Led Zeppelin

I woke up. Hungover. Tired. Drunk shame overwhelming any other thoughts. The sun was struggling to break free of the clouds outside of my window, and my room was stuffy and uncomfortable. I thought about getting up to make myself a coffee. No. Too tired to have to talk to anyone I run into in the kitchen. I decided to stay put. There was a sensibly placed bottle of water next to my bed, so that had my hydration needs covered for the next hour or so.

I grabbed my laptop from the floor and powered it up. Watching TV always eases me back to life after a big night out and there were some shows I could catch up on. I found the latest Episode of Entourage. The last ever episode, I found out. It was a show I'd followed despite my best intentions and strong dislike of it's portrayal of women. But somehow the rise and fall of a likeable, charming young actor and his idiot friends made for compelling viewing. So after a season of recuperation for Vinnie Chase after his descent into drug addiction, the series finale ended with the cast on a runway, about to head to Europe. 

It was a soft, slow farewell, and the episode's gentle tone perfectly mirrored my mood. And as they stood on the runway, about to go their separate ways, the most beautiful song I'd ever heard began to play (Entourage - Last Scene). I didn't recognise it, the song or the singer, but the sounds, the words and the feeling of the song pierced through my haze that morning and struck something inside of me. I listened for a few lyrics and found the song on google.

And that was the start of my complete and overwhelming submersion into the music of Led Zeppelin. 

The song was Going to California, and it hit me like no music had before. The sound of the mandolin and the achingly longing lyrics. "Someone told me there's a girl out there, with love in her eyes and flowers in her hair". It made me think of Joni Mitchell. Joni who I had truly discovered on my trip to New York a few years back. Joni who I'd fallen in love with because of her honesty and ability to capture it in such beautiful chords and guitar tunings (Joni - Little Green). Joni who was beautiful and full of love. 

I went to youtube and found some live footage of Led Zeppelin performing Going to California at Earl's Court (Led Zeppelin - Going to California [Live at Earl's Court]) and Stairway to Heaven in New York (Led Zeppelin - Stairway to Heaven [Live in New York]). I couldn't tear my eyes away from Robert Plant. He looked like some sort of Hippie God. All big hair and bare chest and bulging pants. He was sex and he was rock n roll and his voice was captivating. Haunting and full of longing.

I spent the next three hours watching videos and absorbing as much of the band as I could. I thought I'd lost that passion for music, didn't think I'd ever be able to discover something new again with such excitement. It was such a relief to know that soulful, fulfilling and exciting music could still be discovered. Led fucking Zeppelin.

Eventually dragging myself out of bed, I managed to get up and out of the house, having downloaded a few key Led Zeppelin tracks to accompany me on my journey. I bought three albums (I, II and IV) and the "When Giants Walked the Earth' biography by Mick Wall. Over the next two weeks, I listened to NOTHING but Led Zeppelin. That's not an exaggeration. Every waking moment, I was listening to Led Zeppelin. Whole Lotta Love was my gym track. Bron-Y-Aur Stomp was my tube-ride track, and Going to California accompanied me as I closed my eyes at night. 

The biography brought them alive. Every album was put in context, every story behind every song was revealed. The band were described honestly, and somewhat brutally. But every aspect of the band drew me in. Jimmy Page's black magic explorations. Aleister Crowley. Liquid drug diets. The violent and menacing entourage. The blatant theft of music. John Bonham punching a woman in the face for looking at him. John Bonham punching anyone. Peter Grant and the beating of Jim Matzorkis in a trailer. The groupies! Oh the groupies. I don't think I can view sex the same again after reading some of the exploits of the band. The red snapper incident. The Great Dane Act. God knows what else. The dynamic, multi-instrumental talents of John-Paul Jones. Sex on legs but simple-black-country-lad Robert Plant and his renowned trouser snake. The fact that Going to California actually had been written with Joni Mitchell in mind. I defy anyone not to fall in love with the dark, intense and disturbing yet brilliant story of Led Zeppelin. 

Eventually I started listening to other music again. Reluctantly. Not quite wanting to end what had been a sort of life-affirming journey back into music. But Going to California continues to be one of my favourite tracks of all time. In the space of three and a half minutes, it can remind you of longing and hope, heartache and can open up the beauty of the folk movement in the 60s and 70s in the US. Nothing before or since has had such an effect on me. 

Tower Blocks

Houses of my friends

Amsterdam, March 2011

Overheard – 20.52ish, 5th May 2011, on the London Overground between Stratford and Homerton

Man on phone on train –

'Mummy, I’m alright, I’m alright…No, mummy… I look into myself and I question myself – don’t worry about me, innit…Mum, I’m cool…I’m saying you don’t need to worry. I’m happy…the only way I can be happy is if I just be me…I’m not going to change myself for nobody. I’ve tried, but I’m not going to do that no more…I never fired up first…Mum, I respect people who respect me…Respect is earnt…Mum…Mum…Mummy…Mummy…I’m a grown man. I’ve got kids now…I know how to chat to my kids…I’m alright, I got my two big girls and I’m alright, and that’s the god’s honest truth…Mum, I hear you, I hear you…As I said, Mum, just let me be…You’ve got your own judgement…I respect people. He should have spoken to me like a son, not like a stranger...I’ve grown up now, as I said Mummy…Mum! I cannot believe you’re phoning me and talking like I did something wrong…I didn’t chuck at nobody…I’m not wrong, Mum…you always do that. At the end of the day, you know I’m not wrong…You know the reason I got upset…you know what happened, you saw it out of your own two eyes and heard out of your own two ears, Mummy…I didn’t disrespect him, he was disrespecting me. Daddy was disrespecting you. I don’t need to accept that…I’m tired of it, Mummy…Mummy, that was living good…I know…I know…I know. Mum, I’m respectful to you…it’ll never be the same…I don’t need to fix up…I got my destiny, I got my rights…Mummy, I don’t regret nothing. I don’t want nothing to do with him…Mummy, forget it…You’re talking over me! Listen to me! I’m trying to say something to you…Hold on a second, doesn’t to take a mathematician to work out why I was upset…No, before I lost my temper…No, I know myself…do you understand what I’m saying?...Mummy, I don’t need to talk. I’m not interested in nothing…Mummy, I won’t be there to fly…I won’t be there to fly…well, yeah, is it?...Is it?...Always there for me?...You trying to say I don’t do nothing?!?...I don’t believe…I’ll tell you that straight….What do you mean?...No…no…no, Mummy. I just said it’s nothing to do with you…I’m 32. I’m a sick person, is that it?...Yeah, that’s good…What am I supposed to do about it?....I’m sorry, I’m not a bad guy...’

