i.
Let’s Get Physical
You want to understand and appreciate how transcendentally great Led Zeppelin is?
If I were to say: I’d like to pay tribute to their masterpiece, you could reasonably guess I’m talking about at least three different albums. Led Zeppelin II, the blueprint for everything (by Zep, by so many others) that followed? Led Zeppelin IV, the one where everything came together making it impossible for everyone but the deaf, the dumb, and the editors of Rolling Stone to deny? (I could even be talking about their debut, which blew the doors off what anyone could have expected or hoped for, having followed the mercurial tenure of geniuses who cycled through The Yardbirds, with Eric Clapton and Jeff Beck showing the world how blues could be expanded through the glass, brightly, via world music, Eastern vibes, and an insatiable appetite for experimentation and discovery — think “Heart Full of Soul” or most of Disraeli Gears — and Jimmy Page, who seemed like a placeholder for a bloated, spent force that might actually have continued as The New Yardbirdshad Keith Moon not provided the kidding not kidding moniker that, kicking off a series of infallible decisions that followed, Page instantly knew was necessary. I could also be referring to Led Zeppelin III which, while initially underwhelming and outright confusing fans who’d already turned their amplifiers to 11, portended the risks Zeppelin would take, boasting the considerable acoustic skills, adding in mandolin not as window dressing but foundation for a sound that upped the ante already thrown by more mellow and countrified influences ranging from The Byrds to Crosby, Stills, and Nash. I could even be unironically be advocating for Presence and In Through the Out Door, albums that tend to mystify and confound even the more ardent fans, but these albums, which undeniably showcase some of the band’s best collective songwriting and playing, only serve to separate the casual and bandwagon fans from those who have excavated beneath the rocky surface and found an entire oasis below.)
I am, of course, referring to Physical Graffiti, their double album that turns fifty this month. Sprawling and uncontainable, brimming with ingredients that illustrate what tickles their fancies, boasts the confidence of a collective throwing everything at the wall just to see if it sticks (it does), and highlighting a restlessness and upping of the ante that fully removes them from a comfort zone they could have stayed inside had they been more complacent, lazy, or uninspired. Instead of the Song Remaining the Same, we get “In the Light” and “Kashmir,” songs that, until 1975, would have been inconceivable; this wasn’t just an evolution of Zep’s development, it’s an explosion of creativity and ingenuity, the distillation of elements — reflecting the times and available technology, as well as the brains of the individuals involved — that remain sui generis. Physical Graffiti is like The Beatles’s White Album or The Clash’s London Calling, but without the filler or lack of focus (by the way, the lack of focus is part of what gives those two albums their quirky, indescribable appeal), more locked in and dangerous than Exile on Main Street, and on par with two other double LP apex moments, Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland and The Who’s Quadrophenia. Like those last two, Physical Graffiti renders the question “is this their best work?” immaterial; the relative highs and ostensible lows of any other efforts are less significant than the fact that, whether Zeppelin (or Hendrix or The Who) did work as good as this, they were never better than they are on these albums.
(Above: Headley Grange: If You Know, You Know.)
ii.
Considerably More Than the Sum of its Parts
Once the dust settles and it’s obvious which songs were recorded for this album (the aforementioned “Kashmir” and “In the Light” being obvious, along with “Ten Years Gone” and “In My Time of Dying”), and which had been left off previous albums, the picture becomes more clear in terms of how we can defend earlier songs like “Night Flight,” “Down by the Seaside,” “The Rover,” and “Houses of the Holy”; these are incredibly strong moments, and the fact that they were left off previous albums represents why Led Zeppelin was on a roll with a clarity of focus that has never been equaled in rock music: Page & Co. understood, instinctively, that these songs, while impeccable in their way, might have disrupted the ideal flow of albums like Led Zeppelin III or Houses of the Holy (not including the song that gives a previous album its name is one of the ballsier decisions in rock history — if anyone ever needs evidence of how confident Jimmy Page was in the first half of the ’70s, look no further). And…if anyone is not sufficiently hip to how remarkable a rhythm section JPJ and Bonzo are, cue up “Custard Pie” and especially “The Wanton Song” (the latter enough to jolt even a jaded listener into the shock of realization that this is only three men making all that noise).
