Jimmy Page
The Led Zep legend looks back over six decades of magic, mayhem, sitars, global travel and his beloved old bandmates
From a back garden in Epsom to the stage of the O2 – via Bombay, New York, Marrakesh and Beijing – join us as JIMMY PAGE guides us through 60 years’ worth of his marvellous adventures. Cliff Richard! Exorcisms! “A cauldron of inspiration”! There are road trips with The Yardbirds, magical recording sessions at Headley Grange, his ongoing relationship with Robert Plant and the vast musical legacy of Led Zeppelin to consider. “I was dealt a very good hand,” Page tells Michael Odell. “And I like to think I played it well.”
JIMMY Page is two minutes late. His excuse though, is an impeccable one. “I never like to mess up the schedule but I just needed a minute on my guitar,” he pleads, as though excusing some borderline diagnosable peccadillo. “The thing is, I want to stay match-fit. You lose it otherwise. And, you know, I don’t intend to lose it…” Still practising his artistry at the age of 75, there are other ways Page remains true to the cause. In black leather jacket, jeans, shirt and Chelsea boots – the only colour relief comes from polka dots on a scarf and the famous white ponytailed hair – he looks every inch the raffish troubadour.
Strolling the lobby of the Kensington Gore hotel, footmen nod with respect as he sprays a toothy smile about. There’s a sense of occasion. Passing guests whisper to each other. As his boots click down the hall to the lounge, he could easily be a sheriff in a John Ford western come to slurp a post-gunfight whiskey at the best hotel in town.
Page has been relatively active these past few years. During Led Zeppelin’s reissue programme, he was both curator and the public face for the band, a role he continued last year during their 50th-anniversary celebrations. He also masterminded a Yardbirds’ ’68 live set that underscored the vivid power of the four-piece, Page-led incarnation. Now he has turned his attention to his own capacious archives.
“I’ve been having so much fun doing this project,” he asserts as we gather round a coffee table laden with advanced pages from his new book. “I have amassed such a lot of photos, clothes, instruments and other memorabilia over the years; just getting to know it again and dating it and getting the stories behind each piece brings the whole past to life. You get a bit of a shock when you actually do the maths – I’ve been making music for 60 years!”
It transpires that Page has been taking notes all that time, too. From the 15-year-old prodigy from Epsom, Surrey, who was recruited to boisterous rock’n’rollers Red E Lewis & The Redcaps, through his session work to joining The Yardbirds and then the formation of
Led Zeppelin, Page seems to have known there would be a story that would merit meticulous telling. He first opened what he calls his “two big suitcases” of memorabilia for 2010’s photographic autobiography Jimmy Page By Jimmy Page. Now he is about to publish a followup called Jimmy Page: The Anthology.
“This one will show fans the detail behind the detail,” he enthuses. “You’ll get a real insight into what my world is like.”
Turns out Page’s world is very like a guitar shop. Close-ups of solid, hollow-bodied and doublenecked instruments, not to mention a historic fuzzbox, abound. There is a loving tribute to the knobs on a Pye mixing desk. There is even a forensic portrait of a dodgy cardigan he wore during the soundcheck for Zeppelin’s Royal Albert Hall show in 1970. However, on a more human level, there are stunning photos of Page and John Bonham on stage in full cry and a poignant montage showing Page’s adventures with Robert Plant in Marrakesh while making 1994’s No Quarter.
Relations with Plant feature strongly – especially since, days before this interview, Zeppelin’s onetime frontman denounced the ongoing Zeppelin bandwagon as “a cabaret”.
“Well, he hasn’t done this book, I have,” snaps Page. “And when I do something, I like to do it properly.” There follows a schoolmasterly gaze that suggests others might benefit from his example.
This goes for our ensuing conversation. He sticks tenaciously to a point, occasionally raising a sage-like finger to correct a detail. Page’s main job these days is curating his own legacy and making sure his contribution, whether it be playing harmonica for Cliff Richard or writing a B-side for Jeff Beck, is properly recognised.
“All I know is that the truth about my life, and all our experiences in Led Zeppelin, were even more incredible than what has been written,” he muses. “Of course, there have been tons of books already. But they always get things wrong. I’d like to put that right.”
