Stairway To Heaven (38 page)

I
was absolutely furious at Peter.

Here it was, the early months of 1980, and Zeppelin had a European tour planned for the summer through Germany, Holland, Austria, and Switzerland. These would be the first concerts in Europe in three years.

But Peter was worried about me, or at least worried about my capability of still handling the job of tour manager. “Damn it, Cole, you're so fucking wasted on heroin so much of the time, I don't know what you're capable of doing anymore.” Then his voice softened. He had made a decision. “I'm not going to put you on this tour. I'm making arrangements for someone else to manage it.”

I was stunned, but within seconds the shock had turned to anger. “After more than five hundred and sixty concerts,” I thought to myself, “this guy doesn't think I can do the job?” From my drug-warped perspective, Peter was the one who was out of touch, not me.

 

Although I had spent a little time nearly every day in Peter's office, I was much more dedicated to drinking in the nearby pubs and meeting with the dealers who supplied me with smack. I still loved Led Zeppelin, but my second wife had left me, and my interests were really elsewhere, caught up in a world where drugs were the most important thing in my life. While I floundered, Peter's patience was running thin. He was simply fed up with my heroin habit
and warned me repeatedly that I had to get clean or my job was in jeopardy. He even offered to assist me in getting some help.

By then, because I wanted the drugs to work as fast as possible, a dealer had begun to give me heroin injections; I was frightened of using the needle myself, and I'd close my eyes while he did it. He always claimed he was injecting me with only “great stuff,” but I never believed him because all these suppliers were liars and crooks, so I'd talk him into giving me a little more smack with every fix. Within a week, I had OD'd twice, ending up in the hospital each time, where they had to pump saline into my system to revive me. If not before, I should have known by then that heroin did not agree with me.

“Look,” Peter finally said, “while we're on tour, I want you to go somewhere—whether it's a rehab clinic or just a vacation—and get yourself off drugs. I'll pay for it.”

Looking back, I can see Peter had real concerns for my well-being. At the time, however, all I knew was that I was being replaced, that someone else was going to be the band's tour manager, and that my ride with Zeppelin might be over.

I was depressed, pondering just how all this had happened to me and how I was going to get out of it. But figuring my job was on the line, I reluctantly made plans to take a trip to Italy to get clean. In August, I headed for Rome, taking a girl named Susan with me. She was a punk rocker with spiked green and silver hair and a love for miniskirts, garter belts, and fishnet stockings. When we arrived in Rome, we checked into the Excelsior Hotel and immediately went drinking, concentrating on sweet stuff like Brandy Alexanders, which I knew might help me ease off heroin. “I'm really serious about cleaning up this time,” I told Susan. “Smack is ruining my life.”

The next morning, something else almost ruined my life. Susan and I were awakened by a loud knocking on the door of our hotel room. I tried to ignore it, figuring it was the maid, but the banging got louder, accompanied by a voice shouting, “Police!”

I wrapped a towel around me, opened the door, and a dozen cops with their guns drawn barged inside. “What the hell is going on?” I said.

“Where are the weapons?” they shouted. “Where are the arms?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked. They pushed me against the wall and searched the room. They didn't find anything, but that didn't make them any more polite. They handcuffed Susan and me and led us down the elevators to some waiting police cars.

I was thoroughly baffled and frightened by what was taking place. Down at street level, one of the cops signaled to marksmen on the roof of a nearby building to put down their rifles. In the police car, I told Susan, “Don't worry;
we'll be back in a little while.” But I was wrong. Although Susan was released in a few days when the police conceded that there was no reason to hold her, I was taken to the local jail, then transferred to Regina Coeli Prison, a maximum security facility. My cell was divided into catacombs, and my first night there I went to sleep with three cell mates and awoke with twenty-two of them, mostly pick-pockets and other street criminals. “Welcome, boys,” I told them. “I hope you have good appetites. The meals here consist of bread and lettuce leaves—all you can eat!”

Ironically, no formal charges were ever brought against me. But under the Napoleonic Code, I was technically “guilty until proven innocent.” To make matters worse, all the judges were on vacation in August, and when they returned they went on strike for two months. So in the meantime, I continued to sit in my jail cell, feeling more desperate each day and wondering if I'd ever get out.

My lawyer, Julio, finally found out why I was there: They suspected me of blowing up the Bologna train station, which had been attacked by terrorists the day I had arrived in Italy. The cops and the prison officials desperately tried to get a confession out of me. They roughed me up. They promised me better treatment if I “cooperated.” “There's nothing for me to confess to!” I told them repeatedly. “Why am I a suspect? I haven't been to Bologna since nineteen sixty-seven!”

