A tangerine-colored sun lurked playfully behind a low-lying curtain of white clouds, hovering over Atlanta Stadium in Atlanta. As the sun gradually dipped toward the horizon, Jimmy Page stood out on the balcony of his hotel suite, peering into the distance. He wore faded jeans and a coal-black T-shirt and was holding a half-filled glass of red wine as he leaned against the rail. Less than a mile away, well within sight from his high-rise vantage point, he could see thousands—actually tens of thousands—of cars and people making the pilgrimage to Atlanta Stadium.
That wasn’t an unusual sight around the ballpark in May 1973. But there was no baseball game that night in Atlanta. This was a night for Led Zeppelin to bring America to its knees.
As the traffic congestion around the stadium became worse, Jimmy marveled at the sight. Cars were sandwiched onto streets and highways, impatiently inching their way toward the stadium parking lots. Mustangs and Camaros, Jeeps and Volkswagens, each with its dashboard radio blaring, each filled with young people eager for a night of high-decibel music.
Since 1968, Zeppelin had performed more than 400 concerts worldwide. But for the band, this was different. This was Zeppelin’s largest American concert ever, the first date on a grueling thirty-three-city, thirty-eight-concert tour.
Peter Grant was talking big numbers—the grosses of perhaps $5 million for this tour alone would add to coffers making this a $30 million year for the band, including album sales. Judging by the rush for tickets in Atlanta—a sellout of 49,200 tickets just four hours after they had gone on sale in April—Peter was probably right on target. There were another 56,000 expected at Tampa Stadium…49,000 at San Francisco’s Kezar Stadium…47,000 in Pittsburgh’s Three Rivers Stadium. The list went on and on.
John Paul generally was pretty laid back, not prone to exaggeration or overstatement. But even he sensed that this trip to America would be unique. “This is going to be the tour that knocks America out,” he had predicted on the flight over. And if the music alone didn’t overwhelm the country, then maybe the lasers, smoke generators, pyrotechnics, and spinning mirrors would. We had hired a crew of thirty-three technicians and stagehands just to provide support, making sure that the special effects and the music came together on cue.
Finally, just an hour away from that Atlanta concert—as long-haired, bellbottomed fans jostled their way into the stadium—the reasons for the hard work became apparent. “It’s an absolutely incredible sight,” Jimmy said as he took another sip of wine. Pagey was beyond the point of experiencing stage fright, but for the first time in quite a while he felt a sense of nervous anticipation. A lot, he believed, was riding on this tour.
Houses of the Holy was climbing fast on the record charts. But the band, whose yearning for critical acclaim had ebbed and flowed over the years, wanted to prove a point to the media and show them just how powerful and popular a musical influence they had become. And, of course, they had arrived better armed than usual, with Danny Goldberg and his publicity machine on board.
I had flown into Atlanta two days before the band to meet with Tom Hulett, the Concerts West promoter in the Southeast. In his office, I took out a notepad and sketched the specifications for the Friday night concert…the size of the stage (eighty feet by thirty-five feet) that we’d need…the height of the crash barriers (ten feet) that would keep zealous fans from overrunning the stage…the distance between the stage and the barriers (fifteen feet)…the precise location of the four towers that would support speakers powerful enough to stun the average eardrum into submission…and the placement of the Super-Trooper spotlights that could light up half the state of Georgia. Everything was put in writing.
On May 3, the night before the concert, the band was scheduled to fly into Atlanta. I had joined them in Miami and sensed the nervous tension as we prepared to board the flight.
Once we were at the Atlanta Hilton, we kept room service busy well into the night. With less than twenty-four hours until the Atlanta Stadium concert, we ordered everything from champagne to Irish coffee to midnight snacks. Then, before any of us could feel either anxiety or boredom, Bonham took matters into his own hands. I had told him that the technicians who would operate the lasers the next day had stored the equipment in their hotel rooms. And Bonham just couldn’t contain himself. “Get those fucking lasers in here, Richard. Let’s see what kind of chaos we can create.”
Within minutes, with the help of the technicians, we were shining the red and green beams from our balcony onto the sidewalk below. A few pedestrians taking late-night strolls were startled by the bombardments of light that seemed to be coming from the heavens.
“The Martians have landed!” Bonham screamed out into the night. “Watch out for the Martians!” He was laughing so hard that, for him, the tour was already a success. More than four years into the history of Led Zeppelin, Bonham hadn’t lost any of his childlike qualities.
By early afternoon the next day, the crew had left for the stadium to set up the lights, test the microphones, and plug in and tune the instruments. Mick Hinton assembled Bonham’s drums. Ray Thomas checked Jimmy’s guitar, and Brian Condliffe adjusted John Paul’s Mellotron, an instrument that would be part of a Zeppelin concert for the first time. Benji Le Fevre sat at the special effects control board, running over in his own mind his responsibilities that night.
Despite my best-laid plans, the stage area wasn’t constructed to specifications. The crash barrier in front of the stage had been built almost three feet too high, which might have made the security forces feel more confident, but it also would impair the view of the fans closest to the stage. I decided not to tell the band about it; at that point, it was too late to make any changes anyway.
