About a week after the Bath Festival, just as Led Zeppelin was finally catching its breath, we departed for a brief tour through Germany. In Frankfurt, the band performed before 11,000 fans at the Festhalle, the biggest crowd ever to watch a rock concert in Germany. In Cologne, about a thousand fans rioted outside the Sporthalle, throwing rocks and breaking windows when they couldn’t get into the concert.
Still, as enthusiastic as the crowds were in Germany, Zeppelin was experiencing an emotional letdown after the Bath Festival. It was hard to top the 200,000 people who had seen them perform a few days earlier. The band did more than go through the motions, but there wasn’t the exhilaration of the Bath performance, either.
“It’s inevitable,” Jimmy thought. “We can’t get up for every show. We’re human, too.”
After the Frankfurt concert, we found a nearby bar, located a comfortable corner, and drank nonstop until the place closed its doors. During the course of the evening, our alcohol excesses became quite apparent to others in the bar. The six of us—John Paul, Jimmy, Robert, John, Peter, and I—could all tolerate liquor quite well, and before long the small table at which we were sitting was crammed with bottles and glasses. Only the bartender was keeping track of just how much we were drinking.
When I finally went to pay the bill, I was shocked. “Are you sure you added this up right?” I asked. “There were just six of us at the table.”
“I know there were just six of you!” the bartender exclaimed. “But you guys almost cleaned me out. I’ve never seen anyone drink like you!”
During a four-hour period, we had ordered and consumed 120 slivovitzes plus about 160 beers—a total of 280 drinks among the six of us!
At one point, Bonzo exclaimed, “Let’s keep running this fucking bartender ragged! By the time the bar closes, the poor bastard might be too tired to throw us out when they close!”
As immense as our alcohol consumption was, I wasn’t about to lecture the band. First of all, I was just as caught up in alcohol abuse as they were. Also, I didn’t yet think the alcohol was impairing the band’s music or my ability to keep them moving from city to city on the road. “We’re all fine,” I told myself. “We’re just lucky that we can hold our liquor so well.”
That short German tour was a prelude to our return to the States in August for our sixth U.S. tour. Thirty-six concerts in seven weeks. Every performance was a sellout, and the band never took home less than $25,000 a night during the tour.
Most of the press was still hostile. “We’re not immune to it,” Bonzo said with resignation in his voice, “but their negative reviews don’t hurt as much as they used to.” Nearly everyone but the media, however, couldn’t get enough of Led Zeppelin, even local dignitaries. Some city officials may have never heard of Led Zeppelin, but we were bringing the biggest act in rock music to their city, and they apparently felt the need to roll out the red carpet, particularly in smaller towns like Tulsa and Albuquerque that rock bands often overlooked.
Memphis was typical of the first-class treatment we got. We had played in Memphis the previous April, and the city fathers were happy to have us back. The afternoon before the concert, the mayor of Memphis presented the band with the key to the city at the Memphis City Hall.
“Memphis may be the home of Elvis,” the mayor boasted, “but you boys are welcome here anytime, too.”
Led Zeppelin was always well behaved during formal ceremonies like this. But none of us could ever figure out why we even bothered with them. Yes, we were flattered that we had joined the ranks of Elvis and Carl Perkins as recipients of the key to the city. And Peter told us, “I think there’s some PR value to it”—but he didn’t sound real convinced.
More than any of us, Jimmy thought it was a complete waste of time. As we left the mayor’s office and headed back to the limos, he muttered, “These city dignitaries are probably the same guys who shout at us in airports to cut our hair. What bullshit!”
That night, the hot air soared to new levels. As with most other concerts in that tour, the band went out and worked the Memphis audience into delirium. But about midway through the performance, some fans in the crowd of 10,000 people were becoming unruly. Cups of beer were tossed into the air. Firecrackers were ignited. The sweet smell of marijuana drifted through the darkness. As the concert approached the two-hour point, the fellow who seemed to be in charge of the auditorium, a fellow we’ll call Bill, was becoming increasingly agitated.
On occasion, we would encounter unpredictable and even rude treatment from the management of the halls where we played. But this particular evening, even I was surprised by what happened next. “Hey, fella,” Bill shouted over to me. “This place is about to erupt into a full-fledged riot. Let’s end this concert right now!”
