Before Led Zeppelin and After: 1973

When she wakes alone on the deck in the morning, the Santa Ana winds blowing on her face and through her hair, Sabine thinks again of selling her dresses, of getting to that concert with Alan.

"Don't care for loud rock bands," Jules says at the beach house at six, the early evening sun turning broad. He picks over a dish of mixed nuts and settles his martini on a crystal coaster. "Or for concerts. You go with the girls." Jules waves Sabine away before his eyes float back to the six o'clock news, blue silk shirt noticeably tighter around his midriff. "I'll stay here at the beach, watch the kids."

When Sabine shows at Cecilia's door wearing her turquoise ruana, Cecilia swings the door open in a gold flared bodysuit and shimmery bangles, laughing with a tray in hand and whispering as she blinks to reveal sky-blue eye shadow. "Some swanky guys stopped by. Come in if you can—" Cecilia's Gypsy Moon perfume trails onto the porch. "I just can't make it out tonight, hon."

Sabine waves a rash goodbye then rushes into the taxi, smoke billowing out from the back of the car.

At the crowded LA Forum, Sabine steps inside past the bell-bottomed, long-haired masses. In her self-designed turquoise blouse, faded denim skirt and platform boots, hair pulled back high to reveal her large cat eyes, Sabine wanders squinting past the smoke-filled crowd, barely able to make out the stage or hear the Misty Mountain Hop.

Far away, Robert Plant crosses the stage in a wild rhythm, several feet from Jimmy Page. In the smoke-filled air, Sabine squints to make out the long-haired beach types in dirty bell-bottom blue jeans without shirts. They flail past her in the flashing lights to keep time with the organic momentum. Where is Alan?

In the distance, Plant writhes rhythmically across the stage, a mystical figure in tall red boots and faded out bell-bottoms patched dark at the crotch. The charismatic singer spins as he elongates his torso, shaking his exaggerated mane and donning his naked chest. His voice from heaven or the gods, Plant keeps unreal time with Page, who plucks the strings of his guitar, wearing a full white suit and sending celestial power from his hands, an hypnotic magic that brings Sabine to forget her world, the night, the reasons she is there.

Teenage girls in hiphuggers dance freely through the crowd, shaking pale heads of hair wildly as they imitate Plant. Sabine closes her own eyes to forget the smoke and falls into the rhythm, the trance, the electricity of the night, and loses balance when her ruana falls to the ground. A group of stoned-out fans starts to dance past her. They flail their arms above their heads. Sabine leans to pick up the ruana and her world grows dark. She feels a large hand glide against the back of her hair.

"Alan?" she spins around, breathless in the dark, hoping to see the entertainment lawyer.

The man stands above her, half-smiling with hazel eyes and a strong unshaven chin. He wears a dark leather jacket. "You drop this, Girlie-Girl?" In his low-cut dress shirt, the man is alluring and dangerous at the same time. He towers above her and reaches out to give Sabine her ruana, his large dark hand brushing hers then lingering a moment. But he isn't Alan. "You alone?" He reaches out toward her shoulder to straighten her hair.

"I'm just—uh, waiting for a friend," Sabine shouts above the Misty Mountain Hop. When the song fades to a close, Sabine tries to make out the stage, to forget the alluring stranger. She looks first at the musicians and then to the crowd to search for Alan. But the stadium is still filled with the smoke of stoned-out fans who wave bottles above their heads and shout toward the stage.

"Some friend that is to take off on a drop dead gorgeous gal like you," he calls, distracting Sabine and leaning closer so that she can hear him before the next song. "So, you a model?" He reaches toward her again. "I mean, because if you are, I mean I'm a photographer. I'll do your pictures."