CODA
The future of Led Zeppelin rested with Robert Plant. His refusal to participate in an American tour threw a wrench into the band's prospects
"I was developing my own independence, and I didn't feel tied to them anymore," he said. "But I wanted to be there because there was still a lot of love. I just didn't want to do anything a minute longer than was necessary if I didn't like it."
The European tour had given Robert incentive to at least consider another trip through the States. As long as things were kept lean and mean, he was game to carry on and indicated as much to his bandmates.
"We were battling on," John Paul said. For him, playing live with this group of musicians was what he looked forward to most; even touring suited him. As far as he cared, making albums was only the starting point for live performances. "Nobody ever wanted to say it was over. We certainly didn't want to throw that away." He felt they "still had a lot to offer" and just needed to get back on the road.
The recipe was simple: a U.S. tour and a new album. That had worked like a charm for ten years; there was no reason to tinker with the tried and true.
Even so, Peter Grant had avoided raising the issue with Robert. The strategy was to give him a wide berth¡ªlet him enjoy performing again¡ªso that he warmed to the idea on his own. Grant had played his cards perfectly. While in Germany, Robert asked Bonzo, "How come Grant hasn't said anything to me about America yet?" Finally, as the band landed at Gatwick and walked across the tarmac to the terminal, Robert sidled up to Peter and gave it his blessing. "Okay, I'll do it," he said, "but only for four weeks."
Four weeks¡ªit was a start. G would book four weeks and then another four weeks behind it, just in case. They'd call the tour "Led Zeppelin, the 1980s: Part One," with every expectation there'd be a Part Two, even a Part Three once Robert got comfortable. Grant immediately put Phil Carlo on call. "I've gotten the go-ahead from Jim and Robert," he said. "We're going to America. You're their man on the road."
Richard Cole wasn't simply out of the picture: he was in jail. He'd gone to Italy, as G instructed, with every intention of cleaning himself up. Before he left, Herb Atkin asked Richard to make contact with an associate at the Excelsior Hotel in Rome, where they both happened to be staying, to discuss Led Zeppelin business. Richard checked in, but for some strange reason Atkin's colleague wasn't registered at the hotel. The next morning, an Italian SWAT team showed up at Richard's room. The day he'd arrived in Italy, the Bologna train station had been blown up. He was arrested on suspicion of terrorism. It didn't help that the police discovered a bag of cocaine as well.
Clearly, he'd been set up by Herb Atkin. The trumped-up terrorism accusations were eventually dropped, but a drug-dealing charge stuck. "After Cole was convicted and sentenced and appeals were gone, I got a call from Steve Weiss:'You've got to do something,'" recalls Jeff Hoffman, the New York fixer. At the time, Hoffman was the lead counsel for mob boss John Gotti, who was dodging a number of racketeering cases. Hoffman flew to Rome and arranged to see Richard, who was serving time in Rebibbia prison on the outskirts of the city. "It was a real serious situation, but through a series of machinations we got Richard released in six months."
While this drama was playing out, all systems were go for Led Zeppelin, the 1980s: Part OneThe bones of a North American tour were falling into place¡ªnineteen dates had been booked, beginning in Montreal on October 17, 1980. It was a solid schedule, with days off built in, all arenas in major East Coast cities, winding up in Chicago on November 15.
Everything was getting organized," says Shelley Kaye, who was coordinating details out of the Swan Song offices in New York. "The itinerary was in place, we were booking hotels, working on a plane, tour jackets were ordered. All parts of the machinery were functioning. Everyone knew what their job was. Communication even started flowing again."
A new album was also discussed. Jimmy was most eager to get something under way. Presence, in his opinion, was "not an easy album to listen to" and In Through the Out Door"a little soft," certainly not his best effort. "Bonzo and I had already started discussing plans for a hard-driving rock album after that," he said. "I wanted to get back to that sort of urgent intensity we managed to evoke." Back to the basics: austere, percussive, and Big Bertha chords, "some really intense riffing" Led Zeppelin style. It sounded like a plan.
The band booked Bray Studios in Windsor to rehearse for the tour. Robert and Bonzo drove down together from the Midlands on September 22, 1980. Bonzo was on edge. "The guy was miserable," according to Deep Purple's Glenn Hughes, who had run into the drummer while they both were at home. "There was something eating him so badly." Bonzo, as usual, was dreading the tour and being away from home. He found going to America daunting.
"It's so much easier to play in England," he said. "You get the motor out of the garage and toddle off, and you're so at ease all the time. Whereas if you're in America, you're all day in a hotel somewhere, having arguments with bloody rednecks and everything, and then you've got to go to the gig."