I looked at Bill a bit bewildered, wondering whether he was joking. No one had ever asked us to cut a concert short. But apparently Bill was dead serious.
“You’ll have to talk to that big guy over there,” I told him, pointing to Peter.
We walked over to Peter, and Bill repeated his demand. “Your band needs to come off the stage after this song! The concert’s over!”
Peter gave him a cool stare. “We don’t do that,” he said calmly.
“Well, you have no choice. This show’s done! I’ll cut the power if I have to!”
“Like hell you will!” Peter snarled. “Why in the hell are you selling alcohol in the first place, you asshole? That’s what’s causing all the problems!”
Bill turned to face Peter and put his right hand into his coat pocket. “I’ve got something that’ll make you change your fucking mind, big fella.”
It wasn’t a bluff. Bill pulled out a .22 pistol and stuck it in Peter’s ribs. “Do you believe me now?” he shouted.
At that moment, the whole scene seemed surreal. City officials were sitting in the front row, still enjoying the music of Memphis’s honored guests. Yet Peter was on the verge of being blown away. It was like watching a bad B movie. But I was scared, and everyone around us was afraid to move.
Peter, however, didn’t panic. “What the fuck is this?” he exclaimed. “Memphis gives us the key to your goddamn city, and now you’re gonna shoot us? This is gonna be all over the national press tomorrow!”
Bill apparently had second thoughts. He backed off just as a couple of our security people grabbed and disarmed him and threw him against a wall. He slumped to the floor, with the wind knocked out of him. Zeppelin played for nearly another hour without incident.
Throughout that tour, I sensed a growing need for tighter security for the band. Zeppelin often felt claustrophobic in their hotel rooms and insisted upon going to bars and clubs, enjoying the attention and willing to put up with the occasional obnoxious fan who became too loud or intrusive. But I was becoming terribly anxious about the physical safety of the band. This, after all, was the U.S., where guns and violence were a way of life. And there were times when I was frightened and times when I probably overreacted.
After a performance at Madison Square Garden, our limos took us to Nobody’s, a club on Bleecker Street. After a few beers, Bonham and I made a stop at the bathroom, where I noticed a bloke with a black leather jacket and three days’ growth of beard. All that was missing was the Hell’s Angels emblem and the motorcycle.
I made brief eye contact with him as I moved next to him at the sink and began to wash my hands. He was standing just a few feet to the right of me, staring at nothing in particular. He looked like an escapee from the Charlie Manson gang.
After a few seconds, he opened his jacket. Without saying a word, he quickly pulled a knife from an inside pocket. It had about a six-inch blade, clearly capable of inflicting some damage.
I didn’t ask any questions. I cocked my right arm and with a closed, soapy fist lunged forward to sting him on the chin. He toppled backward, the knife flew into the air, he hit his head on the tile-covered wall, and sunk to the floor. He was out cold.
Bonham, who just then emerged from a bathroom stall, was not aware of what had happened or why.
“Holy shit! Is he a friend of yours, Richard?” asked Bonzo, with his eyes transfixed on the blood oozing out of the poor fellow’s mouth and the knife resting about three feet away.
I didn’t answer. We walked out of the bathroom and back to our table, leaving behind the unconscious troublemaker. We departed for our hotel a couple of minutes later without ever finding out the extent of my sparring partner’s injuries.
Maybe I went overboard. Maybe not. But during that tour, I became hypersensitive to what was going on around us. Sometimes I may have made mistakes. But I felt I couldn’t take chances.
That Madison Square Garden gig set a Zeppelin record—the first time the band had grossed more than $100,000 for a single concert. In fact, they did it two nights in a row.
On the flight back to London, I was sitting next to John Paul, sipping my fourth drink, wondering what kind of security arrangements we’d have to make for the next tour. John Paul was seated next to me. Zeppelin’s Rock of Gibraltar, he got the job done. On this tour more than the others, he tended to keep to himself. Maybe he was trying to back away from some of our lunacy. Perhaps he just enjoyed his own company more than ours. And although Jonesy indulged in his share of booze, he seemed more in control than the rest of us.