Later, this leads to talk of a proper autobiography and persistent offers for Page to authorise a blockbuster film.
The mark one leaves after a life well lived comes into even sharper focus as Page orders a coffee and a sparkling water and sits on a sofa under an imposing portrait of Australian opera legend Dame Nellie Melba. Melba was an international star who died in the 1930s. Her legacy? She had a cheese biscuit, the Melba toast, named after her.
“The strangest things survive down the ages don’t they?”
Page wonders looking up at her aghast. “I mean, a cheese biscuit?” That begs an obvious question.
“Oh yes, I think some of my work will survive. It was an extraordinary time. A teenage boy going on an adventure that takes him from skiffle to rock’n’roll and the blues to new forms? There’s no doubt I was lucky. But we made good choices, did some good things.”
The story cannot be told simply through close-ups of guitars and fuzzboxes. Sex, drugs, booze, magick and death aren’t so easily curated. His eyes narrow at the mention of these themes.
“I bet I know what you’re going to ask me,” he grumbles as we begin. UNCUT: Why have you done this book now?
JIMMY PAGE: I’ve got these two suitcases of photos and plane tickets and invoices and tour posters which I’ve had since we lived in Epsom. I thought people would be interested to see them. One teenage boy with a passion and the journey he went on. I was pretty aware even as a kid that something incredible was happening to music in this country and I started keeping souvenirs.
There’s a lovely schoolboy drawing of a band on stage. It’s almost like you knew what the future held. Yeah, I did that picture when I was 10 or 11 years old. That’s supposed to be the guitar my mum and dad bought me – the cello guitar. Skiffle was all the rage at that time in the mid-’50s – you can see because one guy is playing a tea-chest bass and another is playing a washboard. I think I ripped that page out of a school exercise book. It’s a ‘wish phantasma’, the future I wanted for myself. Just look at the joy and energy of the boys in the band. It has quite a rock’n’roll feel. One day, not far on from that photo, the exuberance lost its effect for me. I got more interested in the darker shades that you found in the blues. Then came the Spanish guitar. You said that finding it felt like divine intervention… It was. To move into a new home [Miles Road, Epsom] and find a guitar ready to play with steel strings instead of the usual nylon ones…? That was incredible. I think the people who sold the house only meant it as an ornament. But if I hadn’t been able to get a tune out of it, I might not be sitting here today. There was another intervention that is equally important. Our road was a crescent and a guy called Dave Williams who collected blues records lived at the other end. He was quite the purist. That was destiny, too. Dave was older than me but he let me come over and hear these amazing tunes. There were classics like “That’s Alright Mama” by Arthur Crudup and “Milk Cow Blues” by Sleepy John Estes. Elvis Presley was the big star of the time, but Dave was curious to know what the roots behind the phenomenon were. He was doing deep research and that guitar and his record collection changed my life. Put those two together and they make the hallelujah moment that sent me on my way.
“I got more interested in the darker shades found in the blues”
Didn’t your resentment towards the press begin at this time? Oh, that was a joke. I was into rock’n’roll and listening to a lot of Gene Vincent and Buddy Holly. The Spanish guitar quickly became obsolete to my needs. I then wanted to get a solid guitar because everyone apart from Scotty Moore was playing one. My dad could see I was making progress, so he said, “OK, but you have to do a paper round.” I started doing one in Epsom. It was on Sunday, and at that time the papers started carrying supplements. So the bags of newspapers were getting heavy – I really felt the difference! You wouldn’t believe words on a page could weigh so much! Then, of course, later the press gave Led Zeppelin a really hard time and so… you guys have never made it easy, shall we say.
You must have felt special to get recruited to a working band aged 15. I would go to a dance night at Epsom’s Ebbisham Hall called the Contemporary Club. A guy called Chris Tidmarsh was manager of a band that played there – Red E Lewis & The Redcaps, who were very much in the vein of Gene Vincent. Chris head-hunted me aged 15 to play with the band. They were based in Islington and Shoreditch, quite a way away in north London. Chris then became the band’s singer and renamed the band Neil
Christian & The Crusaders. I was then suddenly a commuting musician aged 15!
