How much did you say?”
“You heard me, Cole. They offered us one million dollars!”
“And you turned it down?”
“It just wasn’t right. It would have been a mistake.”
Peter Grant was explaining why he had rejected one of the dozens of concert offers that had poured into the Led Zeppelin office. Because of the enormous record sales of Led Zeppelin II, a lot of promoters virtually said, “Name your price.” They wanted the band that bad.
One of the most tempting offers had come from a group of American promoters, who proposed staging a Zeppelin concert in West Germany on New Year’s Eve, using a satellite transmission to beam the performance into movie theaters throughout the U.S. and Europe.
“We’ll pay the band half a million dollars,” the promoters said in their initial offer. “That should start off your nineteen seventy with a bang!”
Not a big enough bang for Peter, even if it was a phenomenal sum for one night’s work. Like Jimmy, Peter was a perfectionist. And the thought of subjecting his band to the satellite transmission made him shudder.
“I’ve heard the sound quality on those closed-circuit transmissions,” he told the American businessmen. “I’ve never been impressed. It’s just not up to our standards.”
Initially, the Americans figured he was kidding. After all, for $500,000, perhaps a band could be convinced to put up with a little static or a bit more treble than they’d like. But the more they talked to Peter, the more they realized that he was serious.
“Television just isn’t the best medium for a band that’s conscientious about quality,” Peter said. “That’s why this band has never done TV. When you’re talking about a satellite transmission over thousands of miles, it can’t be very good.”
The Americans apparently still believed that if the price were right, Peter might change his mind. They called back two days later. They raised their offer to $1 million!
Peter never hesitated. “The answer is still no,” he told them. “You can raise the fee as high as you like. I’m not going to change my mind. Quality is still paramount to this band.”
I had a tremendous amount of respect for Peter for making decisions like that. After all, $1 million was more money that any rock band had ever made on a single night. But he wasn’t going to budge from his own artistic principles.
I also think Peter enjoyed hearing the shocked reactions of the Americans when he matter-of-factly rejected their offer, as though $1 million wasn’t a significant amount of money. The egos of everyone in the organization were growing—perhaps overgrowing—and by turning down a $1 million offer, that’s one way of telling the world just how big and important you are.
Still, the driving force behind his decision was an unwavering set of principles about the quality of the band’s music. “There’s more to life than money,” he once told me. He knew that other opportunities would present themselves under terms he could live with. So on New Year’s Eve, we stayed home.
Nevertheless, Led Zeppelin did its celebrating a few days later. On January 9, we eagerly anticipated the band’s performance that night at Royal Albert Hall. “England finally belongs to us,” Bonzo said. “After tonight, there’s not going to be any doubt in anyone’s mind.”
It was also Jimmy Page’s twenty-sixth birthday. As the crowd gathered at Royal Albert Hall, some arriving four to five hours before show time, many carried signs wishing Pagey a happy birthday. Others were more generic: “We love you, Jimmy”…“Zeppelin Forever.”
Robert was feeling on top of the world. The extraordinary record sales were abstractions in his mind; it was hard to relate to sales figures in six and even seven figures. But when he could look out on an audience, stare into individual faces, and bring them to an orgasmic pitch within minutes, numbers became meaningless. We knew that the critics were wrong. If the press didn’t like Led Zeppelin, it was their problem. Yes, those negative reviews—which still outnumbered the positive ones—angered Robert. But he knew that this band touched people’s lives. He witnessed it from a vantage point that no one else had.
Royal Albert Hall was the third stop on a short, seven-concert tour of the U.K. And the band held nothing back. They planned a two-hour set, but it ran at least thirty minutes longer than that. They had added songs like “Since I’ve Been Loving You” and “Thank You” to the act, but more than that, the audience reaction was so overwhelming that the band spontaneously changed the show several times in midstream. During “Bring It on Home,” Pagey and Bonham began dueling one another with their respective instruments—first one, then the other, in a stirring showdown that no one, neither the band nor the audience, wanted to end. The applause was so strong for some songs that even as the band would begin to wind them down, the crowd reaction inspired them to extend them even further. For instance, as they were drawing “How Many More Times” to a close, the audience hysteria became so intense that the band couldn’t move on to its next number, “The Lemon Song.” So instead, they began another riff of “How Many More Times” and carried on with it for another eight minutes.
