Not long after we had returned to England, the fourth Led Zeppelin album was finally released. “It was probably more painful to get this one out than childbirth itself,” Jimmy remarked.
As the band had insisted, Atlantic issued the new album without a title, which didn’t deter fans from calling it Four Symbols or Zoso nor from buying it in massive quantities. The album never reached Number 1 in the U.S., but it settled into a comfortable Number 2 spot in the States. There was never any question that it would turn gold.
To support record sales, we embarked on a brief, twelve-concert British tour, highlighted by two sellout concerts at Wembley Empire Pool in London. At Wembley, all 19,000 seats were sold within minutes after they went on sale, with each ticket priced at $1.75 for a chance to see the hottest band in the world.
Throughout that short British tour, however, I had Australia and New Zealand on my mind. As soon as the tour ended, Peter had arranged for me to fly down under to lay the groundwork for the band’s first concerts there, which were being planned for February 1972. So while Led Zeppelin was doing its Christmas shopping, I boarded a plane from London to Melbourne. Over the ensuing days, I hopped to Perth, then to Adelaide, Sydney, Brisbane, and Auckland. I negotiated with the local promoters and inspected, photographed, and, when necessary, changed the venues. I also lined up our hotel arrangements.
In early February, I joined Led Zeppelin for the flight to Australia on Air India. The decision to fly on the Indian airline, however, was not an easy one. Thanks to Atlantic Records becoming part of the Warner Brothers family, we could fly at a 50 percent discount because of an arrangement Warner Brothers had made with Air India. Even so, our asses had barely recovered from our last bout with Indian food, and we didn’t know quite what to expect. “I’m not sure there’s enough baby powder in the United Kingdom to last us all the way to Australia,” Robert wisecracked. At least we had a sense of humor about it.
The plane made a stopover in Bombay, where we had arranged in advance for a break in our trip—the chance to unwind for a few days before resuming the journey to Australia. It was a blessing just to get off the plane. In Bombay, we called Mr. Razark, who drove us to a beach where we rode camels for an entire afternoon—one more Indian experience that left our rear ends feeling battered and bruised. He also took us to a music store where John Paul bought a beautiful set of drums.
Two days later, when we finally boarded an Air India jet taking us to Perth, it was like entering the Twilight Zone. This flight was so short on liquor that we were almost going through alcohol withdrawal by the time we finally arrived in Australia. “You got any cocaine, Richard?” Bonham asked. “I need something to take my mind off all of this.”
The way things were going, we should have known that we’d never get through customs in Australia without a glitch. As we moved through the line, John Paul was notified that his drums were being confiscated. “These drums are made of animal skin,” the customs agent told him. “I’m afraid they are illegal here.”
As we climbed into the limo at curbside, Jimmy predicted, “Our lives can only get better.”
Jimmy was the eternal optimist. But I had my doubts. Only time would tell.
“This is a drug bust!”
There was loud knocking at my hotel room door.
“We have a warrant to search your room! Open up!”
Only an hour after checking into our hotel in Perth, I had been trying to catch a nap when I heard unexpected loud banging on my door. The police were working their way down the hall, inviting themselves into my room and the rooms of the members of the band.
As soon as I opened the door, the cops stormed in, looking under the mattress, in the dresser drawers, and through my luggage. I sat on my bed, watching the fishing expedition, knowing that I, at least, didn’t have any drugs on me. Fortunately, neither did anyone else in our entourage.
The cops were terribly disappointed. After all, busting a famous rock band is probably worth a promotion. And a band like Led Zeppelin, having built a reputation for decadence, must have seemed like a likely target. I figure we were lucky that they didn’t plant anything on us. “That will probably come later in the tour,” Bonzo said.
The police left as quickly as they had arrived, without an apology or an explanation, seeming not the least bit embarrassed that they had needlessly harassed us. All in a day’s work, I presume.
Pagey shook his head. “Those stupid assholes!” he said. “If they had waited a day or two, we might have had something!”
The band was actually becoming even more involved in drug use—primarily cocaine and grass. But after the surprise visit by the men in blue, Peter offered us a warning: “We’ve got to be extra cautious here. I don’t want anybody ending up in handcuffs in this country.”
Peter thought it was important to improve our odds of avoiding arrest. But that didn’t mean insisting that the band keep away from illegal substances; it meant hiring some private security to serve as a buffer between us and the local police. At Peter’s request, I made a few calls, and by the next morning a local security agency had provided us with three barrel-chested, retired police detectives to accompany us on the rest of the tour.