The Epsom to Waterloo service wasn’t what it is today, that’s for sure.
Amazing that aged 16 you were already getting tired of the exuberance of rock’n’roll…. Neil Christian & The Crusaders were a touring band and you had to give audiences what they wanted. That meant that at dancehall gigs you had to play the Top 20. Even The Beatles had to toe the line when they started out. They were doing songs like “Please Mr Postman” and “A Taste Of Honey” to keep those teenage crowds happy. But at home I’d listen to Dave Williams’ new blues records and find myself becoming disaffected with rock’n’roll and the Top 20. Also, we were in a van, touring relentlessly. I’m climbing into this freezing cold van, sweaty after a gig, there’s no heating and I’m trying to sleep on our equipment. In the end, I got all these chest infections. It meant having to cancel shows – that wasn’t really fair on them or me. So I pulled back and went to art school, thinking I might master oil painting or metal sculpture. But at the back of my mind I wondered where blues music was heading…
The photo of you in the back garden cross-legged playing a sitar. Precocious doesn’t cover it. I had a very eclectic record collection that included classical and what we would now call world music. I was insatiable. I wanted to master it all. I asked my dad, who was personnel manager at a company in Feltham, Middlesex, that employed a number of Asian people, if he could get me a sitar. And they did. It arrived in this wooden box, made by a guy called Rikhi Ram. I later found out that it was the same make Ravi Shankar used – that blew my mind. I had his records and I felt I couldn’t go wrong. I knew a lady
who got me an introduction to him when he played at a hall off Tottenham Court Road. There were no other young people there but afterwards I met him and he wrote out the sitar tuning for me on piece of paper. This was before The Beatles, so I had my sitar way before George Harrison. So there I am, this kid sitting in a back garden in Epsom confronting this instrument that symbolises thousands of years of Indian culture. All the time, even then, I was thinking, ‘How can I use this?’
Your obsession with instruments sometimes made you appear antisocial. What about the time you ditched The Yardbirds in New Zealand? After Jeff left the band, we played in Australia and New Zealand. We were on a bill with Roy Orbison, the Walker Brothers and a local group whose name escapes me. When the tour ended, the rest of the band wanted to go home through San Francisco, but I’d already been there. I wanted to go to India and find instruments. I think they thought that was a bit odd, so I went the other way home via Bombay on my own. I was on a mission. I got tabla drums and something called a tamboura, which is basically a big bass drum with a huge gourd at the bottom. I think the airline staff thought I was a bit weird because I wouldn’t let them put my new big drum in the hold. I didn’t want it to get damaged, so I bought a seat for it and it sat next to me on the plane – no way would you get away with that now. Security would have a fit! But I was totally focused on new music and where it came from. Let’s face it, sometimes sitting next to a big drum on a long haul flight is preferable to sitting next to a member of your band…
“I had my sitar way before George Harrison and The Beatlesó
Why is there a close-up shot of a fuzzbox in the book? Because it was a pivotal moment for my sound. I met this guy called Roger Mayer at a gig in Surbiton. He worked for the Admiralty and he was a boffin, really, into his music. He asked me if I needed anything for my guitar. He came over to my house one day and I played him a song with electric distortion and said, “I want to find a way to sustain it.” He went away and came back with this box with an on/off switch – that meant you could control the distortion. It was phenomenal. When I started taking it to sessions, the other guitarists were blown away. The blood drained from their faces – but the guys doing the arrangements loved it. You then sent Mayer to see Jimi Hendrix… No. He did that himself. Roger came up with this other box, a modulator. It was difficult to control in the studio from the guitar, so I said it wasn’t for me. He took it to Hendrix when he came over and it became this thing called an octave doubler, which Jimi used on “Foxy Lady”. One of my regrets is not seeing Hendrix play. Jeff Beck came round one day and told me he’d seen this guy Hendrix jamming at The Scotch of St James or somewhere and he said, “He’s fantastic.” Of course, he has left behind a lot of great music – but I would love to have felt his playing. When you get up close, you feel the emotion behind someone’s playing.