At seven-fifteen, the limousines and police escorts had arrived downstairs. I rounded up the band, we rode the elevator down to the basement parking lot, and then moved quickly to the waiting limos. As soon as the doors slammed, the procession took off, accelerating to about forty miles per hour, with emergency lights on the police motorcycles flashing. The police had stopped traffic along our route as though we were part of a presidential motorcade. In less than five minutes, we were at the performers’ entrance of the stadium, dashing for the home-team dressing room, escorted by half a dozen security men.
Even from underneath the stadium—even before the concert had started—the crowd was incredibly loud. With their enthusiasm building in intensity, the fans were already clapping, cheering, and stomping their feet.
Although Zeppelin had performed together hundreds of times, Robert described butterflies fluttering violently through his stomach. Everyone, in fact, seemed a little more strained than usual. And until Bonham hit that first drumskin and Robert warbled his first note, tension just came with the territory.
Finally, the stadium lights dimmed. The band weaved its way onto the stage. Next, with everyone in position, Bonham lifted his sticks and crashed them into the drums. Spotlights illuminated the stage. The first notes of “Rock and Roll” exploded into the Atlanta night.
As Zeppelin began to play, they saw people everywhere they looked. With “festival seating,” thousands of fans had swarmed onto the field itself, packed as close to the outfield stage as possible. Even more were in the stands, on every level, down every aisle. They were on their feet, shrieking, frolicking, applauding, laughing. The noise became almost deafening. Throughout the stadium, flashbulbs burst like hundreds of fireflies that appeared and then vanished in an instant.
From backstage, Danny Goldberg thought, “If this is the sign of things to come, my job might be easier than I thought.”
For three hours, neither the band nor the crowd eased up. Robert strutted across the stage, chased by white spotlights that turned red, then orange, then yellow. He held the microphone just inches from his mouth, sometimes even resting it on his lower lip. As songs ended and the crowd roared its approval, Robert extended his hand-held microphone forward, aiming it toward the crowd as if to bless them and recycle their energy through the enormous speakers.
As Jimmy played, he danced on the balls of his feet, whipping and wheeling his weight from side to side. At times, he would raise his right knee, balancing his Les Paul guitar on his thigh as he picked the strings with blinding speed, making the music sing with every bit of emotion he could draw out of himself and his instrument.
John Paul, with his page-boy haircut, was a sharp contrast to his more active mates. Wearing a kaleidoscopic-colored jacket with oversized hearts sewn to the sleeves, he was welded to the keyboards for much of the show, content to let Jimmy and Robert enjoy most of the attention. Bonham, on the other hand, was a casebook study of hyperkinetic energy. His lips were moving almost constantly, not mouthing lyrics from behind his drooping mustache, but seemingly involved in self-talk, as if urging himself to find just a little more energy, to play with even a little more precision, as he lunged between drums and cymbals. In the brief interlude between each song, he would catch his breath and wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans.
At the beginning of “No Quarter,” dry ice released a thick bank of fog that quickly enveloped the stage—floating, bubbling, seeping, drifting into the crowd. As John Paul’s Mellotron created an ethereal mood, Jimmy emerged from the haze, followed by Robert. With bracelets decorating his wrists, Robert positioned his hands on his hips, then extended his fingers and projected his voice skyward.
The crowd went berserk. Green lasers soared into and seared through the night sky.
From there, the band moved into “Dazed and Confused,” and the remaining special effects were unleashed. Smoke bombs exploded. Cannons burst. Lasers formed rainbow patterns that could take your breath away, if you still had any left.
In the wings to the left of the stage, Peter was shaking his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t get any better,” he said.
Three hours after it started, after four encores and screams pleading for even more, the band exited from the stage and raced into the idling limousines. They were absolutely euphoric as the cars accelerated, surrounded by motorcycle policemen who cleared a path from the stadium grounds.
“We showed ’em!” exclaimed Robert, referring to the critics. “Whew, what a night!”
Peter couldn’t contain his excitement either. “We’re the biggest thing to hit Atlanta since Gone With the Wind!”
Thanks to the sellout crowd, the band was $250,000 richer than they had been at the start of the day. But that was only the beginning. The crowd at Tampa Stadium the next night—56,000 people—shattered the single concert attendance record set by the Beatles at Shea Stadium in 1965, where they had been supported by several opening acts. That Beatles’ concert had drawn 55,000 people and had grossed $300,000; Zeppelin’s outdoor festival in Tampa grossed nearly $310,000.
There was reason to celebrate, and for Led Zeppelin, the celebrating began back at the Atlanta Hilton. Bonham ordered two Brandy Alexanders from room service to start, and when they arrived, he told the valet, “You better bring us up four more.”
The first two were literally gone within seconds, and when the tray of four arrived, Bonzo suggested, “Bring us up a pitcher as soon as you can.” On the valet’s next trip, John’s instructions were, “You better bring us two more pitchers.”
Before long, Bonham and I were each drinking Brandy Alexanders right out of the pitcher. An excess of alcohol would be as much a part of this tour as it ever had been for us. Some things with Led Zeppelin never changed.