In honor of Jimmy Page’s birthday, watch this outrageous set from Denmark and then get someone else to pay for lunch.
In honor of Jimmy Page’s birthday, watch this outrageous set from Denmark and then get someone else to pay for lunch.
What the fuck, dude?
There comes a time in all men’s lives when the call must go out: Get me Paul Rodgers.
All the greats have done it.
At low moments which they later regretted.
I have no regrets. Edith Piaf envies my lack of regret. I don’t even gret, let alone regret.
House Speaker Nancy Pelosi sent a letter to the House Clerk on Thursday asking for the removal of portraits of four former speakers of the House who served in the Confederacy, the latest effort by Congress to reexamine Capitol Hill’s relationship to Confederate leaders and symbols. – CNN, 6/18/20
Last week, TotD introduced you to the Confederate statues coming down from the Capitol, and now we present: Know Your Portraits Of Confederate Speakers!
Munificence Thatch Thatch triangulated the political positions of Blue Dog and Yellow Dog Dems to form his own faction called the Green Dog Dems, and no one would attend his meetings. Won the Speakership in a poker game, and only served for three weeks before everyone realized he was a goober and staged a soft coup. Given a sinecure on the Judiciary Committee. Spent most of his last 40 years down by the Potomac with his dick out; when it was time to call it a day, the other Congressmen would send a page to collect him.
J.N. “Specky” Cobb This Georgian served proudly in the U.S. Congress before resigning to join the Confederacy and accept commission as a general. He led the Hogswallow Brigade to what one historian called “a tie, I guess” in the Battle of Cropsy’s Farmhouse, and also saw action when the Hogs accidentally attacked themselves on three separate occasions. Specky also lost his rifle a lot, and was scared of horses and loud noises, and didn’t like sleeping in tents. Not a great soldier.
Bancock Harpinforth Raised on a Mississippi plantation, Harpinforth’s racism shocked even his peers, all of whom were themselves incredibly racist. He had all of the slave quarters on the property rebuilt with sloping floors, just to fuck with his slaves, and invented something called a “superwhip” whose details have, thankfully, been lost to time. He used to feed his slaves to sharks. We’re talking about northern Mississippi; there’s not a shark for hundreds of miles. Fucker had ’em imported! This was 1848, by the way. As difficult as it is now to build an inland holding tank for an ocean predator, imagine the logistics of it back then. Nigh-on undoable! But it’s like my dad used to say: If you got enough cash, and you’re racist enough, you can do anything.
Johhny Earl Johnny Earl, you wasn’t no Speaker of the House. We ain’t even got a house, y’droopy-drawered sumbitch. We got the double-wide. How’d you get up there on that wall, Johnny Earl? You ain’t even a portrait. You are a crude caricature, at best. At the absolute best. Y’have a giant baby head and a tiny little body drivin’ a Nascar. Did you let that sex offender from the fair draw you, Johnny Earl? I told you to stop hangin’ out with the Human Lobster. It should warn you right off the bat that he makes everyone call him that! That’s a red flag, Johnny Earl! That man has no lobster-like qualities!
Please make sense.
MAKE ME. COME HERE AND FUCKING MAKE ME.
The Enthusiasts want a show recommendation.
How about this:
Yes. You can tell by their adorable accents.
1/4/71 from the Paris Theater, which for some reason is in London.
Watch at 2.15. They let John Bonham sing?
Don’t wanna get Covid-19? Drink 20 Black Russians in an hour!
No. No, no, no. Not another night of Thoughts on Led Zeppelin.
I have literally not one more thought about Led Zeppelin.
So why did you post this picture?
You see Pagey?
In his doofus hat and overcoat? Yeah.
Is he a flasher? Guys in those coats are invariably flashers.
I don’t think so.
Are flashers still a thing? Like, dudes walking around the park in trench coats and when they see a lady they WHAP the coats open and show ’em their junk?
According to the cartoons I saw in my father’s Playboy magazines, flashers are fucking everywhere.
Those probably don’t count as a journalistic source. Did you just want to talk about flashers?
At least you’re honest about your uselessness.
Sit down, Younger Enthusiasts, and let your Uncle TotD tell you all about the Old Days. Of atavistic and skinny-legged men, and of Cadillacs in swimming pools. Of an album a year, and all the cocaine Stevie Nicks could blow up your ass. Of airplanes with shag carpeting and shaggable stewardesses. Of pilgrimages to Graceland, and mud sharks, and some fucker named Roy Harper. Of not being able to decide between the Rolls and the Jag. Of Guitar Heroes and Drum Solos and Acoustic Mini-Sets.
