zep is the esoterica, rather than the cliches. While talking to Robbie Blunt, I asked where the arabic bits in is playing on "Wreckless Love" and "Slow Dancer" came from, and he confessed that, "It just popped out of somewhere. "See, Robert has got a lot of Arabic music, and he sort of sat me down and said, 'Listen to a bit of this.' This was back during the first album, and like "Slow Dancer" - obviously, there's plenty of influence in that song. "What's her name - Oum Lakoum or something? He knows more about it than me. She was very famous." Could he mean Oum Koulsoum, the famous Egyptian singer? "Right. Something like that anyway. The story goes that if anybody died in her orchestra, they were never replaced. Robert tells me her own funeral drew millions, more than the president when he died. Incredible," he says, shaking his head. "Well, I mean we had all that Indian phase in the 70's," he shrugs, "but some of that Arabic stuff, when you listen to it, is amazing, because they're using quarter tones, singing quarter tones. And Robert sort of uses that style at times." It seems that, at one time or another, Robert Plant is likely to do most anything, which makes the question of 'What next?' quite an interesting one. When I pose it to Blunt, he is frankly amuse. "We may well do a rockabilly album, " he says, laughing. "Honestly. We might put an album out with sixteen cuts on it. Who knows? It's his idea to be whatever."

MUSICIAN: It seems to be a thing among British musicians to absolutely never repeat what was on the last record; to be new and original every time out. Certainly, that was the case with Led Zeppelin, and so far that's the way your own albums have run.

PLANT: It's the only way to survive.


PLANT: With yourself. You've got to keep fresh, to change. Don't be repetitious. Forget REO Speedwagon - it doesn't count. What it comes down to is, how do you live with yourself if one album is a success, and the second album leans too heavily on the first because of the lack of ideas? This is where you put yourself on the crucifix, tie yourself on and say, "I don't want to be a parody of a parody of a parody forever. " I mean, the vocal tricks I use are mine, I enjoy them, but I try and change them all the time. So the structures of the song must continue to be challenged. That's why Led Zeppelin III was so different - it was different at the time. If Led Zeppelin III came out now, it wouldn't mean a thing. But at the time, it was an extremely logical step.

MUSICIAN: You mentioned earlier that one difference in what you're doing now is that you think things out more, plan ahead musically, in a way. The impression I got of a lot of the Zeppelin tracks, by contrast, was that they were laid down, then structured later.

PLANT: Well, they weren't done and structured afterwards - it was just that the Zeppelin stuff, vocally, was far more immediate. If the feel was good and it was a little bit out of tune, flat or sharp, it didn't matter. We'd keep it just for the feel. I ponder over the stuff now, and try and perfect it up front. I want to create more melody. I really would like to be responsible for songs which, apart from being exciting, are primarily memorable for the melodic content.

MUSICIAN: Is this move to melody why you're almost under-singing now?

PLANT: On record, I will not under-sing, I will sing the melody. I will make the lyrics clear, I will mix the vocal louder, I will let people know how I think and feel. Onstage, then, my natural dynamics come out. I'll over-sing, but I play my role. That's why people who come to the concerts now are seeing an extension of the most recent recording material, and they're getting a different character to what they expected. Because I'm not just singing the song - I'm taking it onstage and expressing it more. I pull out more of the full-stops, semi-colons, exclamations marks here. Letting people know, letting myself know, that as a performer and as a singer, this is how it goes when you're in front of a crowd.

MUSICIAN: Well, if your approach to recording keeps changing, moving towards the melody or in other directions, do you think that performing will then become the constant?

PLANT: I don't know. It's just two different idioms altogether, and on record. I don't ever want to get a remarkably live feeling. I'd want the band to jell more and more, which they're doing; some of the fades on the tracks are becoming fare more fluent. The band is enjoying playing together, they're getting conscientious rather than carrying on in darkness, wondering whether I was trying to press them into being clones of Led Zeppelin, which is not what I'm trying to do. Now they know, their identities come through, they're proud - and it comes across in what they do, y'know? But as far as my performance on record, as I said , I want it to be very clean and structured. A problem with being-over-the-top on record is that too many people aped me in the past, and ape me now, on record. If I start joining the rank and file, who's going to know that I was the guy who had it in the first place?

MUSICIAN: How you feel about being so widely imitated?

PLANT: I was flattered originally, but now I find it a little tiresome. Guys, singers, come up and apoligize, saying, "People have likened my style to yours, but of course it's not true." Then I put the record on, and hear that they're like ninety-nine percent me. Except that they're ten years younger or fifteen years younger, and can't do it as well.

MUSICIAN: Or in some cases, they're female. Personally, I've always thought that Ann Wilson does you better than anybody.