There were moments of irony, too. As popular as the original Zeppelin material was, the music that really brought down the house was a medley of old rock ’n’ roll songs, including “Long Tall Sally,” and “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Going On.”
Roger Daltrey was backstage with a drink in his hand, watching the show with an astonished look on his face. “I know why no one wants to play with these guys,” he said at one point. “They’re just too good.”
Daltrey was accompanied by his girlfriend, Heather, who had brought Jimmy a rather unique birthday present—a beautiful, successful French model named Charlotte Martin. Heather was convinced that Jimmy and Charlotte would hit it off.
I had met Charlotte in the south of France in 1966 and run into her again two years later when she was dating Eric Clapton. Charlotte was the type of girl who you couldn’t look at just once. Tall. Thin. Blond. Perfect features. You had to glance a second time.
But I also knew a different side of Charlotte. At least in her relationship with me, she was aloof, unfriendly, and indifferent. It was my feeling that unless she really liked you, she had a “take it or leave it” attitude. Frankly, I wasn’t impressed.
Nevertheless, Jimmy and Charlotte instantly became an item. After the concert that evening, Jimmy chatted with her for several minutes and then took me aside. “Can you drive Charlotte and me to her apartment? It’s not that far out of your way.” I gave them a ride, and that was the beginning of a relationship that continued for years.
During that entire time, Charlotte and I never really got along. She continued to act coolly toward me, as though we hadn’t known one another from those days in France. Eventually, however, I guess she realized that I was a permanent fixture with Led Zeppelin, and she seemed to have decided that if she was going to spend time with Jimmy, she’d have to be reasonably pleasant with me, too. So our relationship became a polite one. Even so, I never found her easy to be around.
It often became a nightmare when Charlotte traveled with the band. Unlike the wives of the other band members—Maureen Plant, Pat Bonham, and Mo Jones—who were always very cooperative, Charlotte created constant problems for me, which only magnified the friction between us. As tour manager, one of my responsibilities was to oversee the band’s safety, and when the wives and girlfriends attended concerts, that meant watching over eight people, not just four.
Still, I tried to keep things running as smoothly as possible. When the band went on for its encores, I would tell the girls, “Move into the limos; we’re going to be departing soon.” They all followed my directions—except Charlotte.
“I want to stay and watch until the show’s over,” Charlotte would complain.
“Like hell you will!” I’d shout at her.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” she’d yell back.
“You bet I fucking can! Get the hell into the limo!”
Eventually, she’d cooperate, but not until we were at each other’s throats.
Back in London, I was delighted to hear that Charlotte wouldn’t be part of the traveling entourage on a European tour scheduled to begin in late February, with stops in Copenhagen, Helsinki, Stockholm, Amsterdam, Cologne, Vienna, Hamburg, and Montreux. During that seven-country European tour, I had arranged for a five-ton truck to travel with us. Not only would we need it to transport Led Zeppelin’s equipment from one city to the next, but I sensed that the band would be accumulating new belongings along the way. That’s what new money does for you.
I hired a fellow named Manfred Lurch as one of our truck drivers; he could speak several languages, and I figured he could converse with customs officials just about anywhere. As expected, both Manfred and the truck proved indispensable. We loaded up the truck with the spoils of a dozen shopping sprees, cramming the vehicle with blues albums, Ernst Fuchs paintings, Escher lithographs, and pieces of furniture.
Nevertheless, the best planning couldn’t anticipate what we encountered in Copenhagen during that tour. It should have been a positive, even sentimental performance. After all, seventeen months earlier, Copenhagen was the site of the first Zeppelin concert ever. In fact, when we touched down at the airport at Kastrup on February 19, we all felt excitement and anticipation. “This is where it all started,” Jimmy Page said. “It’s almost like coming home.”
But rather than making a trumphant return, the band suddenly found itself in the middle of a bizarre controversy with one of Europe’s more famous families. Eva von Zeppelin didn’t want the band using “my family’s name this way.” And overnight, Led Zeppelin’s music was over-shadowed by some highly publicized offstage hassles.
“Let this be a warning that these people who claim to be musicians had better not use the name Zeppelin and play their trashy music in Denmark,” Eva von Zeppelin announced to the press. “If they do, I will see them in court.”
Von Zeppelin wasn’t kidding. She said she was a direct descendant of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin, the aeronautical legend. Around the turn of the century, Count Ferdinand had pioneered the lighter-than-air vehicles that eventually carried his name. And Eva wasn’t going to let a band that had “stolen” the name Zeppelin play in Denmark without a fight.
