FlamingText

"What is it with you and Led Zeppelin?"

Part V, concluding.

Mellow is the Man Who Knows What He's Been Missin'

  Rumor has it that Robert Plant's inspiration for the crying, singing guitar-playing muse portrayed in "Going to California" was none other than Joni Mitchell, with whom the young Plant had developed his own fixation. He would certainly not have been alone among her fans to be so awestruck by her remarkable musical gifts as to elevate her to the status of musical goddess. Perhaps there was a trace of envy as well, a recognition that his own emphatic baby-baby-babying could never hold a candle to her subtle, intricate wordplay and insightful portraiture. Certainly he must have envied the position she held among critics, who declared her a poet laureate of pop whose star was rivaled in brightness only by Dylan's in the lofty firmament of songwriters whose words Meant Things. In spite of being the biggest rock band in the world, Zeppelin was no darling of the critics, and Plant in particular was often singled out for derision for his"adolescent" and "puerile" lyrics, as if either of those descriptions were unqualified negatives in the context of Rock and Roll music. ¿

  Let me stress that I have absolutely no evidence to support the belief that Plant's admiration for Mitchell was anything more than one artist's admiration for another, but it pleases me to imagine that the biggest rock star in the world, the same man who famously posed for this photograph on the balcony of his suite in L.A.'s Continental Hyatt House Hotel with arms spread wide to encompass his domain and proclaimed "I am a Golden God!" * , was in at least one instance just another lovestruck sap. I continue to hold the following treasured scenario in my head: I picture the two of them meeting at a high-powered gathering of rock-and-roll glitterati in some Marin County mansion, Plant awkwardly telling Mitchell what a big fan he was, fumbling over his words before slinking off in embarrassment, the bemused Mitchell turning to her friends and mocking his tight pants the moment he was out of earshot. Although that scene probably never transpired, the fact is that it doesn't really matter one way or the other, so that's the version I'm sticking with.

  I am fairly certain that "Going to California" was intended as a commentary on the California folk rock scene that was enjoying great popularity in those days, a conscious attempt to incorporate its signature dreamy acoustic style into their own world of bigger-than-life rock theatrics and blistering guitar sorcery. Zeppelin pioneered the concept that a hard rock band could display a more sensitive, folksy side -- the hammer-dulcimer of the gods, if you will. And it is telling that, viewed from the vantage point of a country lad from the Black Country of Western Britain, California becomes an otherworldly realm of magical beauty straight out of Tolkien. Ordinary beauty is most easily elevated to mythic Beauty in the eyes of an outsider who doesn't properly understand what he is seeing, and for my money Zeppelin's portrait of the mythic California captured the seductive illusion of that time and place more effectively than any of the music actually being made there ever could. Of course, now I have been to California and find that description of it pretty hilarious, but I still recall my childhood illusions of the place and those beautiful misconceptions continue to hold a cherished spot in my heart. ¿

  As far as my own pie-in-the-sky teenage dreams, they were alas not meant to be. Noel and Boone ended up together after a year of nursing their own mutual crushes, consummating months and months of smoldering, longing looks that were necessarily volleyed over my head, situated as I was directly in between their two studio spaces. That she would choose him over me (and the many other would-be suitors who shared in my admiration) was a painfully obvious outcome to anybody but myself -- Boone was, as previously stated, a gifted artist as well as a handsome, gregarious and jovial guy, and also pretty clearly held the position as ringleader of our little group. His band had already entertained audiences at various school functions, regaling the crowd with such home-grown works of rough-hewn new-wave brilliance as "Refrigerator Love." I don't think there was ever any doubt in Noel's mind who she wanted to be with. Did the inevitability of this outcome prevent me from keeping myself awake night after night, lost in strange reveries and grandiose scenarios, imagining a beautiful future spent arm-in-arm with my beloved? Did it prevent me from staring out the window of many a classroom wistfully while a teacher droned on about some subject that would no doubt prove crucially important later in life? Did I not somehow manage to find myself in the places where I knew Noel would be on a daily basis, seemingly be pure chance? * Were there innumerable awkward overtures, perhaps even an abortive attempt at a good-night kiss? I'm sure I don't remember. It's all a blur.