PLANT: I know. I saw her do it during one of my periods of consternation, when I was waiting. I had just started with the Honeydrippers, and I went to see Heart. But I don't complain. Bless her, she's a woman, and I don't complain when a woman tries to do what I do. Somebody's got to take the active role and somebody's got to take the passive role from time to time. But there are a lot of these English, second-generation whatever they're-called bands, the substance of which, and the sources from which they draw their influences, are no longer Howlin' Wolf and Robert Johnson - they're me and Steve Mariott. And not even Steve Mariott. There's a handful of people they listen to and they don't listen to anybody else. They don't listen to Alf from Yazoo, or Oum Koulsoum, or anything like that. They just listen to what's commercially succesful, ape it, come over here, sell four million records, sell out four nights at the Spectrum, and bludgeon everybody's ears with something that has no representation of subtletly at all.

MUSICIAN: Fair enough, but I can understand how kids who are seventeen or eighteen, and who missed it the first time around would fall for this rehashed rehash.

PLANT: Absolutely, yeah. But I don't know whether it's maturity or old age or whatever you want to call it, it just lead me to think that if assaulting a crowd's ears with incessant racket with no let-up at all, and a soft passage every three numbers to represent subtlety and musical color, is what it's all about then something's gone horribly wrong.

MUSICIAN: You're undoubtedly aware that Led Zeppelin is seen by many as the godparents of heavy metal - do you think that what you do, or did then, could accurately be called "heavy metal"?

PLANT: No. Take the first album - "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You," "Your Time Is Gonna Come," "How Many More Times" - that was not heavy metal. There was nothing heavy about it at all. You listen to "How Many More Times," which is really borrowed from the blues, anyway. The kind of dynamics in the middle of that, or Jimmy using the wah-wah pedal on some of the parts, or Bonzo aping him with the cymbals, or stuff like that - it was neat. Bonzo was twenty years old when he did that and it was neat. And it wasn't an insult to people's integrity and sophistication. It was ethereal in places and "Dazed And Confused," too. The musicianship was such that people could go off on tangents and create passages that were compelling. They were skull-crashing, in a way. But it wasn't through sheer brute volume. It was the way it was played. It's a distinct difference.

MUSICIAN: I'd have to agree with you there, in fact, I've always found it funny that the heaviest Zeppelin song, "Black Dog," was also, and perhaps by no small coincidence, the one that always screwed up the garage bands, that they couldn't get.

PLANT: That's right, because you can't play it, yeah. Because it's got a beat that's count of five over a count of four, and trips and skips and stuff like that. It was our perogative and our joy to take what people thought.... We just wanted to see people try to move to it, and then miss the beat. And then still call it heavy. It was just a trick, a game, and well within our capabilities to do. And it just stopped a lot of other people from doing the same thing, from copying it.

MUSICIAN: If you look at the traditional analysis, the way the rock histories or family trees put it, Led Zeppelin was the next step from Yardbirds. If so, then wouldn't it be fair to say that what you did was the most radical departure, given the fact that the Yardbirds was never a singer's band?

PLANT: No, it was always guitar-oriented, and Keith Relf, what he was doing, really, was just filling in the role with a modicum of success. But I never looked at Led Zeppelin as a progression from anything. Maybe to me, it was a progression from the Band of Joy. I suppose Led Zeppelin became more like the Band of Joy than the Yardbirds. Mainly because Bonzo and I were coming from the Band of Joy, and we were like (snaps his fingers). It was a natural extension of our American West Coast country-blues approach. That was where I was coming from.

MUSICIAN: You started out doing mostly blues, right?

PLANT: Oh, yeah lots of rhythm & blues bands originally, and really, they kind of gave us away to... A little more self-expression set in after the first couple of years. Finding all this stuff - Bobby Park's "Watch Your Step" and all that remarkable catalog of stuff that had hardly been touched by white English musicians - when you get conversant with it, then you start having some kind of depth of feel where you can draw from one source, combine it with another feeling and develop it into a totally fresh view.

MUSICIAN: It's funny you should say that, because frankly, the thing I like best about the Led Zeppelin blues style was the way you managed to create something new and distinctive by exaggerating certain elements of the original. What sparked that?

PLANT: It was from out of nowhere, absolutey nowhere at all. I mean, it was one of those things where one minute I didn't do it at all, and then the next minute I did it and I enjoyed it. It was completely off the top of my head. I don't know how it came about. I just know that while I was doing it, I was aware of the fact that I hadn't heard it being done before. I just wanted to be a part of the band, and I knew that by just singing the song - because the band would change time signatures and do all sort of musically unlikely things - that if I wasn't careful, I would just be...perhaps some kind of grand commentator for the music. And it's exceedingly boring, when your mind is working and you're going with all the changes and you're listening to the whole thing, to just stand back and go, "I can't be a part of this; I am the singer." I would have had a very fruitless existence.

