Stairway To Heaven (19 page)

I
t's not worth going to jail for, Bonzo. Let's get out of here.”

I had my right hand on John Bonham's shoulder, trying to push him out of the kitchen of a hotel restaurant in Dublin. His hands were pressed against my chest, attempting to throw me off balance and make a lunge toward the hotel chef, who was already fully armed for combat, waving a carving knife over his head, poised like a fencer ready for battle.

“Hey, you asshole,” Bonham said. “All I wanted was a goddamned meal. What kind of crap are you trying to pull?”

After a concert at Boxing Stadium in Dublin, we had returned to the hotel, and Bonham had strolled into the kitchen shortly after midnight, about thirty minutes after the restaurant had closed. He was intent on getting a meal and wasn't willing to take “no” for an answer. Bonzo could be the most headstrong, the most defiant member of the band, even though there was also a gentle, loving side to him.

It was March 1971, and Led Zeppelin was on the road. After more than a five-month hiatus from live performing, Peter had talked the band into getting back onstage, although there were mixed feelings about doing so. They certainly no longer needed the money that concerts could bring. And there was no burning enthusiasm to rekindle the excitement that inevitably comes with live performing. The band had performed live nearly 250 times in their first two years of existence, and there was a feeling that “we've done it.”

But like a broken record, Peter had set his sights back on America. He
hoped the band would spend at least a month there in the summer, and he didn't want them to be rusty when that tour began. Although Peter didn't control the band with an iron fist, they still trusted him implicitly and generally went along with any career move he felt strongly about. So as spring approached, Peter convinced Zeppelin to sign on for a series of concerts in Ireland and the U.K., with the possibility of a few gigs in Europe as well. “It will keep you sharp,” he said. “And it won't be too taxing.”

In a sense, the two concerts scheduled for Ireland were unique. Most British bands had routinely avoided Ireland since the late 1960s, when violence between Protestants and Catholics created chaos in the streets. Still, Led Zeppelin agreed to take its show on the road there, even though we were warned that kidnappings, bombings, and other terrorist acts had become almost everyday occurrences in parts of Ireland and Northern Ireland.

Jimmy, however, wasn't particularly concerned. “I don't see why Led Zeppelin would be a target,” he said. “If anything, maybe we can take people's minds off the insanity that's going on around them.”

Just hours before our concert in Belfast, there was a confrontation between police and demonstrators about a mile from Ulster Hall, where the band would be performing. One person died. Two policemen were hospitalized. Four cars were firebombed. As word of the violence reached us, my own anxiety level soared. The most stressful part of my job continued to be ensuring the band's safety, and the trip to Ireland seemed like walking into the lion's den. I voiced my concern to Peter, although he didn't feel any additional security was necessary. But I was a little more jittery than usual, although I didn't discuss it with the band, feeling there was no need to spread the nervousness around.

After the performance that night, a limousine was waiting for us to make a quick exit and a drive to Dublin for a performance the next night. I needed something to calm my nerves and figured no one else would complain if there was enough to go around. So earlier that day, I had stopped in a liquor store and had a bottle of Jameson's Irish whiskey waiting in the limo for each of the band members.

“It's amazing how much faster the drive goes with this stuff,” Robert said. “Richard, you should buy it by the case.”

I had. The trunk was filled with whiskey, ready to replenish our supplies.

 

We drove through some tough neighborhoods on the drive to Dublin. Tanks were parked on the sides of roads. Soldiers walked the sidewalks, ominously carrying rifles on their shoulders. Windows had been boarded up, nursing wounds from rocks thrown by rioters. A few buildings had been completely gutted by firebombs. It was a sobering sight.

By the time we finally reached Dublin, all of us had polished off a couple of bottles of Jameson's. And after the concert there, a few glasses of Irish whiskey didn't help Bonzo's self-control when he went looking for food in the hotel.

Our chauffeur had accompanied Bonham into the kitchen, and as the confrontation there escalated, he placed a frantic call to my room. “You better get the hell down here before John kills somebody or vice versa.”

I raced down the stairs, and as I stormed through the kitchen doors, Bonham and the chef were facing one another on opposite sides of a table.

“I told you that we're closed, you jerk!” the chef shouted. “We can't serve food after eleven-thirty!”

“I'm not asking for a five-course meal,” Bonham screamed back. “I'll settle for a fucking sandwich. I'll even make it myself if you're too damn lazy to do it!”

The chef waved his carving knife menacingly. It was big enough to engrave initials on a brontosaurus. “After I get through with you,” the chef said, “you're gonna look like you went through a bread slicer!”

Bonham didn't like being threatened. He began walking around the table, moving toward his adversary. I couldn't believe what was happening. When Peter had placed Ireland on our itinerary, I had been concerned about being caught up in the country's civil war; I had never expected that the real threat would come from a chef in a hotel kitchen!