When my luggage was finally sent over from the Excelsior, the prison officials had me go to a bomb-disposal room and unpack the bag myself. I could only think that they were worried there were explosives in it and preferred to have me—rather than one of them—pulverized. In fact, the bag contained only clothes that belonged to both Susan and me. As the prison guards had me unpack, they got quite a chuckle as, one by one, I dangled garter belts, bras, and panties before their eyes. One of the guards told me, “You're the first cross-dressing terrorist we've ever had here!”

As upset as I was about being in prison, particularly on suspicion of something I didn't do, my living conditions at least became tolerable once they transferred me to a third facility, Rebibia Prison. By that time, I had already undergone a forced withdrawal from heroin, which was uncomfortable but not nearly as torturous as I had expected. I was so obsessed with my imprisonment and how I was going to get out that the withdrawal symptoms—the aches and pains, the diarrhea—almost seemed insignificant.

Over the weeks, there were aspects to my imprisonment that kept my spirits up. I shared a cell with some Italian prisoners whose wives used to bring them wonderful meals that they generously shared with me. The Rebibia prison food itself wasn't bad, either, with roast lamb, potatoes, and liters of wine. My cell mates also had their own gas stoves, and I learned to cook some
mean pasta dishes while I was imprisoned. They also showed me how to make good use of the stove when it was running low on gas. “There's not enough gas to ignite a flame,” one of my buddies said in his broken English, “but you sure can make yourself feel good by sucking a little gas out!” At least I still had one way to get high.

The prison doctors had a very liberal policy about the distribution of sleeping pills. After I had complained to them about insomnia, they prescribed some pills for me, which knocked me out twelve hours a night. I found out that time passes much quicker in prison when you're unconscious.

Once I finally got some messages to the outside world, the Zeppelin organization did their best to help me. Peter figured I was being framed, and he sent me $500 a month and flew a lawyer, Jeff Hoffman, to Italy to meet with me. “They're not going to find anything against me,” I told the attorney. “I don't have the cleanest background, but terrorism is one thing I haven't done!”

I also started exchanging letters with Susan, whom I had encouraged to stay at my house back in London and keep an eye on it. At one point, I asked her to send me some cassette tapes, and she innocently shipped me some bizarre selections—the Pink Floyd album,
The Wall
, as if I weren't already surrounded by enough walls to last a lifetime, and the soundtrack of
McVicar
, the Roger Daltrey film about an escape from a high-security prison. Along with the tapes, she enclosed a letter, telling me about a terrible flood at home caused by some burst pipes, leaving my house with about four feet of water in it. “I was so scared because I can't swim,” she wrote. It sounded as if the house had suffered enormous damage, and, suddenly, I was in no hurry to get home. Between the sleeping pills and the gas stove, prison seemed almost tolerable.

One afternoon, however, Julio changed all that when he nervously gave me the news that John Bonham had passed away. I felt as if I had been hit in the stomach, as if part of me had died. Maybe part of me had.

 

Peter heard the news of Bonzo's death from his assistant, Ray Washburn. Peter was at his home in Sussex when Ray fielded the phone call about the tragedy. Ray sat Peter down, handed him a couple of Valium, and insisted he take them.

“Someone is on the phone for you,” Ray said.

“Who is it?” Peter said. “What's wrong?”

“It's about John Bonham.”

Peter was becoming anxious. “Well, what about him?”

“He's dead.”

The word of Bonham's death spread quickly. The wire services flashed the story throughout the world. In the offices of Atlantic Records, which had
helped launch the band more than a decade earlier, executives slumped in their seats and secretaries cried. At clubs like the Rainbow in Los Angeles, fans mingled to share their grief, somehow feeling closer to Bonzo by congregating in the places where he had loved hanging out. There was the inevitable talk of the Zeppelin jinx, but, mostly, people shared their pain and sorrow. Even those who didn't know him felt the world had lost someone special.

Bonzo had been my closest friend and ally in the band. I was crushed by the news. I never really knew whether to believe the official cause of his death. John was so caught up in heroin that I wondered if it might have played some role in his passing, even though I had heard that he was telling people that he had finally kicked the habit. I was numb for days, living in denial. Eventually, I realized the full impact of Bonham's death. With his passing, my own life was forever changed. In addition to the loss of a precious friend, I had lost my job as well. Instinctively, I knew that Led Zeppelin had died with Bonzo.

Bonham's funeral was held at Rushock parish church, not far from his farm in Worcestershire. Nearly 300 fellow musicians and fans attended the services. The remaining members of Led Zeppelin were there. They shunned reporters, who were already asking them about Zeppelin's future. The band members had little to say to each other, either. They were all trying to get used to a world without Bonzo and trying to make some sense out of what had happened.