Hold up your lighters, kids. Hold up your lighters if you remember laughter.
In the back of the photo, that’s a Pan Am jet. Pan Am was an airline, and you would shower and wear clean slacks to fly. In the air, you could smoke cigarettes and take the plane hostage with whatever weapon you’d smuggled aboard because airport security didn’t exist in 1970.
In the front of the photo, that’s a Led Zeppelin. They were a British band who played loudly and behaved badly. In their defense, they were showered with rewards for both their volume and their assholery, so why should they have stopped?
In their hands are the master tapes for Led Zeppelin II. You cannot imagine the pace of the music industry in 1970, Younger Enthusiast. Zepp’s first record came out in January of ’69; their fourth was released in November of ’71. This was not abnormal, especially for new bands: Cheap Trick’s first three albums came out in the span of 14 months. Hell, even the Stones came through with a record every year.
However, it wasn’t like they were lolling around the studio waiting for inspiration to strike in between releases. They were on the road constantly, and so had to write tunes in hotel rooms and demo them in local hole-in-the-wall studios. Then, the Rock Stars would fly to Los Angeles to do the mixing. That was the rule. They’d record somewhere romantic–an 18th-century French chalet or a thatched hut in Wales–and then they’d fly to Los Angeles to mix. (And stay in their favorite hotels and go to their favorite bars and fuck their favorite groupies.)
And in doing that, they needed to lug the masters around. Those boxes are not the vinyl versions of the first couple Dick’s Picks, but reels of two-inch Ampex tape. Cassette tapes were a quarter-inch across, so these suckers were eight times better. (That’s probably not correct.) And remember: those are the only copies. The past is not the present, Younger Enthusiast. First of all, it happened a long time ago. Second, there was no auto-save. Nothing automatically copied itself to the cloud. You recorded a song, wrote a novel, whatever? You only had the one copy.
So the guitars and the fanciful trousers go under the plane, but the masters get carried the whole trip.
This is Jimmy Page. He was a Guitar Hero. Sometimes he wore very cool clothes.
Other times, he did not.
Did your nan knit you your magickal jumper, Jimmy?
“I finished up your Zoso sweater, Nummy.” (Jimmy Page’s grandmother calls him “Nummy.”)
“That’s not how it’s pronounced, Gamma.” (Jimmy Page calls his grandmother “Gamma.”)
“Is it the name of your favorite football team, dear?”
“No, Gamma, it’s very spooky and mystical.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.”
Percy–they all had nicknames; the British are a people given to the nicking of names–was a puffed-up tosspot, and Jonesy was dull and passive-aggressive; neither of them meant any harm. They stood by while bystanders were being harmed, and were occasionally amused by the harming, but they weren’t assholes. Pagey was a pretentious cheapskate who liked fucking teenagers: Byronic in every way, and so dangerous to know; Pagey was an asshole. But Bonzo? That motherfucker was a monster.
Bozo was the kind of beef-brained thicky who thought Alex and his droogs from Clockwork Orange were the good guys. He dressed like that–and forced his dogsbody Mick Hinton to wear a similar costume–the entire ’73 tour. He lived up to the outfit, too: he punched women from the record company, and men in restaurants, and–since Zeppelin liked to party in drag queen bars–most likely struck at least one genderfluid person. Bozo wasn’t a Keith Moon-like scamp who played pranks that got out of hand; he was stupid and liked to hurt strangers. Y’know what he thought was a funny joke, and would do all the time? Shit in women’s purses. Lady would leave her purse sitting there and Bozo would shit in it. Ha ha ha.
He wasn’t like this at home, all his friends and enablers say in all the books. With his wife and children, he was a calm and friendly bloke, but the road weighed on him to the point where the only remedy was to shit in women’s purses and punch drag queens. Homesickness! All the books say it, and all the books think they’re defending him, but this fact only further damns the man: he wasn’t a psychopath who no control over his actions. He was able, when he chose, to restrain himself and behave like a human.
If you ain’t crazy, then you’re culpable.
Zeppelin didn’t do teevee. They did a half-hour set on a Danish program in March of ’69, and that was it. No SNL and no Mike Douglas Show and no Midnight Special and certainly not Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert. You wanted to see Led Zeppelin, then you went to see Led Zeppelin. No freebies, kid. Besides, they didn’t need the publicity.