MUSICIAN: Earlier you mentioned combinations of things forging news styles; tonight, when you're doing "Wreckless Love," you got into this thing where you were singing quarter tones, sort of cross between some of the stuff I've heard in Arabic music and the way blues singers flat their notes. Not a likely combination, that.

PLANT: No but you see, I'm conversant with.... I'm one of many people who enjoys singing in the blues form. I don't know that I do it particulary well, but I don't think anyone can ever say that they do anything particulary well when it's free form - it's just the heat of the moment, really. And my knowledge of Arabic music, although limited, is equally fanatical. Really, it just comes out of the top off my head. It just comes out exactly as you hear it. Tonight's one night and tomorrow night will be totally different. It is a nice way of melting one thing into another, but I don't even think about where it's coming from. It just appears and afterwards I go, "Golly, did I do that?"

MUSICIAN: While we're on the subject, Robbie Blund was telling me about your playing Oum Koulsoum for him, and how he was both intrigued and bewildered. Obviously, that sort of thing has been a part of your music for a while - "Kashmir," "In The Evening," "Slow Dancer," "Wreckless Love." Where did your interest spring from?

PLANT: Well, first of all Jimmy and I went to Morocco in about 1975, with a view to spend three months there with tape machines, going into the Atlas mountains and recording Berber tribesmen. Like Jacques Cousteau might go and take pictures of fish, we went into the mountains of Morocco to try and record their equivalent of The Rite Of Spring or whatever it was.

MUSICIAN: You mean the Joujouka musicians?

PLANT: No, it was further south than the Joujoukas. A different sort of civilization and people. What happened was, we couldn't get the equipment into the country, because of their import/export/customs situation. But what I did was, I had my ear to the short-wave radio nonstop, and I just picked up the atmosphere that Oum Koulsoum was evoking. It was... remarkable, because you could listen to her records and even thought you didn't understand a blinkin' word, you were immediately transfixed with her power and versatility. Phenomenal. And that was it. Every time I went back there after that, I was just going and stretching out more and more, listening to the radio more and more, taping stuff, crying to it. Even thought I couldn't understand a word of it. But then I go to Japan, and people there like "Burning Down One Side" and "Slow Dancer." In fact, Bulgarian music, too, is another interesting form because it's Eastern European, and it's straddled between the West and it's nearest neighbors, which I suppose would be Turkey and places like that. Their ability for quarter-tone singing, and also the fact that they sing in first and second, rather than first and thirds in their harmonies, is unbelievable. You listen to some of the songs... There's a record on Nonesuch called something to do with the folk music of Bulgaria [Music of Bulgaria, Nonesuch H-72011] by the Bulgarian Folk Musician Ensemble, which sound like a very crusty sort of title. If you're able to get it, or this is printed and people don't want to listen to Def Leppard for one night it's great! It's a real eye-opener. How haunting it is...I got in touch with a Bulgarian ethnic group in London and subscribed to have lesson, to try and learn how to get their intonations. What happened was, instead of that, I went to play soccer in the village soccer team! (laughs) I took the easy way out. But I think I'm much too old to catch it now. It's one of those sort of things where if you don't sing like Robin Williamson when you're nineteen, you're never going to sing like Robin Williamson. Nonetheless, these things left great impressions on me, in the subconscious rather than any definite attempt to copy. And that's the best way, really, because then you get all sort of things coming out.

MUSICIAN: To much schooling can stifle a musician.

PLANT: Absolutely. I've seen Yehudi Menuhin and Stephane Grappeli, two violinist of great stature, play together. They played free-form, 12-bar swing-jazz type thing, and Menuhin openly conceded that he was by far second-best. Because if you're schooled, your ability to express yourself is that much more limited. Whereas if it's coming off the top off your head, and everything you've ever heard in a cafe, bar or Southside Chicago blues club bubbles up, anything can happen. That is proabably my principle, if you'd like. Anything can happen. Some nights, I don't even sing at all.

MUSICIAN: That might disappoint the crowd.

PLANT: Well, I do my best. But if I've got it in me, if I rally am in the mood, to coin a phrase, then I like to please myself.

MUSICIAN: Do you mind if I ask a couple of questions about some specific Led Zeppelin tracks?

PLANT: Yeah, you can do that. I mean we've obviously been talking about Led Zeppelin. (mock sarcasm) It's breakin' me up.

MUSICIAN: Well, one thing I've always wondered is - how long did it take to mix "Whole Lotta Love"?

PLANT: (Laughs) I can't tell you. It was done in New York. It probably took about an afternoon.

MUSICIAN: Where did all that stuff in the middle come from?

PLANT: The free-form section? Well, it's not free form really. It came from, if memory serves, it came just from just having a perfect summetry of musicianship, where we could just go off on a tangent, just go off here, there and everywhere, and come back together again. Jimmy had just discovered the theremin, that sort of "whoop-whoop-whoop," and it just sort of got into the groove, if you can use that term in 1983. And it worked perfectly. But that was the way we played. That was how we felt we expressed ourselves best, with all the emphasis, and then having the abstraction in the middle of it. It broke it up in order to turn people's heads.

