Do you think these cars really float?”
I posed the question to John Bonham, reminding him of the Volkswagen commercials that claim VW bugs are airtight and fare almost as well in the water as Mark Spitz. I was sightseeing in Iceland with Bonham, John Paul, and roadie Jim Dobson, and as we drained the bottles of champagne we had brought with us, we concluded that, except for Ralph Nader himself, no one was better prepared to conduct a Volkswagen consumer test than us.
“Well, I’m willing to try it,” said Bonham, always an enthusiastic recruit, particularly when he was a bit inebriated. “Let’s find a lake or a river and get on with it!”
We were in Iceland in June 1970 at the request of the British government. Jasper Parrott, a British talent agent who was more accustomed to handling ballet dancers than rock stars, had been assigned the task of organizing a British cultural extravaganza in Iceland. He asked Led Zeppelin to represent pop music in the festival. Peter saw it as a valuable warm-up for the more important Bath Festival in England, scheduled just a week later. All of us also recognized the prestige of being chosen to represent our home country overseas.
The second day in Reykjavik was when we decided to act like tourists and rent some Land Rovers to see the sights. Hertz, however, wasn’t cooperative.
“Sorry,” the Hertz agent explained. “I don’t think there’s a single Land Rover in the country. What other cars would you like to rent?”
We settled for Volkswagens—one green, the other white. Dobson and I climbed into one of the bugs, and John Paul and Bonzo slid into the other.
While sightseeing, we kept ourselves warm by nipping on a couple bottles of Dom Perignon. Finally, after about three hours of staring at glaciers, geysers, hot springs, and volcanoes, boredom set in. That’s when we decided to see if a Volkswagen really could float.
“I’ll drive mine into the water,” Bonham volunteered. “Let’s find a lake somewhere and give it a try.”
We came upon a river, and Dobson and I got out of our car to survey the scene.
“This could be a historic moment,” I told Dobson. “Will it float or will it sink?”
We made sure the windows of Bonham’s white car were rolled up tight. He remained in the driver’s seat, with John Paul as his copilot. Bonham drove to the water’s edge and stopped, looking out upon the water like Evel Knievel, concentrating on the death-defying feat to follow. He put the car in reverse and drove backward about fifty feet. The tension mounted. Finally, he shifted into first and gunned the engine, aiming for the water.
The VW left land—and hit the river with a thud. It bounced, it bobbed atop the water for a minute or two, and then it settled into a peaceful, rocking float as the engine stalled.
“The fuckin’ thing’s not sinking!” Dobson shouted. “I can’t believe it!”
Dobson may have spoken a bit prematurely. The waterline reached above the door seals, and water began seeping into the car’s interior. I suddenly got scared and felt this terrible chill running down my spine. I could envision a newspaper headline blaring, “Rock Musicians Drown While Tour Manager Looks On.”
“Shit, we better get these guys out of there,” I yelled at Dobson. The two of us frantically began to wade into the bitterly cold water. When we reached the car, the lake was still shallow enough for us to stand.
Dobson and I were on opposite sides of the car. Unbelievably, Bonham seemed to be enjoying himself; John Paul, on the other hand, was livid. For some reason, Jonesy had decided to wear a suit on our sightseeing expedition. I figured the poor fella was more concerned about his suit being ruined than anything else.
Dobson and I began pushing the VW to shore as quickly as we could. “Remind me never to drive one of these bugs off the Golden Gate Bridge,” I gasped, trying to ignore the numbness that was overtaking my toes.
In about three minutes, we had maneuvered the car onto land. Bonzo turned the ignition key and the engine started immediately.
“It would have made a great TV commercial,” I told Dobson as we drove back to our hotel. “We should have filmed it. ‘From the band that brought you “Dazed and Confused” and “Whole Lotta Love”…now it’s time to float along with Led Zeppelin!’”
Later that day, John Paul explained why he was so upset when the VW bug began to sink. “It had nothing to do with the suit,” he told me. “Someone gave me some grass last night, and I had stuffed it into my socks. I didn’t want it to get wet!”
The Volkswagen incident was thoroughly frivolous, even childish. But the band members were still attracted to those kinds of capers as a release from the pressures they felt—or simply as an escape from an otherwise boring situation. In Iceland, things fell into the latter category.
After a few days in Reykjavik, we were delighted when the festival ended and we could finally head home. Peter kept reminding us that the Bath Festival was right around the corner and that it would be another important turning point for the band. As usual, his plans for Zeppelin were very well thought out. “If things go well at Bath,” he said, “we’ll be as big at home as we are in the States. That’s why this gig was worth making some sacrifices for.”
