Stairway To Heaven Read online

  STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

  Led Zeppelin UNCENSORED

  RICHARD COLE with RICHARD TRUBO

  To Claire and Daylen,

  best wishes on your wedding

  and for the happiest of

  lives together in the years ahead.

  —RC

  To Donna, Melissa, and Mike…

  years ago, when I would dream about a

  family, you were exactly what I had in

  mind.

  —RT

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION: THE ROCK REVOLUTION

  1 CRASH LANDING

  2 THE DOWNFALL

  3 ROBERT

  4 BONZO

  5 JOHN PAUL

  6 JIMMY

  7 PRESIDING OVER A ROCK FUNERAL

  8 A NEW START

  9 WELCOME TO AMERICA

  10 LIFE ON THE ROAD

  11 BACK TO REALITY

  12 LED WALLET

  13 A TASTE OF DECADENCE

  14 FAST TRACK

  15 FISH STORIES

  16 GREAT DANE

  17 PHANTOM PERFORMANCE

  18 “NAME YOUR PRICE”

  19 “THOSE ZEPPELIN BASTARDS”

  20 HANDCUFFS

  21 FRIENDS

  22 THE WATER BUG

  23 BACKSLIDING

  24 “STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN”

  25 NOSE JOB

  26 SMALL TIME

  27 “DICK SHOTS”

  28 EASTERN ANTICS

  29 GOING DOWN UNDER

  30 BEDROOM PLAY-BY-PLAY

  31 RISKY BUSINESS

  32 HEROIN

  33 HOUSES OF THE HOLY

  34 “IT DOESN’T GET ANY BETTER”

  35 GAY BARS AND DUDE RANCHES

  36 CALIFORNIA BOUND

  37 THE STARSHIP

  38 THE ROBBERY

  39 PUT ’EM IN THE MOVIES

  40 “HORS D’OEUVRES, ANYONE?”

  41 THE KING

  42 CLAPTON

  43 ZEPPELIN REVISITED

  44 DANCING DAYS

  45 THE LEGENDS

  46 TAXED OUT OF ENGLAND

  47 THE NIGHTMARE ON RHODES

  48 THE LONG ROAD HOME

  49 THE JINX

  50 DESPONDENCY

  51 THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  52 THE SÉANCE

  53 LAST LEG

  54 MOURNING

  55 COMING BACK

  56 BONZO

  57 GOOD TIMES, BAD TIMES

  AFTERWORD

  LED ZEPPELIN DISCOGRAPHY

  SEARCHABLE TERMS

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people have played important roles in helping me reach the point of writing this book.

  Thanks to my mother and father, who gave me love and steered me in the right direction; to Jenny Carson for Ibiza in the summer of 1984; and to Dr. Brian Wells, Mickey Bush, and Andrew Lane, who shared their experience, strength, and hope with me.

  I am also appreciative of Richard Trubo for his writing talent and perseverance; Tom Miller and Jim Hornfischer, our original editors at HarperCollins, plus Josh Behar and April Benavides, who have guided us in creating this new edition; Jane Dystel, my agent, and her partner, Miriam Goderich; Skip Chernov for his encouragement and faith in the book; and Bernie Rhodes and Roger “Snake” Kline, as well as Toni Young and Carol Arnold, who helped with the transcripts. Taylor and his fine publication, Zoso, proved to be an excellent resource of Led Zeppelin history; and Allison Caine planted the seed for the afterword in this edition.

  Thanks go to business manager Bill McKenzie and Debbie Mathews; my lawyer, Michael Hecker; Eric Wasserman; Michelle Anthony; publicist Laura Kaufman; and Black Sabbath. Thanks also to Sharon and Ozzy Osbourne for all their help, kindness, and opportunities over the years—and to the London Quireboys and Lita Ford as well. Appreciation also goes to Lisa Robinson, and to Tony, Mario, Michael, Mo, Miguel, and Steady at the Rainbow Bar and Grill in West Hollywood.

  For their love and friendship, special mention to Tony Roman, Leslie St. Nicholas, Judy Wong, Jenny Fernando, Geoffrey Sensier, Marilyn Cole, Marguerite DeBenedict, Marty Brenner, David George, Ian Peacock, my computer angel and friend Julia Negron, and my oldest friend Percy Raines-Moore.

