There was always something slightly forbidden about Led Zeppelin. They were darker than the other bands and they had a command of mystique. You didn’t see a slew of interviews with them; you barely saw any at all. They famously hated Rolling Stone. The rumour was that Jimmy Page and [Rolling Stone co-founder] Jann Wenner had tangled over a girl in London. The magazine trashed their first album. I had, however, interviewed Led Zeppelin for the Los Angeles Times. It was a kind of maiden voyage into the mainstream for the band, and two years later, as they were about to release their album Physical Graffiti, I was invited on the road with them by Danny Goldberg, the band’s publicist and an executive at the label they’d started, Swan Song.
The key to getting Zeppelin on the cover of Rolling Stone was always going to be Jimmy Page. I would interview the other members first, and if Page still refused, Robert Plant would be on the cover by himself. Surely that prospect would lure Page into the idea of a group shot. Or maybe he would scuttle the whole endeavour. That was possible too, perhaps probable.
Back in San Francisco, Rolling Stone editor Ben Fong-Torres approved of the idea and cheered me on with daily phone calls asking for progress reports. I was already nearing the end of the time I’d told my parents I would be away from home, and I was dodging most of my commitments at San Diego City College, where I was taking some classes. I had managed to talk my journalism teacher into counting my road trip with Zeppelin as a class credit.
After their shows, the band would return to the Ambassador hotel and regroup to go out clubbing in Chicago. Because it was known they were in town, and fans were on the prowl, Richard Cole, their mayhem-loving road manager, often slipped them into a gay bar just around the corner. It was a tradition that continued for much of the tour. Fans combing the streets looking for the band never realised they could find Jimmy Page and Robert Plant dancing together, unbothered, to a song by Gloria Gaynor or the Average White Band. I was always darting into bathrooms, making notes on little pieces of paper, often to the soundtrack of cocaine-sniffing patrons and sometimes sex on the other side of the stall door.
My interview with Plant happened as planned.
He was a music aficionado whose taste rivalled any rock critic or DJ. He can geek out over a Jefferson Airplane record from 20 years earlier, or play you a spectacularly obscure piece of world music you’ll never forget. Our chat about Zeppelin was frank and funny. Shutting off my cassette recorder, I was sure it was all going to work.
The shows began to roll by. In Indianapolis, Page was friendly but distant. Each show was topping the previous one as the band found their footing with the new material. Audiences only needed one listen to appreciate Ten Years Gone and, of course, Kashmir as they heard future band classics for the first time. By Greensboro, Page had started to ignore me. By the next night, he began to look right through me. He was now aware that everyone but him had spoken to me for a potential Rolling Stone piece. Time was running out on all fronts. Back home, my parents were beyond flummoxed by the delays. I had been on the road with Led Zeppelin for over 10 days.
Somewhere over Kansas, as we flew in their plane, dubbed the Starship, I took my shot and approached Page directly.
“Why should I?” he countered instantly. Page was not only the band’s founder, he was the foremost authority on how the band should sound and be presented. Mystique and respect were not just words to him, they were essentials. “When I needed the magazine, they gave us a terrible review.” He repeated a few of the adjectives from the scalding review. “Now they need me, and I don’t need them. Why should I? For Jann Wenner? Never.”
“I’m not Jann Wenner,” I continued. “I believe in the band. Let me tell the whole story for the fans.” The more I explained the plan, the more I looked like a traitor to him. But he was still listening, so I kept talking. And when he made himself some cereal, I followed him as he sat down and kept talking.
“This is your chance to speak directly to the fans, and I will not let the magazine touch a word.” I foolishly kept talking. “And as far as the bad reviews go, all I can tell you is that if I bought records according to what Rolling Stone gave good reviews to, I’d have the worst record collection of anybody I know.”
This Page liked. He laughed sharply, appreciatively.
“Well if Joe Walsh trusts you,” he said of the Eagles’ guitarist, singer and songwriter, “then I should too.” I wasn’t sure I was hearing correctly. “We’ll do the interview in New York,” he said. He turned away and I caught a glimpse of mischief. I wasn’t sure if I had gained an almost unthinkable victory or was about to become the butt of an elaborate joke.
The interview was planned for later that night. I rode the elevator up to Page’s room, tape recorder in hand. He opened the door, wearing his stage clothes, loose black satin trousers and a black cowboy shirt of the same material. He looked like a rumpled schoolboy as he led me into the rambling three-room suite that seemed built for a Fellini film. In the middle of the main room was a film projector. “Kenneth Anger’s coming by to show me his film,” he said, “but let’s start.”
Page suggested we first listen to one of my cassettes. It was a rare interview with Joni Mitchell, one of his favourite artists. The recording was a wonderful conversation with Mitchell’s friend, the Toronto journalist Malka Marom. We were interrupted by the arrival of Anger, who’d brought the latest cut of Lucifer Rising. He’d asked Page to provide the film score. This would be the first time Page watched the film with his music attached. I sat next to Anger, the well-known occultist and author of Hollywood Babylon, as he projected his movie against the wall of Page’s hotel suite. I was now officially a long way from taking communion at Catholic school.
After Anger left, we returned to the Joni Mitchell tape. We listened until two in the morning and then began the interview. Gone was all of Page’s animosity for the magazine, and for Wenner. He spilled forth details about his childhood – never shared before – and about how he felt about Plant and the tour and the band and himself. He told me that he’d never felt that he’d live past 30. But here he was, two years past his imagined expiration date, alive and thoughtful and lonely in New York City. He mused about traveling back to Los Angeles the next day, for a night, to see a girl he missed. He ended the conversation memorably and poetically, telling me, “I’m just looking for an angel with a broken wing … ” When the powerful conversation was over, he asked if he could borrow the Joni Mitchell tape. I never saw that tape again.
The article was rushed into print and the issue would be one of Rolling Stone’s biggest ever. A couple of weeks later, a box from Fong-Torres arrived. It was filled with letters to the magazine. Zeppelin fans had written from all parts of the globe. The letters were overwhelmingly filled with fantasies, questions, stories, and thank-yous for the interview. Rolling Stone had finally placed a bet on Led Zeppelin, late as they were, and the response had been a whole lotta love.
