The evening’s
concert is at the Greensboro Coliseum where Robert, now partially recovered and
having taken a commercial flight direct from Chicago, awaits us. The usual
convoy of black Cadillac limousines greets the Starship on the runway, five in
all, a slightly enlarged party now alighting to occupy them. Everybody is
tired, the group aren’t really up for the show and, to make matters worse,
outside the venue a shortage of tickets has caused violence to erupt. About
five hundred fans have attempted to storm the rear of the building, throwing
broken bottles, stones and pieces of scaffolding. Three of the five limousines,
those parked outside, become severely damaged.
The show, not one of Zeppelin’s best,
goes on. It being January, the building is cold, which dampens the atmosphere,
and the acoustics are awful, the sound a great wash of impenetrable noise.
Firecrackers are set off amid the audience and as Zep wade through their
catalogue I get an uneasy feeling that things might turn ugly; that the mood in
this hideous great place is not sympathetic to the emotions of those on stage
nor to the music they are trying to play. It’s difficult to maintain your
concentration before a restless crowd like this at the best of times, and
tonight is amongst the worst.
For an hour or so I watch the concert from
the side of the stage alongside Peter Grant. The din is so great you can hardly
hear yourself think, let alone speak but at one point Peter yells something in
my ear, a comment about how unusual it is for the group not to perform ‘Dazed And
Confused’ in their set. A manager from the old school who worked his way up the
hard way by tour managing rock’n’rollers from the fifties, he is hands-on in
everything he does and probably the only manager of his era who never misses a
show by his number one client. I get the feeling he enjoys a confrontation as
it gives him a raison d’etre, a chance to take matters into his own hands and
resolve issues by force of will, and I soon find myself witnessing the kind of
confrontation that is meat and drink to him.
It occurs about two-thirds of the way
through the concert after Peter is called away to resolve a problem involving
two of tonight’s limousine drivers. I decide to follow him down the steps to
see what’s happening. Evidently the drivers of the three limos parked outside,
fearing further damage to them, have removed their cars and the other two
drivers, whose cars are parked inside, want to take theirs away too. This, of
course, would leave the Led Zeppelin entourage stranded when the concert is
over and this realisation prompted whoever was manning the back doors to decline
to open them until Mr Grant gives the OK.
Mr Grant is having none of it and a
confrontation quickly ensues. “You can’t take ya fucking cars away. We need
‘em,” he shouts into the faces of the drivers.
“We’re sorry. We have to take them away.
They’ll get damaged.”
“You’ll be fuckin’ damaged, ya cunts.”
“We have no choice.”
Grant looks at the drivers with contempt.
“Alright, how much do you want for ya fucking cars. How much are they fucking
worth? Forty thousand dollars each? I’ll fucking buy them from you right now ya
cunts.”
Grant carries with him a large briefcase
and I am left in no doubt that there is sufficient cash within for him to
honour this offer.
The drivers protest. “We can’t sell them.
They’re not ours to sell.”
Grant dismisses this argument as if
swatting a fly, and beckons to some of Zep’s road crew who gather around. “In
that case, I’ll fucking steal them. I’ve offered to buy them and if ya can’t
fucking sell them, I’ll just fucking take ‘em.”
The drivers protest further. “You can’t do
that!”
“‘Don’t be fucking stupid,” says Grant
derisively, moving towards them so that his massive bulk acts as a buffer,
pushing them backwards into the crew who stand their ground. “Of course I can
fucking do that. I can do what I fucking want, can’t I?” By this time Grant is
yelling into their faces, mere inches away. “I’ve got twenty fucking men
working for me. There’s only two of you ya cunts. Ya can’t fucking stop me, ya’
fucking cunts.”
The dispute concluded in Grant’s favour, a
compromise of sorts is reached while the music blares on. The members of the
group and Cole, with Grant at the wheel, will occupy the first of the two
limousines; all the rest of us, with a visiting road crew member nicknamed
Magnet at the wheel, will occupy the second, something of a squeeze as it turns
out. The drivers will pick up their limousines at the airport later. Our exit
will be speedy.
“We don’t fucking need you, ya’ cunts,”
says Grant to the dispossessed drivers, bringing the issue to a close. “We’ll
drive the fucking cars ourselves. So fuck off, just fuckin’ fuck off.”
Grant turns away and resumes his position
at the side of the stage for the remainder of the show which ends, as always,
with ‘Stairway To Heaven’. The four members of Zeppelin leave the stage but,
instead of heading for the dressing room for a quick cigarette and swig of
booze, they are immediately appraised of the transport situation and advised to
wait out of sight of the audience for less than two minutes before returning
for a perfunctionary encore: ‘Whole Lotta Love’.
As Robert does his best to re-excite
everyone with every inch of his love Cole hustles us hangers-on, about ten of
us, into the second limo and, as the final notes disappear into the cavernous
auditorium, Page, Plant, Jones and Bonzo tear down the steps towards the first
limo. Cole hands out the large, red, hooded towelling robes to them as they
jump into the car with Grant at the wheel, already revving the engine, and
leaps in himself. The applause is reaching a crescendo as our cars start to
move. The huge stadium doors open and the angry mob of fans who didn’t make it
into the show surge forward into our path. Grant blasts a way through, his horn
blaring, we follow, and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. Our truncated convoy
reaches speeds of up to 70 mph in a heavily built-up area with Grant leading
the way, driving his car through red lights and on the wrong side of the road
through the town of Greensboro. Our car, crammed, follows in hot pursuit. Good
grief, I think, this is far more exciting than any rock concert.
Then, when we reach the point at the
airport where the Starship is waiting, a funny thing happens. Instead of
stopping as we have done, Grant drives round and round the huge aircraft, tyres
screeching, faster and faster, burning rubber. When he finally skids to a stop
the four members of Led Zeppelin tumble out, hysterical with laughter. Someone
asks him what he was playing at.
“The band were placing bets on whether I
dare crash it into the fucking plane,” shouts Grant, equally hysterical.
“Fucking useless pile of fucking junk!” he continues, kicking the limo hard,
denting a door. “Way off tune... my Bentley goes twice as fucking fast!”
And so we all stand there laughing into the
night... totally exhilarated by it all. Then, happier than we’ve been all day,
we board the plane and fly on up the East Coast to New York, drinks in hand,
relieved that this long day is finally over. Unforgettable, though. When you
ride with Zeppelin you ride high and fast. The only way to fly.
(Led Zeppelin’s
website and various books contradict my memories of the sequence of shows on
their US tour during the last week of January 1975. A concert in St Louis was
certainly cancelled due to Robert’s illness and reinstated at the end of the
tour on February 16, but I maintain that my version of events is correct, that other shows were rejigged and
that Greensboro followed Chicago with the trip to LA in between while Robert recovered.
One other thing I recall, oddly, was that staying in the same hotel as us in
Chicago was a Japanese soldier who’d been stranded on a Pacific island after
WW2 and who until the previous year believed the war was still going on. He was
on a media tour and the press had gathered in the lobby to photograph him. Led
Zep thought they were there to photograph them!)
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