Robert Plant seemed to take it hardest. He had known Bonham since they were struggling musicians still in their teens, aching for a break that might turn them into Somebody. That success happened for both of them. But Robert's life had been marred by tragedy, and now Bonzo was gone. What was it about the life of a musician, Plant wondered, that devours people? He didn't have any answers.

 

In the fall, I was finally released from prison, never charged with nor convicted of anything. “It was a mistake,” one of the prison officials told me. “We're sorry if we inconvenienced you.”

When I got out, I didn't feel I had much to go home to, with only a flooded house and uncertainty surrounding Led Zeppelin awaiting me. I ended up going to the Philippines and then to the U.S. for a while, pondering my own future. I was broke, thanks primarily to the enormous amounts of money I had spent on alcohol and drugs. I drank away most of my assets, and the deed to my home in England had been turned over to the bank to pay off my debts. I was unsure where my life was headed, but I knew I had some rebuilding to do.

While I was away, Jimmy, Jonesy, and Robert made the decision to dissolve the band, as I had expected. After Bonzo's death, the rock press reported a
flurry of rumors on who might replace Bonham, with Carmine Appice (of Vanilla Fudge) and Cozy Powell most frequently named. But for Robert, Jimmy, and John Paul, that was never part of their game plan. They congregated in Jersey to discuss their futures and then met with Peter at the Savoy Hotel. “We can't go on without Bonham,” Plant said. Everyone agreed. They never seriously contemplated looking for another drummer. The twelve-year run of Led Zeppelin was over.

The band released a simple statement through Swan Song that read: “The loss of our dear friend and the deep respect we have for his family, together with the sense of undivided harmony felt by ourselves and our manager, have led us to decide that we could not continue as we were.”

Led Zeppelin had enjoyed an incredible flight, but the band had finally touched down for the last time.

B
y 1981, those of us who had worked with Led Zeppelin were trying to get used to thinking of the band in the past tense. Clearly, Zeppelin had left an indelible mark on rock music, but I needed to face the reality that there would be no new Zeppelin recordings, no more touring, no more of both the good times and the bad times.

Nevertheless, everyone—from the Zeppelin insiders to their millions of fans—sensed that we hadn't heard the last from the surviving members of the group. For Jimmy, John Paul, and Robert, the band had been their lives for a dozen years, and it took all of them a while to regain their equilibrium after the devastating loss of Bonham. They took some time for soul-searching, not only to ponder their own futures, but to contemplate a blur of philosophical questions, most of which had no answers: Why had so much misfortune struck in such a short period of time? Why had Bonzo died? Why had we lived?

It was a tough recovery period for Jimmy. After all, Led Zeppelin was his creation, his baby. After twelve years, it was difficult for him to think of starting anew. He also continued to live in the house where John Bonham had died and thus had daily reminders that made it almost impossible to put his friend's death behind him. He didn't pick up a guitar for months. He sometimes wondered whether he ever would again.

But time eventually began to heal the wounds. Jimmy produced a final Led
Zeppelin album,
Coda
, which was issued in 1982 and sold more than a million copies around the world. The album consisted of previously unreleased material from the band's earlier studio sessions, dating back as early as 1969, when the group had recorded songs like “We're Gonna Groove” during the
Led Zeppelin II
sessions.

At Eric Clapton's urging, Pagey performed at a charity concert in 1983 at the Royal Albert Hall, overwhelming the audience with a stirring instrumental version of “Stairway to Heaven.” Then he decided to assume the laborious, stressful task of assembling a new band. He knew people would compare it to Zeppelin, but eventually he tried to rise above those anxieties. The new group, the Firm, recorded two albums and did some touring. Fans expected a lot more than the band ever produced. The comparisons with Zeppelin never stopped. Eventually, Jimmy disbanded the group.

In 1988, Jimmy recorded a solo album,
Outrider
, and formed a touring band that included John Bonham's son, Jason, on drums. During performances in the U.S. and the U.K., Jimmy didn't shy away from reprising a number of Zeppelin standards, not only “Stairway to Heaven,” but also “Kashmir,” “Over the Hills and Far Away,” and others. If the fans wanted to hear some Zeppelin favorites, he wasn't going to disappoint them. For the first time since Bonham's death, he felt fully confident that he had found a vehicle that worked for him.

 

Meanwhile, Robert slowly tried to reassemble the pieces of his life. He had suffered so many personal tragedies in the 1970s, culminating in Bonham's death, that it took courage and strength to pull himself together. But he felt that he still had a contribution to make with his music and that music might heal him more quickly than anything else.