More: it’s not merely that some of these songs might have marred the ideal sequencing and vibe the band wanted (imagine “Night Flight” or “Boogie with Stu” on Led Zeppelin IV, or “Black Country Woman” on Houses of the Holy), it’s the uncanny way they work in the context of Physical Graffiti. After the live-in-the-studio (hello band at the height of its powers!) Sturm und Drang of “In My Time of Dying” is there a better segue than “Houses of the Holy” kicking off Side Two? Of course, “Bron-Yr-Aur” might have fit quite nicely on Led Zeppelin III, but as a palette cleanser situated between “In the Light” and “Down By The Seaside” it’s sublime, and it all leads to the culmination of sorts that is “Ten Years Gone.” (Incidentally, it is less than coincidental that Side Three represents the pinnacle of the Holy Trinity that comprises Electric Ladyland, Quadrophenia, and Physical Graffiti — arguments could be entertained that Side One, or Four, of Hendrix’s opus or Sides Two or Four, or One are just as excellent on Townshend’s triumph, but it’s all but impossible to offer a convincing case that anything on any of the albums is as adventurous, boundary-pushing, and triumphant as Side Three.)
It’s seldom instructive and occasionally disorienting to see how artists appraise their own work (check out Ian Anderson on A Passion Play or Pink Floyd on pretty much everything prior to The Dark Side of the Moon). It does, nevertheless, bear noting that each member of Led Zeppelin — especially the often nitpicky and taciturn Page & Plant — has been quoted as referring to Physical Graffiti as a high-water mark of sorts, an apogee of this very super group’s catalog, the occasion where their skills and ambition blended into something timeless, untouchable, beyond even the sum of their dizzyingly impressive parts.
For those only casually familiar or unconvinced, spin this in its entirety a few times and try to focus solely on each musician’s contributions: it’s always revelatory to isolate John Paul Jones and hear, with fresh ears, how glued to the pocket he was (his keyboards, seldom properly appraised or praised, subtly dominate the proceedings: see how his funky clavinet carves out acres of extra space and texture, punctuating Page’s riffs on “Custard Pie”,” or how the organ propels “Night Flight” into orbit, or his full-on Stevie Wonder/James Brown freakout on “Trampled Under Foot” — a tune no pasty British honkies had any business pulling off so convincingly); how Bonham, besides being (correctly) name checked every time “best rock drummer ever” conversations occur, wasn’t just the godlike Bonzo, he — like Ringo — didn’t merely make songs sound better, he changed them, never hitting a wrong note, always providing the ideal embellishment, and effortlessly possessing the most earthly, shattering sound while, at times, being nimble as a feather dropping on a snare (entire essays could — and perhaps should — be written just about the sound and feel he conjures on numbers like “Down By the Seaside” and “The Wanton Song”). Page, always confident and in control (especially in the studio), was finding the ideal balance of bluesy aggression — a stripped down, organic groove — and the finesse of multi-tracked soloing (see the phased wonders of “Ten Years Gone” and “The Wanton Song,” which sounds like two freight trains fucking); where the previously mentioned Clapton wanted to bury himself in the blues, slow hand style, and Jeff Beck, so obsessed with his technical proficiency and perfectionism he seemed to disappear into his guitar, Page — having already mastered blues idioms and how to utilize the myriad pedals and effects on hand — increasingly desired to bring the entire world into sound, from the swamps of the Delta (“In My Time of Dying”) to the bourbon & blow hangover of L.A. groupies (“Sick Again”), now needed to invoke the deserts of Morocco (“Kashmir”) and oceanic bliss (“Down By the Seaside”). Robert Plant? He was a Golden God, end of story.