  I appreciated the assistance and camaraderie of Led Zeppelin’s road crew over the years: Kenny Pickett, Clive Coulson, Joe “Jammer” Wright, Mick Hinton, Ray Thomas, Sandy McGregor, Briane Condliffe, Andy Leadbetter, Manfred Lurch, Henry “The Horse” Smith, Perry, Cracky, and Pepe. Our sound engineers were Rusty Brutsche, David “Cyrano” Langston, and Benji Le Fevre. Ian “Iggy” Knight oversaw production, and Kirby Wyatt and Ted Tittle handled lighting.

  Assistants to the band included Dennis Sheehan, Rick Hobbs, Johnny Larke, Rex King, John Bindon, Mitchell Fox, Dave Northover, Brian Gallivan, and Ray Washburn (Peter Grant’s assistant). Our office staff consisted of Liz Gardner, Carol Browne, Cynthia Sacks, and Unity MacLaine in the U.K., and Shelley Kaye, Genine Saffer, and Sam Azar in the U.S. Steven H. Weiss was our attorney.

  The band’s security staff included Patsy Collins, Wes Pommeroy, Captain Bob DeForest, Bill and Jack Dautrich, Johnny Czar, Fat Fred, Don Murfett, Gerry Slater, Jim Callaghan, Paddy the Plank, Alf Weaver, Joe Tuths, Willie Vaccar, Gregg Beppler, Steve Rosenberg, Jack Kelly, Lou McClery, George Dewitt, and Bill Webber.

  Since the original printing of this book, some friends who worked with me and Led Zeppelin have passed away, and it seems fitting for them to be remembered here (some were mentioned above). They include Peter Grant (Zeppelin’s manager); concert promoters Tom Hulett and Phil Basile; lighting designer Kirby Wyatt; assistant John Bindon and security man Johnny Czar; and road crew members Raymond Thomas and Kenny Pickett; as well as my oldest friend, songwriter Lionel Bart; journalist Alan McDougal; my wonderful friend Nicky Bell, who made me feel part of his life and community by inviting me to his one-year-sober party when I was just a few months sober myself, and who tragically died of AIDS from IV drug use; and writer Stuart Werbin (who courageously helped me in my time of need, even when he was very sick himself). Also, my dear friend and neighbor Gloria Scott (a great inspiration who helped so many people get clean and sober). Last in this list, but certainly not least, is my dear mother, who was always there for her little devil of a son.

  In this new edition, I’d like to thank a few others, including some who, in recent years, have helped me get work or employed me, including Bob Timmins, Jack Carson, and Tony Morehead. Thanks also go to Black Uhuru and Kyso, along with managers Nita Scott and Terry Rindal, and, of course, Valerie and Bruce. Charlie Hernandez, Nick Cua, Blaine Brinton, and Rhian Gittins are Ozzfest 2001 staff who were a great help to me, and old friends Bobby Thompson, Tony Dennis, and Michael Guarracino. Ron Geer, my Ozzfest bus driver, was a fantastic help.

  Special mention also goes to Michael Lewis, Gary Quinn, and Peter Rafelson, my comanagers of Fem 2 Fem; the lovely Julie Ann, Christina, Lynn, Michelle, Lezlee, Alitzah, and LaLa, as well as Carl Strube and Gerry Brenner of Critique Records (who signed Fem 2 Fem), and Michael White for producing the Musical Voyeurz at the White Hall Theatre in London. I’m also appreciative of my friend and writing inspiration, Julia Cameron, whose book, The Artist’s Way, got me back to writing. Also, many thanks go to my hairdressers, Sacha and Aaron Quarles.

  I must also thank Danny Goldberg and David Silver for their support and encouragement; and Ed Gerrard, Daniel Markus, and Peter Himberger for hiring me to work with the Gipsy Kings (along with Pascal Imbert), and Sparky Neilson, the production manager. I am grateful for the wonderful time I had working with Olu Dara and the Okra Orchestra, Fu Manchu and Dan De
Vita, along with crew Curly and Woody, and of course, Paul Rodgers and my present employers QPrime management and Crazy Town, especially Peter Mensch, H.M. Wollman, Tony DiCioccio and Randi of QPrime NY and Michelle and Erica of QPrime West, who’ve been invaluable in setting things up. Thanks also to Howard Wuelfing, Todd Horn, and Lee Ganz of Columbia Records New York and Stephanie Igunbor and Stephan Lange of Sony Europe for their help in guiding us smoothly through Europe. Much appreciation also for the Crazy Town road crew—Chris Warndahl, Skip Payatt, Jeff Chase, and Craig Underwood—along with band assistant Boom Boom Kaluna and crew bus driver Ted Foltman. Thanks also to Crazy Town travel agent Jason Ashbury of Lindon Travel in New York, and Julie Zemil of Uniworld Travel in Los Angeles.