What was the best session you ever played on? The first ever booking was with Carter-lewis & The Southerners. The word went round very quickly about this young guitarist who could play anything. I was still at art college, so I did these sessions during holidays. At my peak, I was doing three sessions a day, Monday to Friday and two on Saturday with maybe occasionally Sundays. I wrote all the bookings in my pocket diary, or my mum took the bookings on the home phone. I was even more in demand when I got hold of that fuzzbox. I was young and often excited and in awe of the people I was playing for. Bowie was obviously very charismatic and going places. The Kinks were very good, too – I’m on their first album. But the one that really stands out was The Who’s “I Can’t Explain” session. I’d seen them at the Marquee. To be a kid, in the room, right there in the middle of the sound Pete, John and Keith created, was phenomenal. At the session, my job was to play something behind Pete’s riff – he had his Rickenbacker 12-string. You can hardly hear me, to be honest, because his playing was so powerful. I also played a bit on the B-side, “Bald Headed Woman”. That session really impressed on me the power of a well-drilled rock band.
It was a heady time but bands can make bad choices. In the book, Jeff Beck’s “Hi Ho Silver Lining” seems to serve as a cautionary tale. “Hi Ho Silver Lining” was just a bad decision. Simon Napier-bell managed The Yardbirds. He did a deal with RAK music management – basically, Peter Grant and Mickie Most. Mickie gave Jeff the idea for “Hi Ho Silver Lining”
and really, it was a square peg shoved very hard into a round hole. It wasn’t a comfortable fit at all. I know it’s wildly popular and people still sing along to it now… but I like to think that “Beck’s Bolero”, which I wrote and recorded, stands the test of time. The instrumentation and the people involved (Beck, Page, Keith Moon, Nicky Hopkins and John Paul Jones) pointed the way to Led Zeppelin. Keith Moon was a great drummer – but fortunately there was another master of that particular instrument waiting to be recruited.
A friendly rivalry with Jeff Beck runs through your life. There’s a story he cried with envy at some of the things you did with Zeppelin… What’s great is that we have endured through it all. We’re like 15-year-olds when we see each other – we will always be young boys who started exploring the blues on homemade instruments. But there was always a rivalry of a kind because everyone was listening to everyone else as the scene evolved. The thing that separated us, I suppose, was that I had a three-and-a-half-year apprenticeship as a studio musician. I learnt about microphone placement, compression, reverb and echo – how to record and produce. By the time we went in to make Led Zeppelin I, I could call upon all that. I don’t know if that made Jeff or anyone else cry – but it did make me a master of my own destiny in terms of the choices I made.
Did you ever make mistakes in your career? When I was a studio musician I did a few TV jingles that paid a lot for an hour session. There was a bit of muzak, too, which was actually really hard work. The red light came on and you had to read and play without making a mistake for 20 minutes. Great discipline, but soul-destroying. There might be some dodgy muzak and some TV jingles out there, but overall I’ve been pretty good at stopping when something doesn’t feel right or I am not going in the direction my instincts take me.
There are a lot of harmonicas in the book… I got booked as a session harmonica player, too. I got called in to play harmonica on a Cliff Richard song called “Time Drags By”. I was so thrilled because Bruce and Hank from The Shadows – who were real heroes of mine – were there. You have to remember the music scene was quite compact then. Cliff was our Elvis and The Shadows were real pioneers.
By the time you formed Led Zeppelin, all this experience had fermented into something explosive. It’s true. I’m an avid student of everything and everyone around me, you see? I watched the best and learnt both in terms of performance and production. I wanted to express everything I’d learned through this band in my head. The avant-grade stuff with the bow, the acoustic and slide guitars, all the different styles. I found these guys who are all brilliant in their own right. The first time we got together in the summer of ’68 in Gerrard Street and played, it’s like, “Wow, what the hell was that?” I don’t want to sound big-headed, but it was an explosive mix.