MUSICIAN: An off-beat favourite of mine was "The Crunge." What a funny track!

PLANT: Oh, yeah, yeah. That's all about a model in an English newspaper, actually. She was a preety cheek.

MUSICIAN: What a great James Brown parody, thought.

PLANT: Yeah, even the vocal, the strained vocal. My vocal was shot when I sang it. And as you say, it is a complete imitation; light-hearted but clever in some respects, especially with the bass and drums. You take your hat off to people, and it's not always Roy Harper.

MUSICIAN: One final question: Given all that has it has come to mean, especially here in America, how do you feel now when you hear "Stairway To Heaven" on the radio?

PLANT: Still flattered; a little confused, because it was written with the best of intentions, and nobody ever expects anything like that. Anthems are things you don't even dream of - they just come along. I've always been proud of the song - but I can't really relate to it all now.

MUSICIAN: It's that removed from you?

PLANT: Yeah. Because without those guys, and without the possibillity of ever having to do it again, I would prefer to listen to "Kashmir." "Kashmir" was far more, to me, what it was all about. Or "Trampled Underfoot," or "Achilles Last Stand" - things that haven't become threadbare yet.

MUSICIAN: By the way, I take it theres no thruth to the backwards-masking charges?

PLANT: (Looks annoyed) I find that it's sort of an American pastime. There is what they call the in America the College Circuit, where people can lecture on Clearasil, AIDS, homosexuality and the like and get paid $5,000 a night. Somebody decided that poor, defenseless band like Styx and E.L.O., who are indefensible anyway, and masters of No Comment like Led Zeppelin would be good, easy meat for a university tour. I think it just goes to show how sad the world is, that people actually allow themselves to become audiences to other people with nothing better to do. To me it's very sad, because "Stairway To Heaven" was written with every best intention, and as far as reversing tapes and putting messages on the end, that's not my idea of making music. It's really sad. the first time I heard it was early in the morning when I was living at home, and I heard it on a news program. I was absolutely drained all day. I walked around, and I couldn't actually believe, I couldn't take people seriously who could come up with sketches like that. There are a lot of people who are making money there, and if that's the way they need to do it, then do it without my lyrics. I cherish them far too much.
Salt Lake Tribune
by David Proctor
IN music writer

Like four British Caesars Led Zeppelin came, saw and conquered a frenzied, sold-out Salt Palace audience Saturday night.

Easily the most elaborately staged rock performance ever seen in Salt Lake City, it will be remembered for years to come.

Messrs. Page, Plant, Jones and Bonham are in the midst of a $3-million nationwide tour and the 11,000 plus fans here probably will be the smallest crowd they encounter. But it didn't seem to affect Zeppelin in the least. In fact, they seemed to enjoy the audience contact - something you don't encounter before 58,000 people in a baseball stadium.


The Salt Palace stage was a collage of lighting scaffolds, spotlights, huge banks of speakers, various light-reflecting devices, 14-foot-high mirrors and, of course, the four stars themselves. Super-singer Robert Plant and Jimmy Page fronted the band and drew most of the attention while the rhythm section of bassist-keyboardist John Paul Jones and drummer John Bonham supplied the music's foundation.

*Rock and Roll* one of Zeppelin's better recent songs opened the two-hour show. It's a song that really moves - but sets a pace that's impossible to maintain. So they slipped into some slower material from their new *Houses of the Holy* album.


The band continued the fast-slow pattern through most of the night - alternating older, familiar tunes with new album cuts. Also in the format were Page's guitar breaks of varying lengths during almost every song. Most of the time, he carried it off admirably, but inevitably he began to repeat himself.

But preciseness wasn't the object. It was the flash...the excitement...the theatrics...the total audience involvement that Zeppelin was after. They succeeded - and then some.

It was remarkable that a concert which generated such advance excitement - and was performed before such an enthusiastic audience - was kept under such control. Most of it was due to restraint on the part of the audience. They were exemplary.


*Dazed and Confused* was stretched out to a 20-minute showcase for Page and the special effects staff. Using a violin bow on his guitar and a delayed-echo system, Page had the sound bouncing from one side of the stage to the other. At times, it circled. When it began to be redundant, they moved quickly into *Stairway to Heaven,* one of the finest songs they've ever written. John Paul Jones' work on the synthesizer was beautiful throughout the concert but especially on this number.
ABOUT SIX MONTHS AGO THE BUZZ BEGAN TO SLIP IN AGAIN FROM THE SIDELINES. It had received appropriately casual nurturing since the summer of 1973 and the climax of Led Zeppelin's Houses Of The Holy US tour, during which, almost as the most logical of incidentals, the band had pulled in a 56,800 strong audience to a single show in Tampa, Florida, demolishing at a stroke, as they say, the attendance record established by the Beatles at Shea Stadium.