Even so, Robert went through a lot of inner turmoil wondering if he was cut out for a solo career. He decided to try singing at a number of small clubs in 1981, intentionally avoiding Zeppelin material, going back instead to an R&B sound. Fans would shout out, “Sing ‘Stairway to Heaven'” or “Why didn't you bring Jimmy and John Paul with you?” Plant would just cringe. But he loved being back onstage again, and performing as a solo artist suddenly seemed feasible.

In 1982, Robert recorded his first solo album,
Pictures at Eleven
. Even though the Plant-Page relationship was formally over in 1980, Robert still called upon Jimmy to listen to the tapes that were emerging from his initial solo recording sessions, eager for input from someone whose musical instincts he thoroughly trusted. The solo album was a hit on both sides of the Atlantic. Since then, Robert has released a steady stream of solo albums.

 

John Paul has rarely returned to the stage since 1980. He has been quite content living far away from the spotlight. He performed on and helped piece together the soundtrack for director Michael Winner's 1984 movie,
Scream for Help
. He has produced a few records for other artists, and got involved in Paul McCartney's film,
Give My Regards to Broad Street
. Unlike his Zeppelin colleagues, John Paul has never had a yearning to have a solo act, or a career with high visibility.

 

For millions of Led Zeppelin fans, however, the individual directions that Page, Plant, and Jones have taken haven't been enough. They want Zeppelin itself back, even though it would mean bringing in a new drummer. If the fans can't have the real thing, they at least want something damn close to it.

Inevitably, throughout the 1980s and into the 1990s, there have been endless rumors about Zeppelin reunions. And, in fact, the band's fans haven't been completely disappointed. In 1985, Robert, Jimmy, and John Paul performed together at the Live-Aid concert at JFK Stadium in Philadelphia, with Tony Thompson and Phil Collins filling in on drums. The act was a little rusty, supported by just a single ninety-minute rehearsal. Plant's voice was a bit hoarse, and Jimmy's Gibson seemed to be slipping out of tune at times. But when they performed “Whole Lotta Love” and “Stairway to Heaven,” the fans responded as though everything was well again, as though time had really stood still.

Three years later, the trio performed once more, this time at Atlantic Records' fortieth anniversary concert at Madison Square Garden, joined by Jason Bonham on drums. Jason prepared for the assignment seriously, listening endlessly to the band's albums, playing along with them, and even watching videos of their performances and studying his father's every nuance. The band rehearsed in London without Robert, who was out on tour in the States, but he joined them for a single rehearsal in New York.

At the Garden, the band didn't begin their thirty-minute set until 1 A.M. For more than an hour, Pagey was pacing backstage, second-guessing himself, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. However, despite the late hour, no one at the Garden had left his seat. From the first downbeat of “Kashmir” to the last remnants of “Stairway to Heaven,” the sellout crowd—some of whom had paid $1,000 a ticket—were on their feet cheering. Robert muffed a few lyrics, and Jimmy didn't seem quite at home during a solo. But overall even the band members themselves were satisfied. For thirty minutes, Led Zeppelin was back.

Bill Graham staged that show for Atlantic. He put aside the lingering hard feelings from the incident at the Oakland Coliseum in 1977 and recognized
that despite the star-studded bill, no one could follow Led Zeppelin. He canceled plans for a grand finale in which everyone in the show (Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Roberta Flack, Ben E. King, Phil Collins, Genesis, the Rascals) would join together to sing some of Atlantic's most memorable hits. Instead, Zeppelin closed out the evening. That was the way it should have been.

I talked to Jimmy just before that New York performance. “It's nerve-racking,” he said. “Everyone expects to see the Led Zeppelin that they knew when they went to our concerts. But we've all changed since then. We'll be playing some of the old songs, but it still won't be exactly the same. Everyone has evolved and, of course, it will never be the same without Bonzo. That's why the rumors about the band re-forming are just that—rumors.”

 

I've rebuilt my own life in recent years, while still staying active in the music business. Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne have become my close friends, and Sharon has given me the opportunity to work with a lot of her bands, including the London Quireboys, Lita Ford, and Ozzy himself. In 1990, Sharon asked me to serve as tour manager on the Quireboys' U.S. tour, which turned into a nine-month international tour encompassing 170 concerts in twenty-two countries. In a sense, it was a nostalgic experience for me, as the Quireboys demonstrated the same wonderful spirit and energy that I appreciated so much in the Led Zeppelin tours.

Life on the road, however, has changed in some ways. As these words are written, I have been sober for six years. It took me a long time to realize how drugs and alcohol had ruined so many lives and were taking a terrible toll on mine as well. Bonzo, of course, was the most crushing loss, and I still terribly miss his warm and gentle nature and his incredible zest for living.