The band was incensed by her statements to the press. At this point in their careers, Led Zeppelin was feeling pretty important themselves and weren’t used to having people make outrageous demands of them. “Who in the hell is Eva von Zeppelin anyway?” Robert Plant said. “No one’s ever heard of that woman! A hell of a lot more people have heard of us!”
Maybe so. But Eva was making ridiculous public proclamations in which she labeled Led Zeppelin as a bunch of “screaming monkeys.” As the rhetoric escalated, Jimmy realized the band would have to do something to control the damage.
“Let’s invite her to meet with us,” said Jimmy. “Maybe she’ll realize that we’re not raving maniacs after all.”
In fact, Eva agreed to sit down and talk with the “screaming monkeys” at a rehearsal studio in Copenhagen, the day before our scheduled concert. Before Eva arrived, Peter told the rest of us, “Let’s keep our cool and try not to offend her any more than she already is. Maybe we can smooth-talk her into forgetting about this whole thing.”
In fact, the meeting was relatively pleasant. “We’re not doing anything to defame your family name,” Jimmy pleaded. “We’re just playing music, and it’s music that millions of people enjoy.”
All the while, Eva insisted, “All I’m trying to do is protect my family’s reputation!”
“Millions of people know us by the name Led Zeppelin,” Jimmy said. “And I don’t think any of them think it’s offensive to your family.”
The meeting ended in a stalemate. But the band felt they had softened the old lady’s heart. The fireworks weren’t over, however. As Eva was leaving the studio, her eyes became transfixed on a copy of the album jacket for Led Zeppelin—the one with the dirigible plunging into the ground in a horrifying inferno.
Eva von Zeppelin gasped. Her fury erupted all over again. There were epithets bouncing off the walls. There were reckless threats of imminent subpoenas. Eva finally stormed out of the studio.
Peter was exasperated. He didn’t know quite what to do, but he knew that he had no interest in ending up in court. “This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard of,” he said. “But that woman is angry enough to sue us.” For the moment, he put egos aside and said, “Here’s my recommendation. Let’s go onstage tomorrow night under another name.”
At first, the band resisted. “Let her change her damn name,” Bonzo exclaimed. “We have just as much right to it as she does.”
Before long, however, Peter won the band over to his side. He usually did. During that Copenhagen concert, Led Zeppelin performed as the Nobs—in some London circles, a slang term for the male sex organ! Fortunately, Eva von Zeppelin did not claim exclusive rights to that, too.
Immediately after the Copenhagen concert, the band was still seething. “Why did we give in anyway?” Robert asked as he grabbed a towel backstage and moved quickly toward the limo. “What gives her the right?”
“It’s over, Percy,” I told him. “Forget about it. Let’s find something else to occupy our minds.”
The driver of our limo that night was a friendly chap named Jann. “Would you like to see some of the sights of Copenhagen?” he asked. “How about Christiansborg Castle? Or the Stroget Mall?”
After the forty-eight hours we had just lived through, we weren’t interested in the typical tourist spots. Tivoli Gardens and the Little Mermaid statue could wait. As the night wore close to midnight, we had women on our minds.
“I’ll tell you what we’d like,” I said to Jann. “We’d like to see Copenhagen’s sex clubs!”
Jann suddenly became very quiet. “The sex clubs?” he mumbled in a disbelieving voice. He turned to glance at his passengers—Jimmy, Robert, John Paul, Bonzo, Peter, and me. We didn’t exactly look like members of the British Royal Family. The expression on Jann’s face screamed, “How did I ever get stuck with these six clowns?”
We drove for another ten minutes, and Jann pulled up in front of one of the city’s most popular sex clubs. “Here it is,” he said. I figured we’d have to scoot out of the limo quickly, and that Jann would speed away, embarrassed to be seen in that neighborhood. But suddenly, he became a different person.
“I’ll take you inside,” Jann said. “The manager’s a friend of mine. I’ll let him know that you’re my special guests!”
Special guests! I guess Jann wasn’t a prudish altar boy after all.
“Enjoy the show!” the manager told us. “Just remember, no audience participation.”
We walked into a dimly lit room, almost stumbling over one another until our eyes adjusted to the darkness. “Am I seeing things,” wisecracked Jimmy, “or are we almost the only ones in here with our clothes on?”