No matter what any one person’s opinion might be, this album, dropped at the virtual midway point of the decade they dominated, also warrants mention as a case study from a (very) bygone era: it remains commendable, daunting, and more than a little miraculous that while other immortals like The Who, The Stones, and just about every prog band not named Jethro Tull were running on fumes, exhausted by their own excess, or tapped out in terms of inspiration or energy, Led Zeppelin — the indisputable heavyweight champs of the world — dug deeper and left it all on the field, for all time (listen to early versions of “In the Light” and “Trampled Under Foot” to fully fathom how “very good” was not nearly good enough, leaving us with a final product as gift that keeps giving).
(Above: The well-worn, well-traveled LP, purchased in 1983.)
iii.
Everybody Needs The Light
More?
How can I begin to articulate my love for this album? To go all the way back, like most aficionados, I came of age during an era where, if you didn’t have the means or parents willing to drop money on non-holidays or birthdays, you simply had to wait to hear certain songs on the radio. As such, if “Kashmir” came on, everything ceased and you savored the occasion, not unlike a rescued castaway offered a canteen of chilled agua (even lukewarm water in a rusty can would taste like Christ’s blood quaffed from the Holy Grail). By the time I had the paper route money required to acquire this one (having already done my undergraduate studies on Led Zeppelin II and IV and understanding there were deeper depths to plumb), twice the songs for twice the price, it was a quest that made candy or toys seem like the trivial and childish distractions they were. Having access to “Kashmir” any time I wanted? Impossible to describe to anyone born in a digital age.
(Also, obligatory Gen-X sidenote: it’s ridiculous to think that in 1983 this album was a classic — a holy relic from a whole different era, as ancient and magical in its way as a T-Rex fossil or suit of armor from King Arthur’s court — and had “only” been released eight years prior; that would be like celebrating an album, today, that dropped in 2017.)
Having worn out the vinyl, the timing could not have been more opportune when the catalogs of so many classic bands became available on CD, circa 1987. Hearing these songs in their remastered glory was better than sex (especially since, at 17, I had no idea what I was missing). I remember everything about the afternoon I took this home, serendipitously in February, and later that week queuing up Side Three as snow fell outside my bedroom window: “In the Light” has been restorative to me before and after this particular evening, but I’ll never be as transported as I was, a high school junior, seeing, hearing, experiencing everything in new ways.
What else? How to quantify or properly characterize how these songs remain so unpolluted, imperishable, more than forty years after I first heard them? I’ve blissfully listened to the music that moves me most more times that I could count, but there’s something about Led Zeppelin (in general) and songs from this album (in particular) that, no matter how familiar they are, manage to not only impress, but astonish — even after all this time. To be candid, I don’t need to hear “Kashmir” or “The Wanton Song” or “Houses of the Holy” the ways and with the frequency I did as a teenager; on the other hand, the entire suite of Side Three remains unsullied, something I can — and do — savor anytime, all the time. From the somber bowed acoustic guitar (Jimmy Page really could do no wrong) and the exotic “call to prayer” keyboards courtesy of the ever-underappreciated John Paul Jones to the final fade-out of Page’s succession of solos, the entire sequence of Side Three makes it case as one of the all-time best sides in rock music history. It’s an ideal statement of purpose, filled with anticipation, tension, and release, a cycle of reflections and ecstatic eruptions; it’s perfect.
Finally? I feel grateful for the capacity to not only adore and savor the glory of musical expression, I consider my life blessed in all the cliched (but unassailable) ways, where no treasure or conquest, no acquisition that flatters or empowers, no material gain or personal triumph could begin to approximate the deep joy and enduring satisfaction this music delivers. It hits the unbridled pleasure zones, but also consistently satisfies the human (and, I’d suggest, humane) impulse to connect, to feel we’re part of something much more substantial than ourselves, linked and associated — by virtue of being cognizant and capable — with other beings who suffer, question, despair, exult, resist, unite, and do whatever is at their disposal to bear witness to this messy, awkward, sometimes extraordinary journey we’ve all been invited to take, through the luck of being alive, aware and being, for some fleeting moments that seem like forever, in the light.