I quickly stepped in front of Bonzo and shoved him backward. He resisted and tried to push me aside. That's when I swung at him with my right fist, aiming right at his nose.

Bull's-eye! Bonham staggered back a few steps, tripped on a chair, and dropped to one knee. His nose was gushing with blood—so much blood that if this were a prizefight, it would have been stopped on a TKO.

“Fuck!” Bonzo screamed, gingerly rubbing at his nose with the back of his right hand. “Cole, who's fuckin' side are you on?”

“When you sober up, you'll thank me for that,” I said, realizing there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that he ever would. I grabbed him by the shirt and led him out of the kitchen. “That guy was ready to turn you into ground round!”

Maybe I had saved Bonham a few stitches and a scar or two, but we still had to find an emergency room. My right hand wasn't as vicious as Joe Frazier's, but I had broken Bonham's nose.

As we waited to see a doctor, Bonham said, “How can I ever thank you?” The statement oozed with sarcasm. Then the anger in his voice escalated. “Maybe I'll tell Peter to throw you out on your ass! If I had my way, Peter would fire you!”

 

The next day, Peter was in no mood to do much of anything. After Bonham and I had returned from the hospital, I had gone to Peter's room to explain what had happened. There were several bottles of champagne in his room—neither of us counted how many—and we finished them off in a three-hour drinking binge. Later that day, we downed thirty Irish coffees, which didn't do much for our condition.

That was the last time we used coffee to treat a hangover!

B
ack in England, Zeppelin was performing again, this time on a Return to the Clubs tour—an idea conceived by Peter. Amid the band's enormous success, Peter never let himself forget the band's early days when they struggled to get attention at home. In the cramped clubs in which they played in those days, they had a small but loyal following. And Peter still felt he owed them a debt.

“This new tour is a way of saying ‘thank you' to those fans who have been with us since sixty-eight and sixty-nine,” Peter had said when he suggested the idea. So during the remainder of March, we played in a dozen clubs, including the Marquee in London, the Mayfair Ballroom in Newcastle, the Boat Club in Nottingham, and Stepmother's in Birmingham. With audiences averaging 300 to 400 people, these dates were the ultimate contrast to the Bath Festival.

The clubs tour, however, was much better as a concept than as reality. None of us particularly enjoyed it. The clubs were small, and the demand to see Zeppelin was, of course, much larger than it had been in the early years. This was now the biggest band in the world, and literally thousands of people were turned away at the doors. Disappointed fans sometimes took out their frustrations and anger on whatever they could take a swing at—whether it was the clubs' bouncers or nearby street lamps. On a couple of occasions, the police were called to prevent a full-fledged riot from erupting.

After the scares in Ireland, I had insisted on taking two bodyguards with
us on the British tour, and Peter agreed. Two brawny protectors, Patsy Collins and Jim Callaghan, gave me some peace of mind for most of those U.K. performances. Nevertheless, the Return to the Clubs tour was not incident-free. As Zeppelin performed at the Nottingham Boat Club, a fellow in his mid-twenties with a satanic face approached the stage, hovering for a minute or two as the band played “Whole Lotta Love.” He had a knife tucked in his belt, and although it was still in its case, I decided not to wait to see what might happen next. I rushed toward the front of the stage and slammed my body into the bastard, wrestling him to the ground. Then with the help of Patsy, we dragged him backstage, where I confiscated the knife and then roughed him up enough to bruise his face and tear his shirt.

“What the fuck is that knife for?” I shouted as I stood over him, poised for another punch.

“My girlfriend loves Robert Plant,” he mumbled. “Whenever she swoons over him, it drives me crazy. Sometimes I feel like killing both of them.”

“Funny,” I said. “I feel like killing
you
!”

With an open palm, I slapped him across the face and watched another welt rise on his cheek. “If you want to live to see tomorrow, you better not come within fifty feet of the stage the rest of the night.” I shoved him back into the crowd.

When we played the Mayfair, just before the band went onstage Jimmy was bitching about the entire tour. “Once you've played in the big places, these small clubs are murder. It's nice to be near the audience, but you forget how small the dressing rooms are. At this point in our careers, I think we're entitled to more luxury than this. This is really hard to believe.”

With the larger venues, Zeppelin had gotten spoiled very quickly. They had become used to big dressing rooms and catered food. They expected excellent sound systems, not makeshift speakers and overloaded fuse boxes that hemorrhaged and died in the middle of a set. So even though Zeppelin was eager to expose their fans to songs from their forthcoming album—songs like “Stairway to Heaven,” “Rock and Roll,” and “Black Dog”—I could see them cringe every time the sound system would screech, scratch, and squeal.