Then there was the odd press interview with 'Planty', scattered music business gossip about the perennial Problems With The Next Sleeve and, of course, the exceptionally nebulous Film. There'd been all that brouhaha concerning the confusion over Zeppelin's expected headlining of the Knebworth "Bucolic Frolic", plus the odd live foray for selected members to act as backup band to the concerned anxieties of Roy Harper.

All this, though, was little more than mere column inch trailers for the 1975 Led Zeppelin blitzkrieg, when Physical Graffiti, the new double album, was to be taken out of its wraps after sufficient de rigeur shifting of release dates and the final announcement of The Tour.

As I said the hype - don't worry, the word's tossed away its perjorative suggestions by now - really started to get its chops together some six months back. The pre-Raphaelite features, always implanted with a suitable nerve-end tingling sense of Little Boy Lost psychosis, of none other than Jimmy Page himself occasionally began manifesting themselves at only the most select music business receptions, including a brace set up to herald the launching of Zeppelin's very own Swan Song label, with his persona being more concretely glimpsed in a series of "in depth" interviews with the British music press, including an exclusive review of Graffiti in New Musical Express.

And so, at the time of writing, Physical Graffiti is the number one album on both sides of the Atlantic - with all five of its predecessors having ridden its slip-stream back into the US charts - and a melange of 120,000 downer freaks, Satanists For An Evening, and the finest society creatures New York can provide, replete with the constant nasal sniffles that made 1974 the year it was chic to have a constant cold, have made Zep SRO at six concerts in the New York area whilst in Britain some fifty thousand tickets for the band's Earls Court gigs disappeared in the morning it took to collect the money. And, broken finger or no, Jimmy Page is still capable of wrenching a twenty-five minute 'Dazed And Confused' out of his Gibson as Zeppelin plough the States into the ground with their three hour sets.

You see, when it comes down to the simple, cold basics of their being indubitably one of the most successful rock bands in the world - along with the Stones, Jethro Tull, probably the Who, and Elton John, if he's permitted into the category - Led Zeppelin's constant conquest of their equally constantly expanding market comes across as quite dauntingly militaristic in its strategy. Okay, this time round it's that much bigger and that much more grandiose and, therefore, open for much closer examination against the naked lightbulb, but that's down to sheer financial evolution, and evolution which, in terms of sheer presence osmosed, may just possibly have Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Paul Jones and John Bonham not even letting Jagger and Keith Richard - come on, you know that Charlie and Bill don't even arrive at "Go" - within spitting distance in the rock mystique stakes as dark leaders of the Rock Youth Generation (sic).

In late 1968, though, when Zeppelin formed, only Page had a reputation, and that limited primarily to his having played with the Yardbirds and, it was rumoured and subsequently discovered to be correct, having played guitar sessions on the Who's 'I Can't Explain' and early Kinks' records. When it came to straightforward mystique building, however, the band were already holding a useful piece of charismatic addendum in their manager, Peter Grant, fresh from the then burgeoning Great American Downer Circuit with the Jeff Beck Group Featuring Rod Stewart. With Grant's reputation as a rock business heavyweight plus the weight of Atlantic Records (who'd signed Jimmy Page while still in the Yardbirds, confidently expecting him to produce a class hard rock act) behind them Led Zeppelin and the States - despite quite horrendous putdown reviews from the likes of Rolling Stone - achieved a rapid and easy empathy via a series of particularly gruelling tours based around their first two albums (Led Zeppelin and Led Zeppelin II released in early and late 1969) had seen the Led Zeppelin machine rampage around the country like picaresque electronic buffaloes on speed.

And so Led Zeppelin became the first British band to utilise the now blase management post of ensuring feedback from the States filters through the British media and breaks the act back home. In 1970, with only the merest handful of British dates behind them, Zeppelin replaced the disintegrating Beatles as top band in the Melody Maker poll.

For a re-run of the show with a different cast see Bad Company, whose Peter Grant-engineered worldwide success has been so instant it makes the Led Zeppelin languid quasi-obscurity to private Lear Jet status seem positively slap happy.

Peter Grant talking to Lisa Robinson in Creem magazine: "There must have been about 28 or 30 odd sharks that were caught by the band once, and they stacked them up in the wardrobe closet. So, when the maids came in...they opened the door and an avalanche of sharks came tumbling out."; Jimmy Page waxing forth authoritatively on the scuzzy ladies of the road in the Rolling Stone "Groupie" issue and being served up on a room service cart to a gaggle of groupies by John Bonham dressed as a waiter; Page telling Ellen Sanders in her book, Trips; Rock Life In The Sixties: "If you humiliate them a bit they tend to come on all right after that."