Even after Bonham's death, I needed years of introspection to recognize the risks I was subjecting myself to and then some additional time to finally put aside the cocaine, the heroin, and the alcohol for good. I took my last drink on my fortieth birthday in 1986, and, with the help of sober friends, have remained sober and drug-free ever since.

Frankly, I enjoyed the Quireboys tour so much more because of my sobriety, which allowed me to truly appreciate some of the same cities and countries I had visited with Zeppelin, except this time was free of the obsession with drugs and alcohol. The Quireboys enjoyed a few drinks, but drugs weren't part of their lives. Like Zeppelin, they were never late for a concert and made the music their top priority.

As I told Jimmy back in 1988, “Things are so different today; back in the Zeppelin era, we'd all go out and get stoned; now, I'm an example to the young bands of what can happen when you let drugs and alcohol consume you.”

“You sure know both sides of it,” Jimmy said. And from my perspective today, sobriety makes a lot more sense.

 

Led Zeppelin has secured its place in rock history. Probably more than any other Zeppelin song, “Stairway to Heaven” is considered a classic, still one of the most requested songs on rock radio stations worldwide. In 1991, twenty years after that song was created around a log fireplace at Headley Grange, national magazines like
Esquire
celebrated and dissected it, treating it as one of the great songs of its time, a standard that meant as much to its generation as the works of George Gershwin and Cole Porter meant to theirs.

In 1990, Jimmy produced and Atlantic released a Led Zeppelin retrospective on compact disc—fifty-four tracks digitally remastered at Sterling Sound in New York.

When I listen to Zeppelin's recordings today, I find they have withstood the test of time. The quality and the passion that made Zeppelin the biggest act in rock music are still apparent. And judging by the sales of the CD, the public interest hasn't faded, either. Although ten years had passed since the band had last performed, sales of the new double-boxed CD have been phenomenal. There are fans in their thirties and forties who grew up with Led Zeppelin and who haven't lost their fervor for the band; there are others not much older than my own daughter, Claire, who are just beginning to buy records and who have an extraordinary curiosity about a band that contributed so much to popular culture.

I take a measure of pride in the role I played with the band. Early in 1992, I was in Europe with Claire, and we had dinner one night in London with Robert Plant, his daughter, and his son-in-law. As we were leaving the restaurant, Robert turned to Claire and asked, “Is Richard a good daddy to you?”

Claire smiled, nodded her head, and answered, “Yes.”

Robert glanced at me and then back at Claire. “He was my dad for many years, too,” he said.

That was the way Robert viewed my twelve years as Led Zeppelin's tour manager. Although we had our differences from time to time, Robert seemed to see me as something of a patriarch and a protector and hadn't lost his appreciation of the role I played for the band over the years.

Some rock observers have said that Led Zeppelin was ultimately devoured by its own excesses—the “sex, drugs, and rock and roll” that make up much of the music business. Looking back, Zeppelin may have been hedonistic. They may have wrecked hotels and flexed their power and charms with girls, and they may have gone right to the edge with their use and abuse of drugs. Nevertheless, they never allowed their offstage antics to overshadow their craftsmanship onstage and in the studio. They never lost sight of their fans
and the debt they owed them. In nearly three decades in the music business, I have never seen anyone else like Led Zeppelin. They were indisputably the greatest rock and roll band in the world.

Looking back, I don't have many regrets. Of course, the band and I misused drugs and paid an awful price for it; drugs were such an important part of the culture at that time, perhaps there was no way we could have avoided them.

The almost instantaneous fame may have been tough for the band to handle, too. Overnight, these young men in their early twenties were turned into international stars. Yes, it may have gone to their heads at times, and they were guilty of the excesses that can accompany fame. But never at the expense of their music.

To a man, the surviving members of Led Zeppelin are rightfully proud of what they accomplished. I don't think they would have done very much differently. The tragedies that befell them were largely out of their control. The band exemplified everything that could go right—and wrong—in the presence of enormous success. A lot of the fun disappeared once we became “big business.” The booze and the drugs became a desperate way to keep the fun alive and the boredom from becoming too oppressive. In the end, rather than keeping the fun alive, it destroyed so much of what was good about the band.

 

We all knew that Led Zeppelin would not go on forever. But none of us were ready for it to end, either. In a way, however, I suppose it hasn't ended at all. Whenever a fourteen-year-old goes into a music store and buys his or her first Zeppelin CD, the band is reborn all over again. In that sense, Led Zeppelin has a long way still to fly.