What kind of sacrifices? Peter had turned down engagements in the U.S.—including a $200,000 offer to play two concerts at the Yale Bowl and in Boston—in order to perform in Bath on July 28 for just $60,000. It was an easier decision for him than you might think. Freddie Bannister, who organized the open-air concert, had promised Peter a crowd of 200,000 people. You don’t get crowds much bigger than that, unless you happen to be the Pope.
Led Zeppelin wasn’t the only big band on the bill. The Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, Dr. John, Country Joe and the Fish, Santana, the Flock, and Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention were also scheduled to perform. The Moody Blues were booked for the festival, too, but they were chased off the stage by an unexpected downpour at midday.
As much as Peter wanted Led Zeppelin to perform at Bath, he went into the negotiations with some inflexible demands. He cared about little else other than making the most of the event for his band. It was more important than money or anything else that might be promised. During the discussions with Bannister, Peter said, “Led Zeppelin has to close the festival on Sunday night. And I want us to take the stage at sunset. Precisely at eight o’clock. No later.”
Bannister was puzzled. “Why eight o’clock?”
“That’s the exact time that the sun sets,” Peter explained. “If that’s when Zeppelin comes onstage, we can have the lights turned on, creating an aura over the band as the sun disappears behind them.” Peter certainly hadn’t lost his flair for the dramatic.
Bannister agreed to Peter’s starting time, and preparations began for the event. Jimmy insisted that the set feature songs from the upcoming album, not only to help promote the new record but to introduce the songs to British audiences for the first time. The band spent a couple of days locked away in rehearsals. On June 28, the day of the festival, they were ready.
The Flock preceded Led Zeppelin onstage that night. But as it neared eight o’clock, the Flock apparently had no intention of relinquishing the stage. They played one encore. Then another. As the minutes passed, Peter’s impatience turned to rage.
“Get those fuckers off the stage,” he howled at Bannister.
Freddie was desperately trying to keep everyone’s feathers unruffled. He pleaded with Peter, “They’re almost done. I’m sure they’re almost done.”
Peter finally couldn’t control himself any longer. At ten minutes before eight, he said, “Take care of those bastards, will you, Cole?”
Tough guy was a role I still could play very well. I rounded up Henry Smith and another roadie, Sandy McGregor. Together, the three of us looked like a bunch of thugs intent on causing some serious bodily injuries. We had reputations as guys you didn’t want to fuck with—and those were reputations well earned.
We marched onstage and methodically unplugged the Flock’s equipment. “The party’s over,” I shouted at the startled band. Henry and I began moving the drums offstage, and the other equipment followed. The Flock was shouting at us to stop. So was Bannister from the wings of the stage. For about ten minutes, it was sheer pandemonium on the stage, but we accomplished our mission. Bekins couldn’t have done it more efficiently.
Barely five minutes behind schedule, Zeppelin began its set, with Jimmy wearing a topcoat and a rather ridiculous yokel’s hat. Robert, attired in a long-sleeve sweatshirt and jeans, had sprouted a beard that made him look more unkempt than usual. John Paul wore a leather jacket, as though he were fully prepared to join the Hell’s Angels. Bonham wore a simple white T-shirt that he tore off before the night was done, even though the weather became cooler as the hours wore on. None of them seemed to have been disturbed by the commotion onstage a few moments earlier.
Zeppelin started the set with “Immigrant Song” and never looked back. It was one of the songs from Led Zeppelin III, scheduled to hit the record stores later in 1970. From that song to the end of the set, the crowd was incredibly responsive. As the band played song after song from the new album, the audience fluctuated between trying to listen intently to the lyrics of the new material to letting their own shouting and clapping compete with the music.
Zeppelin played “Since I’ve Been Loving You,” then “Celebration Day,” then more familiar songs from earlier albums—“Bring It On Home” and “Whole Lotta Love.”
“We love Led Zeppelin,” someone shouted at Robert between songs.
“We love you, too!” Robert exclaimed into the mike. “We’re here to help you have fun tonight! Let us know if you are!”
Led Zeppelin seemed as though they could have played until sunrise. In the final few minutes, the band coaxed the crowd into a frenzy. The last encore consisted of “Communication Breakdown,” followed by a free-form medley that included “Johnny B. Goode” and “Long Tall Sally.” When they were finally finished, an MC/disc jockey named Mike Raven was swooning at the microphone, “Unbelievvvable…Led Zeppelin…You’re fantassstic…Led Zeppelin…England adores you!”
England really did. When Zeppelin had finally left the stage, three hours and five encores after their set had begun, they were beside themselves. Robert was convinced they had hit a grand slam for the home folks. In fact, with nothing left to prove, Led Zeppelin would not perform in the U.K. again for nearly nine months.