The magic seems to happen in certain places. You pay homage in the book to Headley Grange. Headley Grange was magical for us. I first chose it because I wanted somewhere to do the fourth album where there’d be no noise complaints. I thought we were getting this old country house where Fleetwood Mac had recorded, but then on the second visit someone mentioned it used to be a Victorian
workhouse. I think they wanted us to freak out because it was supposed to be haunted. Well, we just made it an Elizabethan workhouse. We really did some amazing, hard work there. No messing about: a roadie to make beef stew, we eat and sleep and really focus. When we’d got a plan, the Rolling Stones mobile was ready to record it. There were songs coming out of thin air. We were recording something else when John Bonham started playing the drum intro to “Keep A-knockin’” by Little Richard and I immediately started playing the riff for “Rock’n’roll”. Instead of laughing it off and going back to the previous song, we kept going. “Rock’n’roll” was written in minutes and recorded within an hour. That’s when this drum kit arrived for John. I think Ludwig sent it to him. There wasn’t any room anywhere else, so we set it up in the hallway – with this great staircase and reflective surfaces everywhere. John sat down, started playing and this huge sound bounced off everything. That changed the whole game. Even songs we’d done in another studio, like “It Keeps On Raining”, I decided to do again, using this cavernous drum sound. We kept the drums in the hall for “When The Levee Breaks” and “Misty Mountain Hop”. Then I found a mandolin lying on the piano and put it on “The Battle Of Evermore”. There’s Robert sitting quietly by the fire writing the lyrics to “Stairway To Heaven”… It was a cauldron of inspiration. Headley Grange was an instrument in itself.
You sound wistful when taking about the connection you had with John. Oh boy, he and I had such a connection. John changed drumming overnight. Track one of the first album, “Good Times, Bad Times”, was a revelation. No-one could play it. No-one. As the band progressed, he and I developed this extraordinary intuition. We were renowned for being able to stretch songs live, and that came from John following my guitar and just improvising and bending with where I was going. “Dazed And Confused” is a classic example. He could read my mind and go anywhere and do anything without it falling apart. “Communication Breakdown”, “Dazed And Confused”, “Good Times, Bad Times”, “Ramble On”, “Immigrant Song”, “Kashmir”… These are moments of genius.
But a mad genius? What about the advice issued to journalists boarding Zeppelin’s Starship? “Do not make any sort of eye contact with John Bonham. This is for your own safety.” I don’t know about that because I’m not a journalist. I was on stage with him for three-and-a-half hours and I made eye contact. I never felt unsafe. I’m still here, with all my legs and arms intact.
about insiders or outsiders or why those rules applied on the road. Or the rules of going down the pub on a Saturday night, for that matter.
He was a big drinker. Most modern interpretations would say he needed help. Maybe he was drinking too much – but everyone was drinking too much in those days. I’m not thinking about John when I say this, but I remember parties when everyone was absolutely hammered and then they’d get in their cars and drive home. And I used to think, ‘How the hell did they ever survive that journey?’ But times were different and the experience of being in Led Zeppelin was extraordinary. I challenge anyone to say what is normal under these circumstances.
Do you miss him? Of course. We all miss him. There were probably half a dozen drummers who thought they’d wait a while and then give us a call and take his place, but… he was a one-off.
Robert played at WOMAD recently. He referred to Zeppelin as “a great moment of explosive passion” which 25, 30 years later has ended up as “cabaret”. I don’t comment on Robert’s remarks because I don’t know whether he said them or not.
It’s printed right here in the programme…
A cabaret! Twenty-five to 30 years afterwards?! During the period between 1968 and 1980, it was obviously something else. It was not a cabaret. It was really, really hardcore music in which he was a major part – as a creative force and a master musician. I don’t know how you can look back and say that. The legacy is about the music. It’s not what he thinks. It’s not even what I think. I don’t know if is cabaret for Robert; it certainly isn’t for me… There is a school of thought: Robert is still seeking but you are ensconced in the archives, basking in past glory. I can’t respond to that. I don’t feel like I’m only looking backwards. Robert has been doing solo work for 38 years and fair enough… You do what you want to do.
Yet you were once the searcher who travelled to India alone looking for new music. Yes. My music collection was the most varied of anyone I knew. But I don’t think Robert is out there, alone, showing an interest in new forms. I am working on new ideas that I hope to get out next year.
