Talking of cock rock. Led Zeppelin were formed out of the ashes of Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts (or some such 60’s has-been band). The overwhelming smell of this record is a heady mix of stale Watney’s Red Barrel, a half-smoked Woodbine, liberal amounts of BO and a paraffin heater.
And whilst it smells bad, it sounds awful. Bloody awful in fact. Riffs, squeaks, squawk, solo, solo are you still there? Solo etc, repeat to fade. As for Stairway to Heaven, what a dirge. Never made it to the end of the song.
The sort of music that Ronnie Bigpants ex-editor-in-chief of the Melody Maker would use to woo his Old Lady with.
This album is the biggest blot on British guitar music history. Or as Ned Freshly of underground surf rockers The Cthulus declared “It’s the American idea of what British Rock should sound like, played by Brits, trying to sound like Yanks”.
NB The surviving individual members of Led Zeppelin are nice blokes apparently, at least according to my next-door neighbour who once shared a private jet and a colossal bag of Columbian marching powder with a couple of them.
Johnny Langney
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