So the band, image-wise, is locked in ember in 1975, caught on 35mm film in Madison Square Garden. When you picture Led Zeppelin, you picture them from The Song Remains The Same, the concert movie released in 1976.
It is for this reason, Younger Enthusiast, that all Rock Nerds know that Robert Plant wears his root to the left.
That’s the whole film, Younger Enthusiast. It’s just 2.5 hours of Percy’s potato salad and a drum solo.
“Are we comparing bulges, darling?”
Who is that?”
Oh, hey, Freddie.
“Is that what Percy is calling a bulge? It’s all balls.”
I don’t wanna have this conversation.
“Your loss, darling.”
This is that Denmarkish teevee show I told you about.
And this is Pagey from The Song Remains The Same.
The tough part is finding the right shoes. What goes with a crushed-velour dragon suit?
The Dead always flew. Some bands had a bus, but the Dead always flew. Commercial at first, and then private. But they never had their own plane.
Button your shirt, Jonesy. You’re not pulling it off. You look like a barrister on holiday in Blackpool; all you need is the knotted handkerchief atop your noggin.
Anyway, that’s the Starship. Here’s another shot:
The plane takes you to the limo which takes you to the hotel which takes you to the venue, and then reverse, and then do it again. Repeat for six weeks or so. Hit the clinic before the flight home. Rock and fucking roll, maaaaaaan.
There weren’t, like, seats or anything so pedestrian inside the Starship. There were couches and tables and thick carpeting and, of course, an organ.
That’s Jonesy playing it.
And that’s Elton John, who loved playing with organs.
There was even a fireplace, because it was the 70’s and everyone was on drugs, including people who built airplanes.
Bobby Sherman owned it. He was a Teen Idol in the 60’s, had a ton of hits and teevee appearances and movie roles, and decided to spread his wings into business in the 70’s. He bought a Boeing 720–the very first one that had come off the line in 1960–from United Airlines in 1973 and Rock Starred up the interior.
It was an immediate success. Zeppelin were the first to lease the jet, and then the rest of the Rock world followed suit: Elton and Alice Cooper and Deep Purple and even the Stones. (Mick supposedly found the plane as vulgar as Oscar Wilde’s curtains.)
The constant touring had the same effect on the Starship as it did the bands, and she was retired in 1978 to be scrapped for parts. Let’s look at John Paul Jones trying to be sexy again:
Don’t do drugs and worship Satan, kids.
This was ’77. The tour went precisely as well as this photograph would suggest, and ended with the assault in San Francisco and a phone call from back home telling Robert Plant that his four-year-old son was dead. The band would take 18 months off and return to the stage at Knebworth for two gigs that drew 400,000. In Through The Out Door sold like it was supposed to, but Presence was muddled and it was an open question as to what place Led Zeppelin would have in the 80’s.
John Bonham answered the question on September 25th, 1980. There would be reunions, varying widely in success, but the mighty Zepp was no more.
This is Lori Maddox. She looks like she’s 14 because she is.
You didn’t think we were gonna skip this part, did you?
Pagey liked ’em young. Now, “liking ’em young” was pretty much industry standard for the time, but Pagey stood out. Shit, he’s still at it:
She’s 22. Pagey has a type.
Lori Maddox was one of a clique of pubescent Los Angeles teens that hung out at an all-ages glam joint called the English Disco which was run by Rodney Bingenheimer, who was a rapey elf. Rock Stars would cruise the dance floor for girls, and they’d always find one. Lori was best friends with Sable Starr. They went to middle school together during the day, and the Rainbow at night.
This is what Lori and Sable looked like when they were partying with Slade:
Pagey saw her at the Whiskey or something one night and dispatched road manager Richard Cole to snatch her up and bring her back to the Riot House. Mostly, he kept her stashed away in his suite. Perhaps this suggests that Pagey knew what he was doing was wrong?
Nope! It says that he knew what he was doing was illegal, but he didn’t think it was wrong.
Maybe because it wasn’t, not at the time. Not in that Los Angeles. None of his peers would have any problem with his actions, and Lori wanted to be there. She’s still alive. Says she doesn’t regret a thing. But she also says she’d now regard any 30-year-old (Pagey is 30 in the above picture) who came sniffing around her 14-year-old daughter (Lori is 14 in the picture) as, well, a pederast.
Times change, and so do people.
