Sailing Away on The Good Ship Zeppelin

That rock-and-roll music is a powerful intoxicant is no joke. I’ve been hooked. Immersed. I’ve been strung out and hungover. Most notably, I’ve drunk myself silly on the blooze of the Rolling Stones, nearly drowned in Beatle-mania, and taken some stimulating trips with Dylan. I’ve spent too much time with the Who, gotten lost with the Kinks, and followed Bowie down the rabbit-hole while breaking for quickies with everyone from ABBA to Zappa. As phases go, these were not harmful or destructive binges, though some relationships were affected. Still, I kept coming back for more. I keep coming back for more.

There was one bender that was different. I was eighteen. Getting schooled in several different rock-and-roll institutions couldn’t prepare me for the ultimate power of Led Zeppelin. The band’s sound crashed down on me with the force of a thousand tidal waves, simultaneously crushing and comforting me. Within months, I was washed away – in deep.

Led Zeppelin’s first album came out in 1969. The next seven years saw them release seven more major-selling albums and grow into a touring juggernaut and record-business powerhouse. Despite being despised by the press, hotel staffs worldwide, and the establishment at large, Led Zeppelin was the biggest band in the world.

The group’s balance of brilliance and brawn, mirth and malice, was something to behold. Here was a band that capably nodded to American blues and British folk while ushering in a new kind of hard rock. Inundating my consciousness with monster riffs and howls from on high bolstered by a thick bottom end and colossal thud, Led Zeppelin made music that appealed to burnouts, jocks and nerds alike. Guys wanted to be them – girls wanted to do them. I just wanted my fix.

Was it the dark magic of Jimmy Page’s guitar-playing? The banshee-wail of Robert Plant’s voice? Was it the steady dependability of John Paul Jones’ bass- and keyboard-playing or the bestial might of John Bonham’s drumming? Whatever it was, it was clear that the sum of those parts equaled something massive. Mammoth. Zeppelin-like.

Whether working out Zippo-raising anthems or complex rhythms with intricate melodies, the band layered much of its music with a crunch and punch that was all its own. The lighter moments were steeped in bucolic beauty, most having been written at either Page or Plant’s pastoral country estate. Indeed, the songwriting was topnotch and the group’s chemistry was unquestionable. I simply could not get enough.

Sailing on the good ship Zeppelin, lost at sea, was a great experience. But like any other oceangoing vessel, it had to make port at some point. I listened almost exclusively to that band for a solid three years. At home, in the car, through headphones, under the influence. I lost track of time, was away for too long, forgot that there were other bands out there. And I got burned out. Too many waves, too much rocking. I needed a break, shore leave or something. So I put away the records.

At first I thought I could go cold turkey. The withdrawals weren’t too bad but it still ended up being a gradual abandonment. The music had been such a monumental part of my life. I filled the void with punk, glam and indie rock, and eventually let the Zeppelin go by the wayside. I moved on; I was over the band.

The more time that passed, the more I forgot about Led Zeppelin. I went through more phases of musical infatuation. Some turned out to be passing fancies, some turned into full-on obsessions. Zeppelin was the last thing on my mind – I had kicked that habit. Every now and then, I’d hear the band on the radio or blasting out of some longhair’s van. The music didn’t affect me the way it used to, but that old feeling would still creep up on me. It was more a feeling of nostalgia than an itch that begged to be scratched. I had little desire to give in. Things were fine without Led Zeppelin, I didn’t need to revisit the past, to unmoor that ship for another lengthy voyage. Nearly ten years passed.

It wasn’t until I found a book, Hammer of The Gods, in a second-hand shop that the itch really started to nag. The book tells the story of the band, from the early days to the heydays to the end of days. It covers everything with a true fan’s respect and awe, going into depth and divulging the tales behind the music. It reminded me, loudly and blatantly, of Led Zeppelin’s undeniable appeal. My own respect and awe were reaffirmed. The itch became unbearable. Reading, I realized that I wasn’t doing myself any favors by putting the band on the back burner. So what if my addiction had clouded my judgment? So what if I got burned out? Led Zeppelin was just too good to ignore.

My passion reignited, I relapsed. I dug out the records, blew off the dust and lowered the needle. The music washed over me like a breath of fresh hair, sounding better than I remembered. Absence had certainly made this heart grow fonder and I consumed the material with the gusto of a starving man. Thanks to the book, the virtues of the band were all the more explicit. For weeks, I gorged on the music of Led Zeppelin.

This story though, doesn’t end here. I didn’t go back to my old, all-Zeppelin-all-the-time ways. For however rabid my frenzy was, I entered into it aware of what had happened to me before. And so I exercised restraint. I didn’t want to lose myself, to go AWOL, either to join Kurtz in the jungle or to sail away on another extended journey. I didn’t want to neglect my other musical vices. I didn’t want to be that guy, fixated on one band, chasing the same thrills from side one of Led Zeppelin I to side two of Led Zeppelin IV, from “The Rain Song” on Houses of The Holy to “The Rover” on Physical Graffiti. No, not me.

I now have a healthy relationship with the music of Led Zeppelin. Even if it keeps on raining, levee’s not going to break. I know when to say no, when enough is enough. I can control my intake; I can regulate my dosage. Sometimes I grow so tired, but I know I’ve got one thing I got to do: RAMBLE ON!

**FUN FACT: Bonham is a zoology term. It means piglet.