– Man gets off train at Homerton, still talking

The Clock Cafe, 12.50pm, Sunday 1st May

Sitting writing my essay on migration when an older gentleman next to me offers his seat nearer the plug socket in return for me telling him what I’m writing. After a brief discussion about it, he informs he was previously a university professor. We discuss the frustration of my course being the regurgitation on my text book and he tells me the joy of education is seeing the different interpretations of each student and tells me the following story.

An invigilator at Harvard was once sitting in on a Philosophy exam titled ‘What is courage?’ and noticed a student who appeared not to be writing. The invigilator watched this student throughout the exam, examining his nails, drumming the table, relaxing in his chair. In the last five minutes of the exam, the student turned to the last page of the exam book and writes something. On collecting the exam books, the invigilator couldn’t help his curiosity and turned to the last page of this student’s book, and read the words ‘this is courage’. The story goes that this student got an A.

This professor told me that he would have granted this student an A, and whether or not the story was true, he believes that this is what education is all about. He wished me luck in my essay and went on his way.

Nepal - hostels, hotels and tea houses.

Kathmandu - Thamel

So we arrived in Kathmandu in the afternoon and after getting a suspiciously cheap taxi from the station (100rupees, and scarily, as we were following the driver, we saw other taxi drivers making the cut throat sign at us) we arrived in Thamel (the tourist quarter) and started looking for accommodation.

Found this hostel for 400rupees (£4). We were awoken twice in the night - 11pm (we'd gone to bed at 7) by some kids and then 5am by the birds. No hot water. Slightly smelly.



Gorkha

How much?
600rupees.
500rupees for two nights.
550?
No, 500 is all we're paying.
Ok.

Hot water. A shower which leaked into the room. Smelly beds. A fan.


Bandipur

300rupees (at £3 we didn't even try to negotiate for fear of insulting the nice lady). Separate bathroom (which was fine). Frequent power cuts (we made good use of our head torches). Damp beds (the smell was bearable) A broken mosquito net (they provided a plug in - though this obviously was unusable when the power cuts hit at night).

Pokhara - Lakeside

300rupees a night. Though they made a killing out of us through our trekking and rafting fees. 'Greedy men' as Sitaram (our trekking guide) put it. Fan. Clean enough beds. A powerful shower. A toilet which you had to leap away from when you flushed it as water (clean) came gushing out the sides. A dog which barked through the night. A nice girl who washed our smelly trekking gear.


Poon Hill trek - Night 1

300rupees for room with separate shower. As we were the only ones in the hotel, this seemed like a pretty good deal. Hot water once we'd lit the gas to heat it (ignoring the sent of gas lingering in the air). Cosy.


Poon Hill trek - Night 2

300 rupees again. Busy place - we made a Chinese friend and amused ourselves as a French foursome arrived with porters carrying tons of stuff. They then ate around three courses with one of them sitting completely separately from the others staring strangely at the curtains. We were supposed to see views of the Himalayas from here but it was foggy.

The Bees.

I don’t really remember when I first saw them. I think they had been lurking in the corner of my eye, retreating into the shadows as soon as I looked their way. The buzzing came first. It had been very faint in the beginning, barely audible, but this one day it became so noticeable that I had to stop my friend Susie in the middle of a conversation and ask her if she could hear it too. She couldn’t. It started to get worse. It seemed every time I talked or thought about it, the buzzing became louder and louder until I was certain that there must be something hanging right beside me – but every time I looked toward the direction of the sound, I couldn’t see anything there. I could sense something though, edging back into the darkness, watching me with malevolent eyes, delighting in my agitation and never showing enough of themselves to satisfy my eerie curiosity. I soon noticed the pattern; they always came at night, usually around 6pm as I left work, pursuing me as I walked home. If I stayed late, I could hear them tapping faintly against the office window, just letting me know they were there. They stayed with me through the night, torturing me as I lay in bed, restlessly trying to find a way to block out the noise and fall asleep. But even if sleep came, I had no respite. My dreams were plagued by the buzzing, my subconscious embodying the noise in these vast winged beasts; eyes glittering with malice and rough skin oozing with moisture. Their sickening forms lorded over my chained, naked body; utterly exposed to their stroking claws and wet, rank breath. And as I cowered from them in the gloomy light, curling my body into a protective cocoon, they slunk up behind me, the buzzing from the back of their dark, miserable throats, vibrating across the skin of my back and my neck to my ears. I often awoke in fear, drenched in sweat with my sheets twisted at my ankles, trapping me to my bed. This happened several times each night until I eventually drifted into a restless half-sleep, not quite prepared to slip fully back into the nightmare, but too exhausted to stay awake. And when I awoke the next morning they were gone.