Someone must remember laughter. Are you telling me that not one person has any memory whatsoever of laughter? Nobody? I don’t believe that. Go ask again.
Who are these people?
“Kevin Parker and Travis Scott.”
“Kevin’s the white one.”
Those names don’t give much of a clue.
“True. It’s not like Benmont Tench is standing next to Yung Thug.”
Right. You would be 99% sure of who was who in that situation.
“Are we being racist?”
I think we’re just being observant. But we could rephrase what we just said in a way that would make it racist as fuck.
Why do you know these people?
“I did SNL with them.”
Oh, John, do you have another band? Do you need to see someone about this?
“It’s just a sit-in. I wrote the song with Travis.”
Lemme see this so-called SNL performance.
Is that what we’re calling a song nowadays?
“What was wrong with it?”
It didn’t have a chorus. Or a verse. Or a hook. It was, like a meth addict masturbating, both busy and pointless.
“Your opinion is neither welcome nor informed. Travis’ last record went to number one.”
Sounds like number two.
“You’re such a miserable–”
CELL PHONE NOISE
Just answer it.
“You’re on with John.”
“Jonno, me lad, I hear you’re in need of management.”
“Is this Peter Grant?”
“The one and only.”
“I’m all fixed as far as representation goes, Pete.”
“You call me ‘Pete’ again an’ I’ll rip your fish-lips off, you right cunt.”
“I’m your manager now. Me and your Jew worked it out when I dangled him out a window.”
“You dangled Irving Azoff out a window!?”
“Jus’ for a little bit.”
“I’ve booked us some dates. 30 shows in 28 nights starting tomorrow. Also, I get 50% of your earnings from now on.”
“I don’t deserve this.”
Led Zeppelin is a 15-year-old’s unwanted erection: you can neither engage with it nor ignore it, but he thinks it’s special. 15-year-old boys and their erections are Zepp’s audience, both when the group existed and today.
Blondie on the left is Robert Plant; he was a twit.
Behind him is John Paul Jones, who was the best musician of the four of them, and also the least interesting.
The foppish man taking a guitar solo is Jimmy Page. I do not know for sure that he is soloing in the photo; if he wasn’t, then he soon would be.
On drums is the Philadelphia Flyers’ new mascot, Gritty.
“Oi! I’ve pissed meself again!”
Shut the fuck up, Gritty.
Zepp is the fount from which all great Rock Clichés sprung. Preening, egotistical lead singer with great hair? Bringing the occult into it for no reason? Staying at the Hyatt House in LA? Semi-human drummer? Violent management? Deflowered schoolgirls? De-furnitured hotel rooms? That was all Zeppelin. They were to Rock n’ Roll what Orwell is to people complaining about Trump.
Robert Plant was the mirror universe Robert Hunter: Hunter never wrote an embarrassing lyric, and Plant never wrote anything but. Percy (everyone called him Percy because, well, just fucking look at the poncey bastard) had two themes he returned to again and again:
It would be an insult to serial rapists and lady-murderers to call this shit misogynistic: it’s galaxies beyond misogynist, spectacularly so, almost impressive in the venom reserved for women. Devils! Succubi! (Or incubi; whichever is the lady version; I always forget.) Mean mistreaters and lowdown cheaters! And those are just the ones that won’t fuck him. The ones that will want too much from Percy: even his powerful juices are not enough to quench her thirst, which leads to her running around, all over town, getting him down and making him frown.
This is 1975. Sound quality’s good, but the band’s already slipping. Robert Plant stopped sounding like Robert Plant in about 1973, and Jimmy Page was getting sloppier by the day. (Plus, he had broken the ring finger on his fretting hand the day before the tour started.)
And there’s this bullshit:
30 minute drum solo? Go fuck yourself and all your ancestors, Bozo. Just one asshole and one drum kit? Not two guys (plus guests) wandering around playing all sorts of different percussion instruments? At least there’s some variation there PLUS Billy and Mickey didn’t take a fucking half-hour. The longest Drums I can recall Without Research are from Spring ’78, and they were 20 minutes, but that tour featured the ultra-rare Full Band Drums. Garcia hopped on the steel drums, for fuck’s sake! That’s worth five minutes right there.
(They didn’t play Dazed and Confused for 42 minutes. They started it, then went into other jams and songs, and then ended with the ominous, stolen riff.)
Jimmy Page loved Satan. Or he was a junkie with shit taste in writers. Either one.