He was agitated during the drive. He ripped off the car's sun visor and threw it out the window. "I don't want to do this," he told Robert. "You play the drums and I'll sing." It was an old song to which Robert knew the words; Bonzo sang it every time they planned to be away. Not giving it more than a passing thought, he dropped Bonzo off to stay with Jimmy at his Old Mill House along the Thames in Windsor and drove on to Blakes Hotel in London, where he and Jonesy were staying.
Only Robert and Jonesy showed up the first day of rehearsal, and they spent a few minutes checking out a model of the tour stage and lighting rig, "a basic design without a lot of special effects," according to the Showco team. "Well, [Jimmy and Bonzo] aren't here, let's fuck off," the other two said and returned to Blakes. The next day, Bonzo arrived at Bray fairly loaded. On the way to the studio, he'd stopped off at a pub and downed a couple vodka¨Corange juices. "Breakfast," he called it. At rehearsal, he continued drinking vodka straight from the bottle. "He got on the drum stool, fell off it two or three times," Mick Hinton reported. Mercifully, Robert said, "Let's call it a day and sort it out tomorrow."
They rescheduled rehearsal for the next afternoon, September 24, 1980, at two o'clock. On the way to Windsor from Blake's that afternoon, Benji Le Fevre, who was driving Robert and Jonesy, suggested making a detour. "I think we should stop at Jim's," he said, turning off and heading toward the Old Mill House. "There is no point going back to the studio to sit and wait for them. Let's make sure Jimmy and Bonzo are up."
At the house, Jimmy wasn't anywhere to be found. Benji asked Rick Hobbs, Jimmy's guy Friday, where Bonzo was. "Oh, man, he was really out of it last night," Hobbs responded, relating details of an impressive drinking binge¡ªforty shots of vodka. "I put him to sleep a little after midnight. He's upstairs in the guest suite."
Benji volunteered to tip him out of bed and started up the stairs, Jonesy a few steps behind him. "I opened the door and immediately knew that something wasn't right," Benji recalls. "Bonzo was laying on his arm, with his back to the door, but ... it wasn't right. I pushed Jonesy into the hall and said, "I don't think you'd better come in here, man. Let me just have a look." Benji had seen a warning: a pool of vomit on the pillow next to Bonzo's head. "I knew he was dead, but I tried to take his pulse. He was cold, half blue. He'd been dead for a few hours."
Benji and John Paul went downstairs, encountering Jimmy and Robert, who were in the parlor, laughing. "I had to go in and say, 'Hold it!' and tell them what happened," Jonesy said.
Robert reacted with disbelief, mumbled, "Are you sure?" Benji nodded wordlessly. "I've got to go and have a look."
Benji put a gentle hand on Robert's chest, restraining him. "I don't think you should," he cautioned. "You don't want to remember him like that." Instead, Benji placed a call to Horselunges and gave the news to Ray Washburn.
"Ray came up to me and said, 'Come downstairs,'" Peter Grant recalled later. "He sat me down, handed me some Valium, and said, 'Take these.'" At first, G resisted, but Ray eventually told him that Benji had news. "John Bonham's died."
G was in shock. Bonzo ... Still, he recovered enough to tell Benji to phone for an ambulance, then called Don Murfet to "contain the situation, limit the damage¡ªand that meant keeping the police and the press at bay."
Back at Jimmy's, Robert pulled on Benji's sleeve. "We've got to go," he said. "We've got to get to Pat before she hears it from anybody else."
Benji hustled Robert into the car and then gunned it, doing 120 miles per hour all the way from Windsor up the M1 to the Midlands. Neither man spoke through the entire journey. They found Pat Bonham at home, alone.
"I don't know how to say this ... ," Robert began.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Pat said.
Robert hung his head and nodded.
Peter Grant and Ray Washburn arrived at Jimmy's house an hour or two later. By that time, word had gotten out about Bonzo's death, and the media circus was already forming in the road. "The three of us discussed all the angles," Murfet recalled, "made contingency plans, and decided how we would box for the next few days."
When he arrived in Windsor, Murfet encountered a scene that summed up the mood. "Jimmy was sitting there by the stairs smoking cigarette after cigarette," Murfet recalled. "He didn't say anything. Not a word. To be honest, he didn't need to. Jimmy just looked ... lost."
Ray Washburn called the Swan Song office and got Unity MacLean on the phone. "Peter wants everybody out of the office," he insisted. "Turn out the lights. He wants the office locked, and he doesn't want anybody to take any phone calls. Stay at home until you're told to come back."
"What's going on?" Unity asked.
"None of your business," he snapped. "I've told you what to do. Lock up and go home until further notice."
What was Peter up to now? she wondered. Had he been alerted to a drug bust? Had the business gone belly up? Did he want the office to himself for a private assignation? Locking the place up was a new one for her.
When MacLean got home, her husband, Bruce, was waiting and said, "Let's go around to the pub and have a drink."
"It's a little early for that," she protested.