Are you still in touch with Robert?
I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s been quite busy. I’ve been really busy, too. The one thing I will not do is communicate with him through the pages of a magazine, because that is, if you will pardon the phrase, a sure way to communication breakdown…
The 2007 Zeppelin reunion didn’t result in a proper tour because Robert said no. That’s the lore. Does that frustrate you? Not really. John Paul Jones, Robert and I learnt a harsh lesson in the ’80s. The band is not just something that falls back into place after a pub lunch. I think it’s fair to say that we had a couple of disasters from which we learned valuable lessons. One was Live Aid. We performed in front of a global audience after an hour-and-a-half rehearsal! We assumed the spirit of the event would carry us through, but it didn’t. It was chaos. The other was the Atlantic Records 40th birthday [Madison Square Garden, 1988]. We flew in and had such terrible jet lag we should’ve been tucked up in bed, not on stage. So when it came to the O2 reunion we took the whole thing very seriously. We didn’t do a warm-up gig but we took every other precaution. It was extraordinary. And, yes, being match fit, it would have been nice to do more. But for one reason or another, we lost the momentum. There was willingness to play from John and me. But there you are…
“When you’re talking about rock’n’roll alchemy, we were the best”
There’s a great American TV interview with you, John and Robert from 2012. Host Charlie Rose asks if Led Zeppelin were the best band in the world. Robert demurs. You come right out and say it: “Yes, we were the best…” And I meant it. It’s really hard to say something like that and not sound conceited, but over the years a lot of other musicians have told me they thought we were the best. I’m not talking about record sales or concert attendance, although I think we can hold our own with anyone. What I mean is: when you talk about a band as a collaborative musical unit, we were the best. I am not talking about one or two genius songwriters, and everyone else tagging along. I am talking about a collection of musicians who are each at the top of their craft in their own right. In Led Zeppelin, we were exactly that. If you are a young musician and you want to hear how a band works well together, then we’re a pretty good blueprint.
John and me. Robert and me. John Paul Jones and John Bonham. Every combination of the quartet could bring something special. Robert probably said, “Oh well, there were a lot of great bands,” to that interviewer because that is the gentlemanly reply. And I agree with him: there’s a lot of absolutely fantastic music out there made by lots of different artists. But when you are talking about rock’n’roll alchemy, I had to say what I thought. We were the best.
In 2008 you performed “Whole Lotta Love” in Beijing with Leona Lewis. You said that was one of your greatest performances ever – which some felt was a wind-up. I stand by that. I had seen some of the X Factor shows and I thought Leona Lewis was extraordinary. At first, they said David Beckham would be joining in and I thought they meant on the song so I said, “No way.” Luckily, it turned out he was doing something with a football. But yeah, I’m proud to be British and to live in London and I want my music to be heard. So it was a proud moment to perform that song in front of a global audience. Leona Lewis had a very magnetic, sultry presence – which was perfect. You’ve got to get your singers where you can find them, haven’t you?
Was Robert not asked? I can’t speak for him. I don’t think he was asked. They wanted the chemistry of Leona Lewis and myself.
Working with an X Factor winner. It seems a log way from Zoso. But the symbol is still a big part of you, isn’t it? That symbol is meaningful to me – but I’m not going to say what it is or even tell you how to pronounce it. It meant something to me then, when Led Zeppelin IV was released, and still does. You’re still asking me a question about something I did in 1971, so I’ve pulled it off. I’ve won!
The origins of Zoso are considerably arcane. Was it inspired by the artist Austin Osman Spare? Something about the triumph of the will… No, it’s not to do with him. Or that. But I don’t care if people think it is. It goes back much earlier than that. No-one needs to know. If I ever think
they need to know, I will go into it in depth and seriously. But not here.
Are you planning to write an autobiography? I will definitely do an autobiography. Every six months brings new things for me to write about or comment about. I have a number of ways I plan to approach it. But I am determined that I’ll write it first and then go to a publisher, because I don’t want to be held to a deadline.
