The Mammoth Book of Hard Bastards (Mammoth Books) (28 page)

Jeff and the boys were supporting America’s flavour of the month, Vanilla Fudge. More significantly, as it turned out, Alvin Lee’s new band, Ten Years After, were opening the star-studded bill. The Zep boys and their entourage said they’d be there to lend Jeff a bit of moral support. I thought that was quite touching to begin with – such selfless solidarity between two of the UK’s best bands while they were touring on foreign turf. But of course it wasn’t as simple, or as innocent, as that. Nothing ever was! Hindsight being 20:20, maybe I should have sussed that there was more to their eagerness to attend than geeing their mates along. In fact that had nothing to do with it. The Zep boys were there to get their own back on Lee for some pretty nasty remarks he’d once made about Jimmy Page – and Jeff Beck’s roadies seemed happy to help them wreak their revenge, egged on, inevitably, by Bonzo and Richard Cole. Chick Churchill – one of Ten Years After’s associates – was unlucky enough to be caught without backup in a locker room by a vengeful rabble of roadies who scared the crap out of him before ruthlessly stripping him of his clothes. Then they stripped him of his dignity by dumping him naked and trussed like a lamb to the slaughter in the starkly lit corridor outside.

Next it was Ten Years After’s turn for the revenge of Zeppelin. Hidden in the anonymity of the shadows in a corner in front of the stage, the Zeppelin crew pelted Alvin Lee mercilessly from the moment he took the stage with anything that came to hand –
including
hot dogs, burgers, orange juice and probably much messier and more painful missiles. It was glorious! Lee and his band had no idea who the mysterious assailants in the shadows could be. The shower of debris stole their thunder, undermining the storming
performance
they’d had their hearts set on and, understandably enough, mediocrity was all they could muster.

In retrospect, Peter and Jimmy – the two partners in crime – had to be behind this. It was their way of saying, “Don’t ever mess with the Zeppelin!”

If that had been the sum total of their retribution for an
offcolour
comment, I guess it would have been “fair dos’’, but they’d already planned a master-stroke that would add insult to injury. Of course, as far as the audience was concerned, Led Zep’s joining the Jeff Beck Group on stage was an impromptu jamming session. I knew different! Having ruined Alvin Lee’s set, a band that hadn’t even been booked to play was about to steal the show. And steal the show they did. But even the Led Zep boys hadn’t planned the finale that was to be the highlight of the night.

Bonzo had been at the backstage booze. Nothing unusual about that – or about the fact that, drunk as a lord, his drumming on the fast blues the galaxy of rock stars were playing was as
blisteringly
bang-on-the-nail as ever. What was a bit unusual was the fact that he’d suddenly decided to do a “Full Monty” while he was at it, still hitting that kick drum with mechanical, maniacal precision and venom despite the strides and underpants tangled round his ankles. For most of the audience, the sight of his private parts made public was just a bit of a Bonzo bonus to the already exciting event.

But, among the ogling crowd, some punters were less impressed at the sight of Bonzo’s manhood flapping about on the drum stool. I clocked one humourless woman talking animatedly to one of the fairly heavy local police presence. Like a chill wind, the prudish outrage swept through the crowd and it was clear to see that the cops were not amused. Now, I’m not saying I’d normally think Bonzo getting his kit off was going too far. On the contrary, high spirits and outrageous behaviour like that are the all part of the sheer joy of rock ’n’ roll – and long may it stay that way. A few people will always be upset by it, but when the police are among the ones with the hump, that’s when the fun stops and the trouble starts. Of course, it was my job to make sure it didn’t.

I could see the cops rallying together, conferring and calling for backup. I had to get Bonzo off the stage before they could arrest him. Suddenly I had a plan. I took Henry the Horse aside and told him to kill all the lights the moment the performers finished their song. He did so, plunging the stage into darkness for about ten seconds – just long enough for Richard Cole and I to grab Bonzo by the arms, pull his pants up and drag him, full-pelt, backstage. Obviously we couldn’t hide him in the band’s dressing area – that was the first place the cops would look for him. So we lugged him into another locker room nearby which, since it was fully equipped with shower facilities and such-like and plastered with sporting paraphernalia, I assumed was an American football players’ changing room. Somewhere out there, the police were stumbling about in the darkness, their mood turning as black as the blackout we’d plunged them into.