"Road Fever", as it has now been dubbed by the band. If there's a certain arch sense of style in Zeppelin's "Road Fever" it's because their offstage lifestyle echoes their musical output probably more than that of any other band. In the case of bands like the Faces, hotel-wrecking would appear to be little more than a thinly disguised variant of football hooliganism. Led Zeppelin's music, however, positively drips with sensory and sensual blasts (it's perhaps not a matter of complete trivia that this magazine's occasional sci-fi writer compares 'Black Dog' on the Runes album to "a snort of cocaine". Well, that's as maybe.) overlaid by a mystique woven together with sexual ferocity, rampaging energy, and, most important, an acute aura of power.

Sceptics can wander away for a moment whilst we hear Jimmy Page talking to Nick Kent in the New Musical Express four months ago: "What you put out you get back again all the time. The band is a good example of that simply because there's an amazing chemistry (my italics) at work there, if only astrologically.

"Astrologically it's very powerful indeed. Robert's the perfect front man Leo... John Paul Jones and I are stoic Leos, Bonzo the Gemini. It's when you're pushing each other to the limits that the strength of the chemistry comes out and makes itself manifest in this binding of the consciousness."

Just perfect really: Robert Plant, the onstage whirling dervish exponent of the primal rock and roll caterwaul; Jimmy Page, with all the appropriate guitar hero angles guarded, hurling out exploding shimmering shifting needle run soloes or overlaying fine-mesh chords; John Paul Jones, who exudes "ex-session man" far more than Page to an extent that both on stage and off he's the most anonymous member of the band, though it frequently sounds as if Jones' constantly shifting bass work is the wound-up mainspring around which most of the band's music is formed; and John "Bonzo" Bonhan, who is most certainly not - as has been frequently suggested - a mere lead-fisted drum-skin pummeler but who, as a considered aural gander to 'Moby Dick' on the second album attests, demonstrates a knowledge and sense of dynamics - delicately stressed "dynamics" are spread throughout Led Zeppelin's music - in his use of tom-toms that allows him to become, for this listener, the only drummer apart from Ginger Baker capable of delivering a drum solo that is more than merely tolerable.

Yeah, Plant and Bonham remain ensconsced with their considerable richesse up in the Black Country, still prepared to nip down to the local and assimilate the odd portion of that urban industrial flash that squats fairly and squarely over the band. John Paul Jones - well, true to form, little is known about Jonesy's off-stage activities.

But Pagey... Well, Scaduto'd have the time of his little life with Jimmy Page. Screw Jagger and Richard and "Sympathy For The Devil". I mean, take in this charming stream of consciousness from a reasonably comatose freak in the queue for the Earls Court gig tickets: "Yeah, Page, man... Into a lot of weird things. You know, in love with the Devil and lot of heavy shit like that. Like, you know all those naked chicks crawling over those rocks on the Houses Of The Holy cover? Yeah, well I met this geezer who said they sacrificed them all afterwards and then they... "

And on and on, ad tedium.

Fact: Page owns the Loch Ness mansion that once belonged to Aleister Crowley, "sex magician" (sic), supposed monster, cocaine freak, and more than mere dabbler with the occult. Page has recently opened The Equinox, a shop in Kensington dealing solely in books on the occult.

Page on Crowley (again talking to Kent in NME): "I don't want to do a huge job on Crowley or anything - that doesn't interest me in the least. I mean, if people are into reading Crowley then they will and it'll have nothing to do with me. It's just... well for me, it goes without saying that Crowley was grossly misunderstood... "

"I mean, how can anyone call Crowley the world's most evil man - and that carried over to the thirties when Hitler was about?

"For a start, he was the only Edwardian to really embrace... Not even the New Age so much as simply the 20th Century. It's like... there's this incredible body of literature - I mean, don't even bother with the sex thing because that's all such a bore anyway - and it's like... there's a diamond there to be found at the end and it involves a life's study."

Page has also written the soundtrack for film director and Crowley afficianado Kenneth Anger's Lucifer Rising. Kenneth Anger, cohort of Robert, Kenneth "Bobby" Beausoleil (aka Cupid, Jasper, Cherub, etc.) who was involved in the Hinman murder, a particularly gruesome side plate to the Tate and LaBianca killings, and a member of the Charley Manson (aka Jesus Christ, the Devil, etc.) deranged wolf pack. Who just may have been connected with some LA madman who set out to off Page when the band was journeying through the city couple of years back. Which isn't just a trite matter of rock and roll scam.

Page on those little fun and games: "People thought there may have been some connection but... there's a lunatic fringe, whether they're Christian or Satanists or whatever. It's too risky, because they're out there. It's not a karmic backlash or anything like that... There have been lots of little magic happenings but nothing that has really perturbed me."

Which is where we re-enter the omni-present power of the Led Zeppelin machine. First, though, a word or two about Led Zeppelin as the supposed quintessential heavy metal quartet.