The Australian fans were more hospitable than those original cops. Every one of the Australian and New Zealand concerts was a record breaker. They drew the biggest crowds ever to see rock performances in those countries. To attract the largest audiences possible, we had scheduled every concert at an outdoor venue, and, according to Peter’s instructions, there was a rain date set for each of them. Peter adamantly refused to let the band play in the rain, fearing that with all the electrical equipment, wires, and plugs, there was the real possibility of someone being electrocuted. The Adelaide show, in fact, was postponed a day when a drizzle turned into a downpour.
At all the Australian and New Zealand concert sites, I would arrive a few hours early to make sure the stage and the surrounding crash barriers were built to specifications. On occasion, the barriers were not high enough or strong enough, and I would grab a hammer and improve upon them myself. That’s what happened in Auckland, where the band was scheduled to play at Western Springs. I talked Bonham into coming out to the site early with me, and we pounded a few nails and got things into shape.
Once the repairs were made, Bonham and I started looking for something to do until the gates opened. We raided the liquor cases backstage, and after a few beers Bonzo spotted a pair of Honda motorcycles parked near the stage. “Well,” he said, “don’t just stand there. Let’s take ’em for a spin.”
The motorcycles belonged to Rem Raymond, the event’s promoter, who let us ride them for a few minutes. “There’s one more thing we should try,” Bonham finally suggested. “I’ve never played chicken before. Let’s do it with the bikes!”
I gulped. “Forget it, Bonzo,” I said. “I don’t feel suicidal today.”
“Richard,” he said. “Do it for your old pal. C’mon, Richard.”
He was starting to whine, and I was starting to build up my courage. Finally, in a moment of total insanity, I gave in. “Okay, but I should warn you: When I play chicken, I don’t flinch.”
Led Zeppelin often lived by an “anything for a thrill” credo. It was an “act first, think later” attitude. This was probably the ultimate example of it.
As Bonham and I rode the bikes to an adjacent field, I told myself, “I have three beers to blame for this.” We positioned ourselves about a hundred and fifty yards apart, facing one another.
“If one of us dies,” I mumbled, “I hope it’s me. If it turns out to be Bonzo, Peter will have me killed anyway.”
I gunned the engine, turned up the throttle, and, like a couple of lunatics, Bonham and I sped toward one another. Rolling at about thirty miles per hour, we were nearly on top of each other almost immediately. But about twenty feet away from Bonzo, despite my promise, I must have flinched. My bike skidded into the dirt, and I rolled over it.
“Damn it!” I shouted, turning to look at Bonham, who by this time was fifty yards past me, obviously amused by my ungraceful landing. Other than some torn jeans and bruised pride, I was unhurt, but the motorcycle did not fare as well—either during or immediately after the crash. “It must have been the bike’s fault!” I yelled to Bonham.
Just then, I spotted an ax lying near some tools about twenty yards away. I walked over, picked it up, and hovered over the bike for a few seconds. “It’s like a horse with a broken leg,” I said. “You gotta put it out of its misery.”
Flailing the ax, I systematically dismantled the motorcycle, swing by swing. Paul Bunyan couldn’t have been any more vicious.
Rem Raymond was despondent when I told him what had happened. “Sure, I got a little carried away,” I explained. “But there must be a good repair shop around here. Send us the bill.”
Once we were out of Rem’s earshot, Bonzo mumbled, “Sure, send us the bill. We won’t pay it, but go ahead and send it anyway!”
In Auckland, people traveled up to 900 miles by train to see the group perform, coming from the farthest reaches of the island. They became part of a crowd of 25,000 that paid an average of four dollars to see the band rock to the point of collapse. Western Springs was a stadium usually reserved for stock car races, but it had never seen as much horsepower as Zeppelin generated that day.
Even though Robert was a little under the weather—some mild indigestion, he said—that Auckland show was still one of the band’s best concerts of the tour. “Stairway to Heaven” primed the crowd for what was to come. Then the place went nuts over “Whole Lotta Love,” now part of a medley with some old rock ‘n’ roll songs and Zeppelin tunes (“Good Times Bad Times,” “You Shook Me,” “I Can’t Quit You”). For a full sixteen minutes, the band pushed “Whole Lotta Love” to the point of no return, and the audience responded with its own eruption of emotions, reacting as though they were seeing history being made. As far as they were concerned, they were.
Those kinds of performances left the band feeling absolutely euphoric. They were reminiscent of the earliest American tours when fans were seeing Zeppelin for the first time. Bonzo came away from the concerts so energized that he proclaimed, “I won’t be able to sleep for days.” Sometimes it seemed as though he didn’t.