I kicked the door shut and locked it. Hearts banging as loud as Bonzo’s drumming and holding our breath in case we were heard, Richard and I set about tidying up the legless sticks-man. We waited. Bonzo, by now, was unconscious, draped lifelessly over a chair, marooned helplessly in the empty tiled expanse of the backstage changing room. The distant rumble of angry men echoed along the corridors outside – then suddenly sounded uncomfortably close. And then there was an explosion of outraged voices. At first it was an incomprehensible babble. Then it was way too close and way too clear.

“Where is the dirty motherfucker?” one loud American voice kept roaring with an authority that cut through the general furore. At least, I thought, we were safely locked in this room. No one could hear us. Bonzo was temporarily out of the game. Keep schtum and we’d be in the clear.

But then there was a thunderous banging at the door – the kind of banging that won’t take no for an answer. The door burst open to reveal five or six huge cops with waists as wide as their minds were narrow. Some traitor must have given them the master key. We were outnumbered, out-muscled, outweighed and, most
importantly
, outlawed.

Richard and I stood in front of Bonzo in a forlorn attempt at
solidarity
– as if we could hide and protect him. Two of the police posse strode forward – too close for comfort, intimidating, demanding to know if this was the drummer who’d just given his public a pubic performance (not that they put it that delicately!).

“Look, he’s just drunk – he’s harmless,’ I spluttered. “Look at him – he didn’t mean any harm …”

The cops looked with distaste over my shoulder at the inert figure sprawled over a chair in the middle of the bleakly lit and spartan room. Neither was impressed. Their collective sense of humour bypass was obviously complete. I suppose it wasn’t much of an excuse. It can’t have been – because then they whipped out their batons threateningly, making it utterly clear that they meant business.

To be honest, at that point, Richard and I had given up the ghost. We were all going to get nicked and that was that. But neither we nor the cops had reckoned on a far superior authority. I’d thought the police had made a fairly impressive entrance just minutes ago. But the door through which they’d marched with such self-righteous import suddenly exploded open to admit the furious and
fightingmad
figure of Peter Grant. He was always almost ludicrously huge – but fluffed up, furious and bristling with rage like a giant Mother Hen hell-bent on protecting her chicks, he almost took the door off its hinges. The door wasn’t the only thing almost unhinged by his entrance: the cops clucked in panic – overshadowed and overawed and chickening out completely.

“I’m the manager of the band,” Grant boomed imperiously. “Who’s in charge here?”

The gobsmacked police officers silently pointed out their captain, whose eyes met Peter’s and were fixed in his glare.

“You and me need to talk – alone.” Peter said quietly. “Get your men out of here.”

With a wave of his arm the captain dismissed his troops and Richard and I followed suit – we didn’t need telling. Closing the door carefully behind us, we left Bonzo, Peter and the captain in the room and waited. And waited. And waited.

Finally, after about ten minutes that seemed a lot longer, the captain emerged, all that anger drained from his fat face, and beckoned his men to follow. Bemused, we gingerly stepped back into the locker room, where Peter greeted us with a smile.

“Well done!” he beamed. “Now, let’s get Bonzo on the bus.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I grabbed the still-prone Bonzo and hauled him bus-wards and within minutes Peter and Led Zep, complete with their semi-conscious drummer, were speeding out of town. No charges. No arrest. In fact, it was as if the incident had never happened. I was in awe of Peter’s unique brand of diplomacy that had somehow convinced the outraged cop captain to let the matter drop. It was amazing the authority that guy commanded. Maybe it was his sheer size and physical presence … well, that and the sheer size and physical presence of his wallet – as I found out when I asked Peter later on the bus.

“That was a cheap get-out, Don!” he laughed heartily. “It only cost me $300!”

So now I knew how Led Zeppelin did business – and how the big man made problems just disappear. It was a lesson I’d take to heart – and which would take me to the very centre of the stellar
supernova
that Zeppelin were about to become.