For the next two hours, the show took our minds off Eva von Zeppelin. There were plenty of girls, at least a couple dozen, and most of them were absolutely beautiful. A few were serving drinks; most were part of the performance—and they weren’t performing Shakespeare. We sat just a few feet from the stage, when one of the naked girls began playing with herself in front of us. Bumping. Grinding. Moaning. Groaning.
“I think I’m in love,” Bonham sighed.
“I think she is, too,” Plant said. “Too bad it’s with herself.”
Within minutes, the girl was joined by a friend, and the two of them began making love in front of us. Before long, they were joined by a third girl. And then a fourth. And then a vibrator or two. They were like one big happy family.
“Pardon me,” Bonham yelled at them. “Do you girls really get paid for this? I’d do it for free! I really would!”
Bonham moved toward the stage, grabbed a vibrator from one of the girls, and fumbled with it for a few moments until he had removed its batteries. Then he returned it to her.
“You gals have gotta work for your pay,” he shouted over the loud music. “Don’t let modern technology do everything for you!”
Most of the other male customers were on the timid side and seemed stunned by our rowdiness.
“One of these girls is my sister,” Bonham told a startled patron. “Mom asked me to come down and make sure she’s not getting into any trouble.”
We had never run into anything quite like this in London. We stayed another hour, and it was more of the same—the kind of raunchy sex that’s a lot more fun to do than to watch, but we certainly weren’t complaining. As we rode back to our hotel, Robert said, “Next time we’re in Copenhagen, Richard, make sure this is part of our itinerary.”
Four months later, just before we returned to Denmark, I called the same sex club. “We want to reserve the club just for ourselves on Saturday night,” I said. “Let me know how much money you take in on a typical Saturday night, and we’ll give you the cash to cover it.”
So on that second visit to the club, it was just us and the girls. It sounded like a perfect arrangement—but it wasn’t nearly as much fun as the first time we had been there. Maybe it was because we had already seen the show once before. Or perhaps it was because we occasionally staged shows like this in our own hotel rooms—where audience participation was allowed! Also, since we were the only customers in the club, there weren’t other people around to shock with our behavior. Whether at Carnegie Hall or a Copenhagen sex club, we liked being the center of attention. But there were competing interests at the sex clubs.
During that February 1970 stop in Copenhagen, our fascination with the sex clubs didn’t mean that we had no other interests. In fact, we spent a lot of time in art galleries, too. Jimmy in particular was looking for some works of art to buy, although we found other ways to occupy our time there, too.
At Peter’s suggestion, we had agreed to hold a press reception in a gallery adjacent to the Stroget. Reporters, critics, and music company executives crammed into the gallery, and there were plenty of hors d’oeuvres and champagne to keep them happy. At one point, a music critic cornered Bonham and me and began pontificating about one subject after another, none of which interested us. “Once a rock group achieves commercial success, I believe that they lose something,” he babbled. “Maybe it’s their hunger that gives intensity to their music. You guys have to watch out for that. I’d hate to see it happen to you.”
Then his attention shifted to the pop art painting in front of us. He began analyzing it, placing even more of a strain on our patience. “It reminds me so much of Lichtenstein and perhaps a touch of Rauschenberg, too,” he said. “I find it so moving…so moving.”
Bonzo turned to me and whispered, “What fucking bullshit!”
“When I look at it,” the critic continued, “I see such a strong statement against abstract expressionism.”
Bonzo finally lost his cool.
“Do you want to know what I think of this painting?” Bonzo roared.
“Of course, I’d love to know,” the critic said timidly.
Bonzo walked toward the painting, lifted it off the wall, and screamed, “This is what I think of it!”
He raised the painting over his head and snapped it downward, crashing it onto the head of the critic. The frame cracked. The canvas ripped down the middle. The critic was knocked to the ground. He grabbed his head, moaning in pain.
The stunned crowd became silent.
“Are there any other paintings you’d like me to critique tonight?!” Bonzo exclaimed as he walked toward the door.
The rest of us thought it was a perfect time to exit as well. We left Peter behind to try to mend fences. Before we had left town, we got a $5,000 bill from the art gallery to cover the cost of the painting Bonham had destroyed.
“That’s the last time we ever have a press party at an art gallery,” John Paul said during the drive back to our hotel.
“From now on, let’s hold them in strip joints,” I said. “It would be a lot more appropriate.”