   What I do remember is that a general change in attitude seemed to accompany this period. Having suddenly been made painfully aware of the existence of my own heart, this newfound discovery heralded a subtle shift in perception, away from the impenetrably smug cynicism that was my preferred defense mechanism and towards a more direct enjoyment of the world around me. All the clichés held true: Flowers smelled better, the sky was more blue, and music -- music transformed utterly. Suddenly there became such a thing as a song that could make me cry. I started delving into music from bygone eras with more fervor, even into the verboten flower-power era that the punk ethos held in utter contempt, and found that there was much there to enjoy. Gradually the Beatles replaced the Sex Pistols in heavy rotation on my stereo. I found myself for the first time appreciating Jimi Hendrix and Pink Floyd. And I finally got Led Zeppelin. The sheer exuberance and technical ability of that band, the seemingly never-ending supply of searing guitar riffs, the supercharged adolescent self-confidence that allowed them to deliver a song as patently ridiculous as "Stairway to Heaven" without so much as a smirk of self-consciousness -- surely, I told myself, this was Rock and Roll fulfilling its true purpose: Soundtrack to youth and freedom, with all the stupidity and self-destructiveness that implies.

  Contrary to the wisdom imparted by every pop song since the beginning of time, I now realize that the rush of emotions I was experiencing was not exactly True Love. With the benefit of hindsight it now seems clear to me that the vision I had of Noel probably had more to do with Led Zeppelin than it had to do with her.¿ Although she had (and to my knowledge, continues to have) many fine qualities, she was in fact human and not some fairy princess. I had not at that point learned to differentiate between things so magical that they radiate an aura of glamour and my own tendency to magically project such an aura around things that hold some fascination for me. I now see that I am at times like a magpie, paralyzed by the sight of each newfound shiny object, its tiny little bird-brain incapable of looking away for an instant or discerning doubloon from candy-wrapper. As for beauty, I still thought of it as an inherent quality that I merely recognized, with no thought to the idea that I was participating in its creation and not simply seeing what was there. ¿ Also, I had not yet at that point experienced for myself the sensation of having someone else adore you based on a complete fantasy of what you actually are, and how oddly flattering and yet off-putting that can be -- I had yet to glimpse the other side of the sweet-creepy divide. *

  While I am generally much relieved to be free of the hormonal insanity that holds teenagers in its grips (bred into our species through untold generations of acting on those feelings and the consequences of doing so) I must confess to a certain nostalgia for that portion of my life where the world seemed to explode into Technicolor. There is a reason pop music is so keyed into the teenage experience; It is the period in our lives where we are most susceptible to its simplistic appeal, the hearts and flowers and magical stairways and other assorted bullshit that we will laugh at as adults. But if it is a relief to be freed from the tyranny of all that adolescent melodrama, there is a tyranny of age as well, of correcting too far in the opposite direction. A little teenage stupidity, taken in controlled dosages, can be quite a bracing curative for the ravages of time. And if infatuation is not the true substance of love, perhaps it is more like icing on a cake. If wolfing down spoonful after spoonful of cake icing until your hands shake like a sugarbuzzed sixteen-year-old sounds unappealing, even so you'd have to admit that a cake with no icing whatsoever can be a little bland.

If all of this seems like a roundabout way of saying I like Led Zeppelin because it reminds me of happy moments from my youth, I suppose it is. * More simply put, I like it because it makes me feel good.

Been a Long Time Been a Long Time Been a Long Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely, Lonely Time

  I have never agreed with the poet that said truth is beauty and beauty truth. In my experience the truth is often downright grotesque and beauty, for its part, is as often as not nothing more than a pack of wretched lies. A little of either goes a long way, and concentrated doses can prove devastating. But still, it is hard to deny that there is more to life than making it through to the end without ever once going completely to pieces.

I was again walking home with Brooke.
"You feel like playing a couple games of Defender?" I asked, nodding towards the Dairy Queen.
"No thanks. I've got a report to write and I need to get it done now so I can go out with Kelly later tonight."
"Okay. See you later. Have fun!"

  I continued on my way, past the movie theatre, past the drug store, past the gun store -- and there in the space between the gun store and the Presbyterian church I noticed a new store had opened, a music shop. The display window was full of guitars. I peered through the window and looked at all of them, nervously eyeing the price tags. My eyes fell on a cheap Japanese copy of a Stratocaster with tobacco sunburst finish, sporting a price tag of $100. A little over a month's worth of newspaper delivery profits.

"Hmmm." I said to nobody in particular.

Posted by flamingbanjo at May 15, 2007 12:07 PM