In Adelaide, Creedence Clearwater Revival had performed the night before us and were still in town when we checked into our hotel. Creedence’s drummer, Doug Clifford, had a practice drum kit in his hotel room, and Bonham and he took turns pounding out a thunderous beat until almost daybrak. Amazingly, no one from the hotel complained.
For the most part, however, except for the music itself, this tour was pure drudgery. When we had checked into the White Heron Hotel in Auckland well past midnight, not much went right. The night desk clerk had difficulty figuring out what rooms we belonged in and ended up putting Peter and me in the same suite. To be more accurate, he put Peter, me, and a married couple whom we had never met in the same suite!
When Peter and I turned the key and entered our room, the fellow was in bed with his wife, looking as though the last thing he wanted was two late-night visitors. Frankly, I couldn’t blame him.
“What the hell are you doing in my room?” he shouted as his wife grabbed a blanket to cover herself.
“I was about to ask you the same fucking question!” Peter yelled back. “We’d appreciate you getting the hell out of here!”
We went down to the front desk to try to straighten the matter out. Much to our surprise, however, our roadie Mick Hinton was working at the switchboard.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“I bribed the fucking desk clerk into going into the kitchen and fetching some food for us,” he said. “He told me to take care of things while he was gone.”
Just then, the phone at the front desk rang.
“Front desk,” Mick said as he picked up the receiver, trying to sound as if he knew what he was doing. It was our “roommate” on the other end of the line, complaining about the unannounced appearance Peter and I had made a couple of minutes earlier.
Mick sounded angry. “Look, if you don’t like things around here, then go fuck yourself!” he shouted.
The hotel guest apparently tried to reason with Mick, which was a futile effort. “You asshole,” Mick hollered into the phone, “this is the way we run our hotel! I suggest you get the hell out of here!”
Fifteen minutes later, the man and his wife checked out.
When we reached Sydney in the first week of March, we stayed at the Sobell Townhouses, and, for a change, we really tried to be on our best behavior. One night, I asked the desk clerk to point us toward some clubs that could withstand a Zeppelin onslaught. Our second stop was at Les Girls, owned by an American named Sammy Lee. “It’s full of female impersonators,” the desk clerk had told us.
Actually, Les Girls was much more…it had a stage show featuring transsexuals who were really quite talented—good singers, even better dancers, and they were pretty attractive, too. About midway through the show, Bonzo asked a waiter the question we all were interested in. “Are they men or women?” he said.
“Well, they’ve had their dicks cut off and their breasts enlarged,” the waiter answered. “As far as they’re concerned, they’re women now!”
“Yeah, that sure doesn’t sound like they’re men anymore!” Robert said with a bit of understatement.
We found out that the “girls” at Les Girls were actually quite famous in Australia. And once they heard that Led Zeppelin was in the audience, they came over to greet us. We invited them to our concert the following night and then to go drinking with us after it.
Zeppelin played before 28,000 fans at Sydney’s Showgrounds, and after the concert we found the “girls” to be great company and even better after-night drinkers. We were in Sydney for almost a week and had the transsexuals hanging around us most of the time. “The press doesn’t know what to make of this,” Peter chuckled. “A reporter asked me if all the members of Led Zeppelin were queers.”
In fact, the “girls” were just pure fun, which was exactly what we were after, too. Of course, they lost some of their attractiveness by about four in the morning when the stubble had grown on their faces. One morning, the “girls” started losing their tempers, and instead of calling each other Louise and Marilyn, they regressed back to Barney and Burt. It was a show in itself.
For our departure from Australia, we booked a flight on BOAC. At John Paul’s urging, we had scheduled a stop in Thailand; he had heard our stories about the trip after the Japan tour, and we decided to stop there for three days to show him Bangkok before continuing on to England. At the Bangkok airport, however, we never got past the customs officials.
“Sorry,” one of them said. “Your long hair is unacceptable in Thailand. You are not allowed in the country looking like that.”
We were flabbergasted. “We were just here last year,” Robert said. “We probably had longer hair then. This is absurd!”
The Thai officials were inflexible, however. “We apologize,” one of them said, “but this is now a rule. No long hair in the country.”
We weren’t used to not getting our way. Whether it was a first-class seat on an overbooked flight or the best table in a fashionable restaurant, the band expected that their name and notoriety could get them whatever they wanted.
But it didn’t work this time. For more than half an hour, we argued with whomever would listen. We did everything but offer a bribe (which might have earned us time in jail). Nothing worked. Eventually, we realized that this was one debate we weren’t going to win.
“You don’t seem to understand,” Robert ranted. “We’re going to spend money in your country!” Maybe they didn’t need any more foreign currency in Thailand.
Within an hour, we were back on the plane, heading for London.