In 1975, you visited Bowie in his Manhattan apartment. Afterwards he had the place exorcised because he thought you’d put a curse on him. You’ve traded on the occult mystery around you a bit, haven’t you? He did? Poor David. He should have called me up if he was in trouble. I played on some of his early records and he never mentioned that he had concerns. Davy Jones & The Lower Third they were then. I didn’t freak him out as far as I remember. And he can talk, can’t he? He had some pretty amazing incarnations in his time. But I’m not saying anything apart from that. Let them think what they want, I don’t care.
The problem is, in the absence of proper testimony, others assert their version of the truth. For example, stories relating to you and Lori Mattix, a very young girlfriend of yours and David Bowie. I’m not going to pass any comment on that. She was a friend of David Bowie’s and she was on the scene. I met her and was photographed with her, but I’m not getting into all that stuff.
Rocketman, Bohemian
Rhapsody… Isn’t the time right to tell your side in a Led Zep film? We’ll have to ask Robert Plant if he’ll play me. See how he gets on… It’s been discussed. There are always people trying to make money out of Led Zeppelin. In Siberia and LA there’s probably a meeting going on right now. But I’m too busy with real things to care about things that won’t come off. What would I want to do a film for? Listen to the albums, it’s all on there.
Do you feel you are engaged in leaving a legacy? Led Zeppelin was my life. That’s exactly what it was. I created a vehicle and lived my life through it. The band was where I could write and produce and perform but also showcase the talent of others. That’s what I wanted to do and I did it. And I know from just walking down the street that it affected people’s lives, so – yes – I want to share it.
The photos in the book of you and Robert in Morocco making No Quarter… You look happy. That was superb. It goes back to the basic truth that when you cut away all the stuff that gets in the way of making music, we could really turn it on. It goes back to what I was saying about the sitar in the back garden in Epsom. When you go to a place like Marrakesh and you work with traditional musicians from another discipline, suddenly you are swimming in different currents. Your ideas join with ancient cultures – and that is powerful.
What do you remember about the Walking Into
Clarksdale album? Robert and I had been on such an amazing journey together. The blues reworked by two guys from Epsom and Dudley respectively. Then, I felt we were retracing the steps to Robert Johnson, but with a lot of other ideas thrown in for good measure. I think whenever we’ve sat down and put our minds to it, we’ve produced good things.
Do you feel any of your ’80s work stands up? What about The Firm? I don’t have any regrets about doing that at all. Paul Rodgers is one of the best singers this country has ever produced and any musician would want him on a record. But if you’re asking me if I’d drifted a bit after the end of Led Zeppelin, then I’m not going to argue with that. I don’t want to labour the point, but it was the perfect vehicle for me to express everything I wanted to express and it had gone before its time. You’d be asking a lot to expect lightning to strike twice in the same place like that with a whole different bunch of musicians. The Firm wasn’t trying to emulate what I’d done before. We tried something new in terms of a funk sound and, at the time, people came to see us. You can’t ask for more. It got me going again when I had been through a period of pretty deep introspection.
You were practising this morning. Are you writing new music? There will be something next year. But before that, there’s a project that will be announced later this year; it’s not necessarily musical. I’m old school. I don’t announce anything too early.
Is there more Led Zeppelin music in the archives? I am always collating bootlegs and
“Led Zeppelin was my life. That’s exactly what it was”
comparing them with what I have. I am meticulous. If it’s already out there, then what’s the point? I want to give fans things they have never heard before.
What do you think when you see that photograph in the book of you executing a knee-slide on stage of the Odeon in Edmonton, north London? It was a show with Cliff and the Shadows. I’m 15 or 16 there. I must have been pretty fit, because in 1977 I was doing the same pose with the double-neck guitar. I must’ve been a pretty supple kid with good knees.
Could you pull that off now? No. I couldn’t do that.
Are you more the old sage on the cliff top in the Song
Remains The Same? I hope I don’t look as rough as him! He doesn’t say much, does he? I think I’m quite open and friendly. I gave a talk at the Oxford Union recently. It was very moving for me because I joined The Yardbirds in Oxford. When you get to tell your story it begins to show all its colours, and so I feel tremendously grateful. I was dealt a very good hand. And I like to think I played it well.