That’s Boleskine, which was previously owned by…wait for it…everyone’s favorite mountain-climbing, dope-sucking, received-wisdomifying nutty uncle Aleister Crowley. He did a lot of ritual sex magick at the house; I am assuming Jimmy had the couches deep cleaned. Also: the house was built on the site of an Medeival church that burned down with all the village’s children inside. And it was literally on Loch fucking Ness.
One can only imagine what Jimmy Page’s conversations with his real estate agent were like.
“Jimmy, I have a beautiful Georgian mansion in the West End that’s just come on the market.”
“Mm-hmm. Is it haunted?”
The other three Led Zeppelins bought farms in the North of England, like proper British Rock Stars.
The hero needs a magick sword, that’s all there is to it. Garcia had Wolf and Tiger, and Eddie Van Halen had the Frankenstrat, and B.B. King had Lucille, and Jimmy Page had the double-neck. Bill Graham recognized its power: when the band was late getting to the stage at one of his Days on the Green, he took the microphone and asked the crowd for patience. It was a rowdy crowd, not like the kids the Dead drew, and they were getting bored and angry.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll just bear with us. The band will be out here in a moment, but Jimmy’s having some problems with the double-neck. He really wants to get it right for you, but he’s having troubles with the double-neck.”
And the kids calmed right down.
It wasn’t a custom job. That is the Gibson EDS-1275, and every self-respecting guitar shop has one hanging on the highest peg on its wall. They still make it; you can have one overnighted to you if you’ve got seven grand. Pagey wasn’t even the only Guitar Hero to wield the double-neck, but he owned it, mostly because he was the only one who managed to make it look cool.
The songs don’t need to be this long, guys. This is someone who listens almost exclusively to the Grateful Dead saying this.
Speaking of the Dead, Zepp toured just as incessantly, and in parts of the world that our notoriously border-averse Boys never even considered playing. (For the first few years, at least.)
Who the fuck played Iceland in 1970? Did Iceland even have electricity in 1970? I think they were still lighting whale-oil lamps to ward off the nightly fairy attacks in 1970.
And they played the hell out of their shows, too; Zepp blew everyone off the stage when they were openers; some bands just gave up their headlining slots in order not to have to follow them. There’s the famous Boston Tea Party show in ’69 where the crowd called them back for 12, 13, 14, 15 encores–there is no recording of the show, so the number of encores rises every year–and the three and four-hour marathons of their later years: they weren’t KISS. No tight 90-minute gigs for the Mighty Zeppelin.
(And, it must be noted, no set breaks. Sure, Percy, Pagey, and Jonesy would get a breather and a blowjob during Bozo’s drum solo, but no organized intermission. Unlike some groups I could mention.)
The show also featured an Acoustic Mini-Set. The AMS is a high-level Rock Move, and there are specific requirements.
STOOLS It’s not an AMS unless the entire band comes downstage and shows how sensitive and versatile they are via cunning use of stoolery.
WEIRDO INSTRUMENT Someone’s gotta break out a mandocello or a treble ukulele or a tin whistle or something.
HARMONIZIN’ Boys, that sure do sound fiiiiiine.
DRUMMER’S GOTTA BE THERE He doesn’t have to actually do anything, but he has to come and sit on the stools with the rest of the band. No drummer, no AMS.
There are rules to this sort of shit, Enthusiasts.
They were monsters, and they hurt people like other bands didn’t. The Stones left corpses in their wake, but not out of cruelty; the Stones just didn’t give a flaming shit about anyone but themselves and would gladly sacrifice you the moment you became boring. Zeppelin went out of their way to hurt people.
This is Peter Grant.
They called him G. He’s the guy who doesn’t look like a Rock Star, or Tony Clifton there on the right. (Bozo was as unpleasant looking as he was unpleasant.) Percy is 6’1″ and most likely wearing those platform shoes he dug, so you can’t tell that Peter Grant is 6’5″. He started out as a professional wrestler–I swear–and got into the music management business via Don Arden, who was another psychotic criminal. He was the British Colonel Parker. He was the English Suge Knight. FUN FACT: Each of the men in that photo received an equal share of the profits and owned an equal share of the band.
Grant was there first, along with Pagey. The Yardbirds broke up in ’68–the singer was a drunk, Jeff Beck wanted to fuck off and play jazz or whatever it is he does–but they were still contracted to play some shows. There was money on the table, and neither men was hot on the idea of leaving it there. (Jimmy Page is so cheap that his nickname among the crew was Led Wallet.) So, Grant got the soon-to-be-ex-Yardbirds to sign over the rights to the name so Pagey could scrape together a pickup band to play the gigs.