Wherever I glance in my scavengings to plagiarise the merest hint of a lynchpin on which to hang some thorough rock and roll catch-all on the band, I come across Led Zeppelin being hastily tucked away under the door-mat marked Heavy Metal. What's so downright frustrating is that I constantly find Zeppelin in there placed as the best of a bunch of unrelieved butcher-block tedium merchants saved only momentarily by the outrageous musical kitsch perpetrated by Ozzie Osbourne and his three chums in the name of Black Sabbath.

Listen, which schmuck was it that first perpetrated the notion of Led Zeppelin as Heavy Metal alchemists?

In actual fact, the Zeppelin power cuts an energizing force-field across every one of the fifty-nine tracks the band have released on six albums over the past six years (almost as long as the Beatles were recording together, you may care to consider), transmuting the sound from the standard crass bass, drums and lead guitar cranium crushing, a la Black Sabbath, to a point where, to a lesser or greater degree, every single one of those fifty-nine cuts is built up via a series of near-cerebral musical collages - gear-shifting comes mainly courtesy of John Paul Jones, on keyboards as well as on bass, with Page's erudite skill as both guitarist and as producer cloaking the changes.

The "Heavy Metal" tag - American writer and Blue Oyster Cult co-producer Sandy Pearlman lays claim to having originate the term, though any reader of Burroughs' Nova Express would find that a tad suspect - would seem to have been slapped onto Zeppelon after it became fallaciously understood that the band were the true successors to Cream, the pioneers of the extended completely out-of-sync jam.

Right now, though, is not the time to get into the polemics of the limp and generally insubstantial sound of Cream's records (in contrast to the demonic, monomaniacal, flesh-flaying onslaughts of the first three Hendrix albums) and it's something of a relief to discover Charles Shaar Murray writing of Led "(They) recorded a handful of currently unsurpassed statements in the genre before vacating the field to others in favour of more challenging and creative endeavours."

Sure, 'Communication Breakdown' on the first album is two minutes twenty-six seconds of definite, heavy metal and 'Whole Lota Love' from Led Zeppelin II utilises the basics of the genre to emphasise the ultimate cock-rock song (It's sheer bilge to suggest - as have a couple of noted American writers - that Zeppelin transcend the sex in rock music schmear. Jesus, what about the none too subtle veneer of sexual finesse implied by the band's early phallic logos, without even considering them as prime lemon squeezers), but 'Communication Breakdown' is immediately preceded by 'Black Mountain Side', an, er, whimsical acoustic number resembling Pentangle jamming with Wee Tamera Incredible String Band.

And then, of course, without even considering the demented blues chewing that permeates all six albums, there's Led Zep III, originally intended as a completely acoustic album, and still bristling with acoustic and semi-acoustic cuts like 'Friends', 'Tangerine' and the fine tissue semi-acoustic underlay of 'That's The Way', highlighting the frustrated Neil Young side of Plant. (See also 'Going To California' on Runes and 'Down By The Seaside' on Physical Graffiti.) Then, of course, there's the two classic Zeppelin variants on weepie ballads -'since I've Been Loving You' on Led Zeppelin III and 'Stairway To Heaven' on Runes...

Which kind a leads us into the corner I've been headed for the past six hundred words or so: Led Zeppelin as pure and simple rock and roll band with added contemporary technical facilities - it's so obvious you almost miss its being pinpointed on the actual cut 'Rock And Roll'.

Simple rock and roll band with added contemporary technical facilities plus black colourwash and dark power mystique cross-cutting as a pure energising force between the four members and their audience, to put it at its... err... simplest - my first reaction after one play of Physical Graffiti was to recoil into an acute sense of discomfort set up by the sinister menace and aggression of the raw nerve aural scraping that sets itself up against your sensory overload system before the album strides into its cohesive whole.

And when it comes to the much bitched about quasi-mystical spirit of '67 Plant lyrics... Well, that's just picking hairs.

"People are strange when you're a stranger/Faces look ugly when you're alone." The writer of those little pearls (Jim Morrison, if it's really necessary) managed to end up being put in the section allocated for 'poets' in the Pere-Lachaise cemetery in Paris. Discussion of Plant's lyrics ends.

But you detest Houses Of The Holy, don't you? You know, the fifth and "critically controversial" Zeppelin record - the one that most of us initially figured as the band hitting the proverbial pits. We-ell, Physical Graffiti kind of alters the perspective on that one just a tad. Take a listen to Page's vibrato descending chord runs splattered liberally about the new album. Now try out a concentrated earful of the spectacular Grand Entrance to 'The Song Remains The Same', track one of Houses Of The Holy. See what Zeppelin were up to? And all that supposed lacklustre mellowness of Houses Of The Holy? Well, on Physical Graffiti it mutates into the more convincing "laid back" stance of 'Kashmir' and 'Bron-Yr-Aur'. One begins to become just a little convinced that rather than being some stillborn brainstorm, Houses Of The Holy is an album of gestating consolidation - in fact, the crucial album in any gifted band's career which, so long as it'scarried through to maturity, does have the tendency to slide them up to greatness.

