With the success of the opening concert, Led Zeppelin settled into a comfortable groove as the 1973 tour continued. More than in the last two American tours, the band ventured out, socializing at local clubs, drinking at nearby bars. The security risks were probably no fewer than they had been in the past. In fact, death threats surfaced almost from our first hours in America. But the band members discussed the issue and felt that they should call the shots and control their own actions, not the kooks who were making the crank calls. We often had a bodyguard with us on those late-night expeditions, so the band felt they had taken reasonable steps to ensure their well-being.
In New Orleans, we visited half a dozen local clubs, mostly in the French Quarter, where we created our own Mardi Gras parade down Bourbon Street, hopping from the Déjà Vu to the Ivanhoe to Fat City. We spent the most time in gay bars, where we found some of the same kind of decadence and bravado we had seen in Sydney the previous year. The New Orleans drag queens always seemed to be having much more fun than the people we’d meet in straight clubs.
As much as for any other reason, we went to gay bars because people just didn’t disturb us there and we could concentrate on the alcohol. Danny Goldberg wasn’t that enamored with our choice of night spots, but we also loved shocking people, and there was no better place to do that than a bar where it was often only us and a few transvestites!
One night in New Orleans, Bonham and I got so smashed that we literally couldn’t remember what day it was. It was reminiscent of blackouts that Keith Moon had suffered years ago when I toured with the Who.
In the midst of a drinking binge, Bonzo suddenly began to panic and exclaimed, “Cole, what time do we go on? Are we onstage tonight?”
“Wait,” I said, giving myself a moment to collect my own thoughts. “I don’t think so. Not until tomorrow.”
“Well, what did we do yesterday?”
I had no idea. “Maybe we were here drinking most of the day. We don’t have to work until tomorrow, Bonzo. I’m pretty sure of that. Have another drink.”
In a more sober moment, I would have been disturbed by that kind of disorientation. The booze was taking a toll, but I was rarely clearheaded enough to recognize it.
One night, John Paul was chatting with a couple of drag queens in a New Orleans bar. The queens were flirting endlessly with him as if they had found their “catch” for the evening. One of the “girls” eventually ended up with Jonesy in his room back at the Royal Orleans. It seems they were smoking a joint or two. The joint suddenly started the bed on fire, and within minutes sirens were blaring and firemen were tearing down the doors and taking their axes to the place.
Later, Jonesy insisted that he hadn’t known the transvestite was a man. He looked sincere during his explanation, but no matter what the truth really was, we knew we had caught him in a rather embarrassing situation. “We’re not going to let Jonesy forget about this one for a long time,” I told Robert.
After Louisiana, we decided to look for less claustrophobic living accommodations when we reached Texas. On short notice, I rented a dude ranch outside Dallas, which had a private airstrip a mile away so we could easily get to and from shows in Houston, Dallas, Fort Worth, and San Antonio. We invited a few girls to stay with us at the ranch, and it was great fun. There was horseback riding and a swimming pool. We didn’t ever want to leave.
One evening when we flew out to a concert in San Antonio, we left behind one of our bodyguards, Willy Vaccar, who wasn’t feeling well. When we returned early the next morning, Willy was waiting for us on the steps of the house, and he was actually trembling. “The guy who owns this ranch has gone fucking mad,” he exclaimed.
“What do you mean?” Peter said.
“He came into the house waving a Bible, ranting and raving about the terrible things we’re doing here.”
Sure enough, the owner—an elderly chap named Jim—showed up a few minutes later wearing an enormous Stetson hat, making all kinds of threats and pointing a shotgun at us through the darkness. He definitely lacked the stability you’d want in someone with his finger on the trigger.
“I don’t like having you boys on my ranch!” he said in a slow Texan drawl. “You’ve got girls here, too, don’t ya?”
I was pissed off. “You bet we do. We paid for this place. We can use it any way we want!”
“Sorry, boys! I want you OUT!”
He disappeared, and fifteen minutes later we had other visitors. The local sheriff and his deputy drove up in a patrol car. They ambled toward the front of the house. The sheriff must have been at least seventy years old. He wore house slippers and was armed with a tiny silver pistol with a pearl handle. His partner was a Gomer Pyle look-alike. They were quite a sight.
The sheriff turned to the owner of the ranch, who also had returned by then. “Jim, are you having trouble with these gents?” the sheriff asked him.
In the next few minutes, we did our best to explain our side of the story. The sheriff had trouble deciding quite what to do. Then he finally told us, “You guys better just go to bed. If there’s any more trouble here tonight, I’ll come back and lock you all up. We’ll deal with this whole situation tomorrow.”
At midmorning, Peter made a phone call to the promoters we were working with in Texas, who told him that they had overlooked sending a check to Jim. Since Jim hadn’t been paid, his anger and erratic behavior suddenly became a bit more understandable.
“Why don’t we get the hell out of here?” I asked the band. “Who knows what these guys are gonna do next!” We began to prepare to leave, whereupon Jim returned, standing outside waiting for us.
“I don’t want you fucking me around!” he screamed. He threw a beer can into the air and fired his shotgun at it. He missed.
Peter turned to me and said, “Shit! This guy’s crazy! He might’ve missed the fucking can, but he sure as hell ain’t gonna miss me!”
Jim ran down to the gate and locked it, apparently so we couldn’t leave without paying. I followed him and frantically tried to pry the gate open. But as I did, he raised his rifle and threatened to shoot me. He ordered me back into the house.
During all of this, John Paul was hiding in the bathroom, frightened that bullets were about to start flying. Robert, meanwhile, was trying his best to take things in stride, complaining that he needed a cup of tea before we departed, that he couldn’t do anything until he had his hot morning beverage.
Finally, we rounded up the girls and all of us piled into our rented station wagons. I was behind the wheel of the lead car and pressed the accelerator to the floor, aiming it directly at the locked gate. I braced myself and could feel my heart rate speed up. When the car slammed into the gate, the frame shattered. We were free.
We thundered down the highway, liberally exceeding the speed limit. Expecting trouble, I had contacted our pilot two hours earlier and had him park our chartered plane at Love Field rather than at the private airstrip. As we sped toward the airport, we caught a glimpse of the sheriff and his posse of cars with their sirens wailing headed in the opposite direction back to the airstrip where they thought they could find us. We never again saw Jim and the sheriff, but I presume we hadn’t won them over as Led Zeppelin fans.