So Pagey makes some calls and Percy comes along with Bozo in tow, and then Jonesy shows up. You know the story. It’s not a particularly interesting one. Enthusiasts have the serendipitous meeting between Garcia and Bobby on New Year’s Eve, and Phil and Mrs. Donna Jean presenting themselves in times of need, and a magick dictionary that named the band, but Zepp’s Origin Story has very little mysticism inherent. The name was a Keith Moon joke, and it was misspelled deliberately to prevent the deejays from calling them Leed Zeppelin.
And Grant was there. Most managers stay in their offices, employing a road manager to take care of the band on tour, but not Grant. He was there making sure the money got to the band and not the local promoter, and buying off the local cops, and paying for blitzed hotel rooms, and thrashing any taper he caught in the audience. Sometimes on tour, he would stop at local record shops; if he found bootleg Zepp albums, he would fuck the whole store up.
Look at him again:
That guy could fuck a whole store up. You didn’t want his full attention.
There was nothing Bill Graham could do. Grant had locked the trailer door, and one of his thuggish road crew was holding it closed, too, so Bill Graham couldn’t do anything. He yelled for help. He beat on the windows and walls of the trailer with his fists. Nothing was accomplished. The band was onstage, and Graham has brought his man to one of Led Zeppelin’s trailers. There has been a misunderstanding between the man and Grant’s son. There are differing accounts. Grant wishes to speak with the man. He wants to find out, he tells Graham, what really happened.
Before the knock, the door flings open and Grant yanks the man in. The two are not by themselves; there are three others in the trailer, John Bonham and Richard Cole and John Bindon*, and they all set upon the man. His name is Jim Matzorkis. The four men who beat him to nearly to death most likely do not know that, but do not let that fact get in the way. Bill Graham can do nothing.
The band leaves the stage and the entire entourage immediately leave the venue. There is another show scheduled for the following evening. Not too many hours later, a messenger arrives at Graham’s office. The message is from Grant. The band, Grant relays, has told me they would feel uncomfortable playing the show if you didn’t indemnify them and their employees against any action from what may or may not have occurred this afternoon.
The band used the word “indemnify?” Graham responds.
Grant refuses to return phone calls all night, and the next day, and then sends over some papers releasing Zepp from any legal responsibility in the beating right before the show is scheduled to begin. The teens are already in the venue. Fearful of a riot if the band doesn’t play, Graham signs the document. He does so with his left hand, believing that this makes the contract null and void. Graham believes this because he watches too many movies. (The agreement wasn’t legal anyway, because you’re not allowed to make people sign shit by threatening them.)
Grant and the three others are allowed to leave San Francisco on their private jet, but they are arrested at the next stop on their route, New Orleans, which was to be the last show of the 1977 tour. The band never returns to America. Graham dies in a helicopter accident in 1991. Grant dies of a heart attack in 1995.
*John Bindon was a gangster. Sometimes he got paid to be an actor, or a bodyguard, and he made it into the gossip columns for the socialites and movie stars he impaled with the–according to legend–cock large enough to balance three pint glasses on, but he was a gangster. Buddies with the Kray Brothers and everything. He was the British version of Johnny Stompanato.
And Led Zeppelin hired him.
Quick quiz, hotshots: Led Zeppelin quote about the fourth album, or outtake from Spinal Tap?
“I think the lack of a name says more about the record than any name ever could.”
The Dead were in Minnesota recording Dick’s Pick 26 that night, so Zeppelin took care of San Francisco. (They had also played Winterland that weekend.) The tape is astounding, even via YouTube’s compression, all chunky and airy and whatnotty. The first record had just come out and they barely knew any songs so they jammed everything out for ten and fifteen minutes; this was before the mellotron and the grand piano, just guitar, bass, and drums, and Percy still in dewy, screeching voice.
Feel free to skip the last 30 minutes, which–as you are probably guessing–is a drum solo followed by Dazed and Confused.
Put the bow away, schmuck.
Re: The Albums.
Coda and Presence suck. I’ve heard II and IV too many times to ever listen to them again. Houses of the Holy gets points off for The Rain Song, which is nine hours of dippity-doodle nonsense, and Physical Graffiti gets bonus points for the song Houses of the Holy. In Through The Out Door is underrated. III is for some people, I suppose.
I have more to say but no night left with which to say it.