Sergeant Pepper proved more than the Beatles could handle; the Stones have already twice transcended the dilemma with Satanic Majesty and Exile On Main street; and, although it'll take a solid six months of familiarising myself with it, it does just seem on the cards that by the end of the year Physical Graffiti will be beginning to exude as much of that nebulous "greatness" that clusters around the likes of Blonde On Blonde, Beggars Banquet and Revolver.

"The Beatles battled the Stone in a parking lot and Led Zeppelin won," remarked Lisa Robinson.

She just may be right.

© Chris Salewicz 1975
The Buffalo Evening News
By Dale Anderson

Led Zeppelin doesn't give concerts; they perform physical transformation. They kneaded the full-house crowd in Memorial Auditorium into silly putty Sunday night with 2 hours and 50 minutes of massive sensory massage.

The sheer enormity of the sound did it (though the full moon may have helped), an enormity that resonates into your paleolithic pith, the cry of the dinosaur summoning out that primitive quickening in the face of monstrosity.

Whatever isn't touched by the earthquake rumble of John Paul Jones' bass, John Bonham's gunshot cracks on the drums or Robert Plant's echoey heart-of darkness voice is left quivering by the swooping electronic slices of guitarist Jimmy Page, especially his solo on the theremin.

Never mind that their newest album carries a variety of dynamics, the quiet sections hardly diminish the over-all sonic assault.

Their relatively simple brooding themes are blown larger than life, like sky scraping office buildings, and they lay on thick embellishments and b r o a d dramatic resolutions that mean more en mass than as individual items.

The four of them approached it all with unexpected good humor. Jones and Bonham laid back blithely amongst the folding backdrop of mirrors the run the length of the stage.

Page in black with a rhinestone-studded rose on his open jacket, prancing like a cocky midlands soccer player in a pub, Plant in tight jeans and a shirt jacket with rhinestones and, puffed sleeves strutting and grinding and shaking back his curly blond mane.

Plant avoided some of the astringent high notes he puts on records, singing for instance a low harmony line for "Over the Hills and Far Away." And for all his gyrations, he was hardly as compelling as Mick Jagger or Rod Stewart.

Page laughed off his first-number hassles with a slipping guitar strap as a stagehand buttoned it back together. Kept playing too. Plant was almost as cordial as a music hall host and chastised the firecracker tossers, of whom there were a lot more than usual.

The band took no breaks, despite the heat. Applause followed a few Page guitar solos but the youngish crowd didn't really erupt until the start of "Stairway to Heaven" and again when the spinning mirrored ball went on as it closed.

The heavy drumbeat into "Moby Dick" brought a rush on the stage and most of the hall stayed on its feet for that last hour, including along Bonham drum solo with special synthesizer effects.

An eight-minute ovation brought them back for an encore after their boogieing final number. "Thank you, Buffalo," Plant said when they finished. "Take care until we see you again."



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This Month in
Led Zeppelin History

July xx, 1969 - The band play many festivals now on their third American tour
July xx, 1970 - Additional recording for Led Zeppelin III at London’s Island Studios
July 16, 1970 - Photographer Chris Welch films Led Zeppelin on his 8mm camera, some clips later used in the Whole Lotta Love promo video
July xx, 1971 - Untitled gets re-mixed in London
July 05, 1971 - A riot erupts mid-concert, forcing Led Zeppelin to stop after about 40 minutes
July xx, 1972 - After repeated bad press, Led Zeppelin hire their first publicity firm
July 20, 1973 - A last minute decision is made to film the remaining part of the tour
July xx, 1973 - Led Zeppelin is filmed over the three nights for their film that will emerge as The Song Remains The Same
July xx, 1974 - After viewing their 1973 filmed performance, it is apparent critical errors were made
July xx, 1974 - Mixing for Physical Graffiti at Olympic Studios
July 05, 1975 - The band meet in Montreux to discuss adding South America and Japan to the end of their North American tour
July xx, 1976 - Bonham and Page fly to Montreux, Switzerland to check out some new sound and drum effects
July 17, 1977 - The last ever performance of Moby Dick played at the Seattle Kingdome
July 24, 1977 - The band plays its last US date at the Oakland Coliseum
July xx, 1978 - Led Zeppelin are invited to perform at Maggie Bell’s Festival Hall show
July xx, 1979 - Led Zeppelin film their rehearsal at Bray Studios
July 04, 1979 - Led Zeppelin confirm a second date at Knebworth in August 1979
July 05, 1980 - Simon Kirke joins in on drums for an encore in Munich
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