The irony was that the quiet, understated style of getting things done that I’d developed for myself was sometimes at odds with Peter’s methods. The further their balloon went up, the more money there was sloshing around – and Peter’s preferred way of dealing with problems was to throw money at them. And that may have taken the edge off tricky situations, but it also brought a whole new range of complications. Despite – or maybe because of – his
unquestioned
authority within the rock ’n’ roll sphere, Peter was drawn to people who had power of other kinds. He seemed to be influenced by anyone who was “connected”, whether in government circles or in the underworld. One gentleman, although I’m not sure the term is accurate in this case, seemed to hold particular sway over Peter. Herb Elliott, that was his name. Ex CIA or FBI, he appeared on the scene after a huge US tour that Zep had just completed and he soon became instrumental in smoothing the band’s way through the States. The powers that be move in mysterious ways and this Herb guy was clearly connected. As if by magic the band had police escorts on demand and incidents such as that Singer Bowl debacle were ironed out and wiped away without the need for negotiation.

One time outside the Montcalm at Marble Arch, Peter’s favourite London hotel, I spotted three dodgy looking men in a car, who were definitely staking out the hotel. Naturally, I mentioned it to Peter and Herb.

“What make of car? Registration?” Herb asked in a flash.

I told him, having made a mental note of the licence plate just in case. Herb left the room purposefully and was back in ten minutes.

“It’s OK. They’re police – but they’re looking for someone else,” he said with an air of confidence that could only come from a man with some serious contacts at the highest level.

* * *

Maybe here’s the right place for me to go back to the beginning, where, you may remember, I opened with the tragic end of John Bonham in September 1980.

“Get down to Jimmy’s and take care of things,” Ray had said in that awful phone call to tell me Bonzo was dead.

“OK, leave it to me,” I’d replied. And I knew from long
experience
that Ray and Peter Grant wouldn’t have called if the shit wasn’t about to hit the fan. I had to get down to Jimmy Page’s place sharpish. It was down to me to contain the situation, limit the damage – and that probably meant keeping the police and the press at bay.

I put the phone down, grabbed my keys and in minutes I was out of my office in the NOMIS complex in Sinclair Road, London W14, and gunning my BMW on to the A4. I sped west for Windsor, where the family of Jimmy, the prince of rock, had a palatial mansion, the Old Mill House in Mill Lane (incidentally, formerly owned by Michael Caine). It was a stone’s throw from another royal
household
: Windsor Castle.

My mind raced faster than the car’s screaming engine. John’s dead. How? Was it accidental? Did he suffer? What about Pat and Jason, his wife and son? That frantic half-hour’s drive was on
autopilot
as a cascade of John’s larger-than-life exploits flashed through my mind – fleeting recollections that made me smile despite the Bonzo-sized hole deep in the pit of my stomach. This tragedy was the latest in a run of bitterly bad luck for the band. Whether by sad coincidence or something more sinister, the Grim Reaper had been knocking at Zeppelin’ s door much too often for comfort of late – as I was reminded when I stumbled breathless into the guest room at Jimmy’s mansion to find Bonzo’s body, lifeless, on its side. Benjy le Fevre, his personal roadie, had put him to bed after his drinking session, having taken care to prop his back with a bolster to ensure that he couldn’t roll over and choke on his own vomit. The central heating had been left on but later someone had opened the windows – and it was the fresh air, I was told, that had caused the strange discolouration of his face. It was as if John’s life and soul went out of the window as the fresh air blew in.

Arriving at around noon, I’d beaten the police and press to the scene. Professionals to the end, the roadies – Benjy and Rex King – and Jimmy’s manservant Rick Hobbs had already “cleaned up”, by which they meant that they’d got rid of anything potentially incriminating or embarrassing to the band or John’s family. The one thing even they couldn’t conceal or control, though, was his blood – and whatever that contained would be revealed in the post mortem. To the uninitiated that might sound impressively
levelheaded
and professional, but to a seasoned roadie it’s pretty much standard procedure – as routine as tuning a guitar and placing the monitors correctly – especially if your man indulged heavily in all the usual extracurricular rock ’n’ roll habits! And there’s no denying that John Bonham indulged – in fact, he was the epitome of the wild man of rock, modelling himself on his boyhood hero, the late, great Keith Moon of the Who. It transpired that the boys had been rehearsing that day and Bonzo, characteristically, had been hitting the vodka hard – at least four quadruples, by all accounts, as well as who knows how many speedballs, the last of which was to be John’s final hit. But, ironically, it wasn’t that heady mix of coke and smack that killed him. Tragically, despite Benjy’s diligent precautions, it was later found that John had vomited and inhaled at the same time in his deep, drunken sleep, setting up a fatal siphon effect whereby the contents of his stomach were pumped into his lungs.