There wasn't much of a financial payoff, either. The band took a percentage of the door, but when you're only squeezing three hundred and fifty people into a club, the band's share covered gas money and maybe a few bottles of whiskey. “It's no Madison Square Garden,” Peter said, showing a knack for understatement.

Peter still felt that the entire exercise was worth it, at least in terms of public relations. Even so, he never suggested repeating the Return to the Clubs tour. Neither did anyone else.

 

For me, the most memorable moment of that tour occurred offstage at a new hotel in Manchester. Zeppelin had performed at the Preston Guild Hall, but since we couldn't get hotel rooms in Preston, we drove to Manchester, planning to catch the train back to London the next day. The hotel was a couple of galaxies removed from a five-star inn, but it was the only decent place that Tony Smith, our promoter, could get us on short notice.

“You'll like it,” Tony joked. “They give the rats their own rooms, so they don't bother the guests much, except during mealtime.”

For some reason, at the concert in Preston, Patsy Collins and Jim Callaghan thought it would make a great practical joke to tear my jeans off. So backstage, they jumped me and went to work. As the band performed “You Shook Me” just a few feet away, my jeans were confiscated and shredded. Having an odd sense of humor myself, I could appreciate the prank, although the drive to Manchester in my undershorts became a little uncomfortable. To my recollection, freezing one's ass off was not part of the original job description for Zeppelin's tour manager.

When we checked into the hotel, I snuck up a side entrance so as not to create too much commotion in the lobby. Once I was in my room, I was delighted to find a set of waiter's clothes in the closet—much too close to my own size to leave them on the hanger. That night, when we headed to a club called Mr. Smith's in Manchester, I dressed myself in the waiter's attire. Bonham thought the outfit might get a few laughs; I figured it would be much less funny than wearing only my undershorts.

Mr. Smith's was actually a high-class club—sit-down service and wall-to-wall girls. The service, however, was dismal, and Zeppelin wasn't a band that liked to wait more than a few ticks of the clock until the first round of drinks flowed. We had ordered wine, but were still awaiting its arrival ten minutes later.

“Cole, get to work!” Bonzo finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“You've got the waiter's suit! Get us some booze!”

What the hell, I thought. I smoothed out my lapels and headed for the bar. I tried acting as though I belonged there—walking behind the bar and helping myself to some bottles of Muscadet, then French Burgundy.

There were so many people crammed into Mr. Smith's and the other waiters became so confused and puzzled by my presence that no one raised an eyebrow. To them, I must have been just the new waiter on the block.

“Oh, waiter!” Bonzo shouted in an affected, high-pitched voice. “How about some schnapps? As many as you can carry over—in about ten trips!” He laughed hysterically.

For nearly two hours, I replenished the glasses of the heavy drinkers at Zeppelin's table. At every opportunity, I'd also sneak a few drinks for myself. Naturally, the booze was on the house that night.

Before returning to the hotel, we convinced a few girls to come back with us. We were all so drunk that we had trouble finding our own rooms and ended up in Tony Smith's room, where we continued drinking from the bottles that I had smuggled out of the club. Jimmy took one of the girls into the bathroom, and we heard the bathtub water running.

“Jimmy's getting kinky again,” Plant said.

A few moments later, I began smelling smoke coming from the bathroom.

“What the hell's going on,” I said, peeking in and noticing that Jimmy had somehow started a fire in the middle of the sink with newspapers and towels. I shouted for some help from the other room.

Robert frantically ran into the hallway and broke the glass on the fire extinguisher case, which activated the fire alarm. He sprayed, smothered, and successfully doused the flames just as the night manager burst through the door.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed. “What are you bastards doing?”

Robert thought a lot faster than the rest of us. “It's a religious rite,” he said calmly. “My friend here is a very devout man, very spiritual. He was reciting a prayer using the ancient rituals of his ancestors. It was a moving ceremony.”

Jimmy looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah. I'm sorry if I caused a disturbance. It's over now!”

The manager was furious. He didn't appear to have bought Robert's explanation. Although Zeppelin expected to get away with antics like this—and usually did—it appeared as though we might have problems this time.

“I think we ought to get out of here as quickly as possible,” I whispered to Jimmy. While the night manager was in the bathroom calculating the damage, we grabbed our belongings and the girls and snuck down the stairway to the limousines. We headed directly for London, bypassing the train station on the way.

Incidentally, we never did find out what Jimmy's bathroom conflagration was all about. Of course, there was his growing preoccupation with the occult. Perhaps the fire was somehow related to that. When I asked him about it, all he said was, “I liked Percy's explanation best. Let's just say that it was an ancient rite that went up in flames.”