  Most of all, thanks to Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Paul Jones, John Bonham, and Peter Grant for the opportunity to work with the greatest rock and roll band of all time.

  This book has been inspired in large part by the loving memory of John Henry Bonham. Bonham was a dear friend and the most talented drummer that rock music has ever seen.

  —Richard Cole

  Numerous people contributed to the research, organization, writing of and inspiration for this book, but several of them deserve special mention.

  Richard Cole, of course, is foremost among them. He submitted to seemingly endless work sessions, dug up facts, went back to original sources—including his own astounding memory—and allowed the entire project to come together in a timely fashion.

  Tom Miller and Jim Hornfischer, editors at HarperCollins, jumped into the manuscript with sharp pencils and even sharper suggestions. Josh Behar and April Benavides at HarperCollins were very helpful in preparing and editing this new edition of Stairway to Heaven.

  My agent, Jane Dystel of Jane Dystel Literary Management, introduced me to Richard Cole. Throughout the duration of the research and writing, Jane provided constant encouragement and insightful input.

  Finally, thanks to my parents, Bill and Ida, who have always believed in me; and to Donna, Melissa, and Mike for their love, affection, and support.

  —Richard Trubo

  INTRODUCTION:

  THE ROCK REVOLUTION

  On New Year’s Day, 1962, when the Beatles walked into Decca’s West Hampstead Studio Number Three on Broadhurst Gardens, rock music was forever changed. By the time they had finished recording an audition tape—with Paul McCartney crooning “Till There Was You” and John Lennon warbling “To Know Him Is to Love Him”—the Beatles had climbed aboard a musical fast track that literally revolutionized the cultural and social fabric stretching from Abbey Road to Hollywood and Vine.

  Hundreds of British bands followed in the Beatles’ wake. The Dave Clark Five. Herman’s Hermits. The Rolling Stones. Finally, by the end of the sixties, the raw, back-breaking music of Led Zeppelin elevated the rock revolution to an absolutely manic pitch.

  Before the dawning of the Zeppelin era, I had worked as tour manager with nearly a dozen other rock bands, helping to cultivate their talents, attend to their eccentricities, and nurse their egos. It was hard, often stressful work, but never boring. At times, I became exhausted; more often, I felt exhilarated. From the Who to Unit 4 + 2…from the New Vaudeville Band to the Yardbirds…they were my boot camp that prepared me for my twelve-year tour of duty with Zeppelin.

  I had grown up in Kensal Rise, a working-class neighborhood light years removed from Zeppelin’s recording sessions at Headley Grange or the prestigious stage of Royal Albert Hall. My father was a metal architect who, just before World War II, helped build the elaborate doors on the Bank of England. He then went to work for Rolls-Royce making cars, and when the war began, he moved to the assembly line that manufactured aircraft. He could work miracles with his hands, but he was also much more of a scholar than I ever was, reading history just for the joy of it. While he reveled in stories about Gladstone and Disraeli, I was more interested in Presley and the Everlys. While I wanted to spend time in record stores, he took me to the British Museum and to the halls of Parliament.

  My parents finally accepted where my real interests lay, and they bought me a record player when I was thirteen. Immediately, I began building a library of 45s by artists like Elvis, Ricky Nelson, Buddy Holly, and Chuck Berry. A few British singers captured my interest, too—Lonnie Donegan had several contagious tunes like “Rock Island Line”—but no one in England was quite as daring or provoked quite as much youthful hysteria as Little Richard when he sang “Good Golly, Miss Molly (She Sure Likes to Ball).”

  Although I did reasonably well in school—particularly in subjects that I liked—education had never been a passport to success in my neighborhood. In fact, at age fifteen, as the new school term started, the headmaster suggested I might be better off going to work. As I soon discovered, however, the real world was hardly glamorous, at least not for a teenager with minimal skills. My first job was welding milk churns at a dairy supply company in Acton in Northwest London. It was hard, often dreary work, and it wasn’t making me rich: For a forty-six-hour week, I earned just a little over three pounds, or about ten dollars.

  All the while, however, my interest in rock music flourished. Songs like Roy Orbison’s “Cryin’” and the Tokens’ “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” got my adrenaline flowing and, for a time, even made me think that perhaps I could make a living as a musician. I finally bought myself an old drum set, hoping that I could unearth some latent musical talents.

  Like millions of other teenagers, I developed a rich fantasy life. I could picture myself sprinting onto a stage, perching myself behind a kit of drums, and performing to the cheers of thousands of screaming fans, returning to the stage for encore after encore. It was a vision I replayed in my mind, again and again. Unfortunately, my talent was no match for those dreams. Much to my chagrin, after just a few hours of banging skins and crashing cymbals, I realized that Gene Krupa and Buddy Rich had no need to worry. Years later, neither would John Bonham.

  With some apprehension, I began looking for a job with a future, which was a challenge for a kid from the wrong side of London. I jumped from one occupation to another, first delivering groceries, then working as an apprentice sheet-metal worker, and finally a carpenter. By age eighteen, I had gotten a job on the scaffold seven days a week—hard, dirty work that often involved the demolition of old buildings, mostly in Wembley and West End of London. The pay: Thirty pounds a week.

  Eventually, it was my lust for club life that opened the doors to the music business. Beginning in 1962, I started hanging out at dance clubs in the West End, which were a crowded Mardi Gras of music and delicious-looking girls. Six nights a week, I binged and boozed from the State Ballroom to Saint Mary’s Hall, from the 100 Club to the Marquee. It was wonderful just to be part of the action.

  The early sixties were an exciting time when hundreds of rock and roll bands were descending upon London from throughout England, when the Rolling Stones and the Who still traveled in minivans and often played almost unnoticed for a handful of pound notes a night, and when Led Zeppelin was not even a figment of someone’s imagination. In those days, from the outside looking in, I thought the rock music world looked incredibly glamorous, and I felt a bit of jealousy from my vantage point on the periphery. The young, aspiring musicians who would eventually evolve into bands like Zeppelin would crowd into the London clubs in those days, looking for a piece of the action, salivating at the chance to realize their own dreams, and aching to make connections that might turn them into the next Rock Superstars.

  I routinely overdosed on this nightlife, never growing weary of the partying, the alcohol and drugs, the loud music, the easy girls. I also became absorbed in the youthful trends of the style-conscious young men of the times—some called Mods, others Rockers—who became as much a part of the London scene as Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey. We were kids from poor neighborhoods, most from the East End, others from South London. When the media were in a kind mood, they called us “trendsetters”; more often, we were “
hoodlums” or “troublemakers,” “malcontents” or “provocateurs.” No matter what was written, the emotions running through this movement were universal: We were bursting with anger, furious about our economic circumstances. If you were to gather together a group of Mods or a group of Rockers, the energy created by their rage could have blown the Clock Tower off the Houses of Parliament.

  As a way of setting ourselves apart from mainstream society, we conformed to particular types of fashions and aggressive, renegade attitudes and behavior. The Rockers were an outgrowth of the teddy boy hoods of the fifties. They were jeans and leather jackets and saw themselves as Brando-like nomads on their motorcycles. Their rivals, the Mods, had shorter hair and were impeccably dressed, with clothes custom-made at Carnaby Street shops, where a mass-produced, tailor-made pair of flared trousers cost about four pounds, and Fred Perry knit shirts became the “only” brand to wear.

  I embraced the Mod look and lifestyle, one of thousands of Mods saturating the English landscape. We felt as if we were on the cutting edge of a social revolution, like we were Somebody. In Britain’s class system, we may have been “have-nots,” the forgotten generation, even outcasts, but together, we believed we were VIPs. We’d flex our rebellious muscles, sometimes impressing, sometimes intimidating others. We’d live for the moment, spending whatever money we had and ridiculing our parents’ warnings to “save for a rainy day.” And when my friends would say, “All I want to do is get drunk and have fun,” I couldn’t think of any better way to spend the night.

  Neither the Mods nor the Rockers ever shied away from violence. The worst of it erupted at seaside resorts like Clacton, often on bank holidays or during Easter weekends. There really weren’t any good reasons for those ugly confrontations; the violence was an end in itself, a chance to vent our frustrations and let off some steam. On one July night, we arrived in Clacton knowing the Rockers would be waiting for us, and we were equipped to fight with more than our fists. Our arsenal of weapons, in fact, might have made General Montgomery envious, with armor ranging from knives to pickaxes. The Rockers and the Mods congregated on opposite sides of the street, shouting epithets and then finally approaching one another. There were a few isolated confrontations here and there, and then a full-fledged brawl exploded in the middle of the street over the length of a block. For twenty minutes, it was absolute chaos. Brass knuckles connected with chins. Knives cut into skin. Blood splattered on the pavement. There were wails of anger and screams of pain.