The Teachers Training College, Birmingham Spring of 1968
Robert figured somebody was pulling his leg; it could be the handy work of Terry or even Alexis, though he hadn't heard from the latter in what seemed like months now.
The telegram which came not an hour ago announced quite pompously the arrival of one J. Page this Saturday to Birmingham in order to see a certain R. Plant in the matter of joining the New Yardbirds.
This was obviously ridiculous, the notion that HE might join a POP group. Of course he knew exactly who J. Page was, he read the papers.
But the Yardies were washed up; 'Little Games' was the worst piece of crap they've produced so far, and this bloke Page was an accomplice.
Robert felt a certain disdain towards the whole proceeding, such arrogance and formality while he was used to band mates who were friends.
The kind of chaps you could make music with and then down a couple of pints in the local pub.
This sort of "tell your people to call my people" attitude was alienating him from the whole prospect, which Robert could admit (but only to himself) was at first appealing.
After all, the Yardbirds were well known.
They were making records, and though they may not have been quite his cup of tea, they were nevertheless heard.
Oh, but this couldn't be for real. Robert needed some advice on the matter from an old friend.
"Hey Billy" he asked the bar keep, "could I use the phone for a minute?".
"Sure, use the one in the back" said Billy and motioned him, "but don't fucking take too long, now!" he yelled as Robert disappeared out back.
"Terry! Glad I caught you Reid, listen…I get it, funny as hell, old boy, really…now come clean so I won't have to smack it out of you" said Robert to the receiver.
"For fuck's sake what are you talking about?" asked Terry, he was putting on a show, Robert figured as much.
"I'm talking about your little Yardbirds prank".
"Are you giving me a bollocking?" asked Terry.
"Are you?"
"What?"
"Ah, fuck you mate!" and with that final warm sentiment Robert hung up.
Saturday
This was fucking nerve wracking; Page was coming down tonight and things were a complete mess.
The arrogant part in Robert wanted to blow Page's mind, but it seemed more than likely he'd make the guitarist wet his pants laughing.
But why was he so bothered? He couldn't care less after learning from Terry the other night that nobody was pulling a fast one on him and that in fact Terry (that rotter) was actually the one who recommended him to Page in the first place.
"You know, he offered me the gig and I thought it was pretty good" Robert remembered Terry saying.
"Well, if it's that good, how come you're not doing it?".
"Stop being such a royal arse, you know I'm committed to the Stones' tour, I can't bail now…besides I'm self sufficient" Said Terry with a smirk.
"Listen Plant, if for nothing else you need the money and connections. You never gonna get anywhere doing what you're doing, for Pete's sake you've been sleeping on my sofa for weeks now and you're fucking broke! And I'm guessing that road paving isn't your choice of career, inn'it?".
"I was only doing that so I won't be mooching off Maureen" answered Robert.
"Sure…now, I really admire the whole struggling musician thing you've got going on, but it's bleeding bullocks".
"But who wants to join them old blokes anyway?". Terry was pretty pissed and the whole conversation was irritating him, "Try it on for size. If the whole thing falls through you can always go back to nothing" he concluded.
Robert figured it was Terry's subtle way of saying- 'do this because maybe someday soon you'll outstay your welcome with me'.
It was about half an hour before the show and the club wasn't showing any signs of filling up; just a handful of people there who were more interested in their beer and smokes than anything else.
But hell, it wasn't really different from any gig and it hurt Robert just a little that he was gradually getting accustomed to disappointment. But amps must be hulked; he had to get his PA system to perform reasonably: as of late the sound was a bit shady at best.
While he was on his knees tinkering with the electric cords, a sudden long and massive shape overshadowed him from behind, dimming his vision of what the hell he was trying to do.
Robert turned his head only to find a great bulk of a man towering above him, "Hey. You mind? I can't see a bloody thing here" said Robert and went back to work.
"Are you a roadie? I'm looking for Robert Plant" said the man.
Robert jumped up and spun round to face the giant, and though he now ascended to his full 6.1 feet, Robert was still looking up to the man's bearded face. He scanned the man, an obese fellow dressed in a cream colored suit with a negligible green silk shirt, a frail scarf dangling from his neck and an odorous pipe firmly clasped in one hand. And though the man was obviously in his early thirties, he was already sporting a wide bald spot.
"I'm everything" Robert exclaimed, "I drive the van, I load the gear, and do the singing and then I go home." It did sound a bit sardonic but what the hell.
"So Robert is it?" the man chuckled heartily for a moment before retaining his formal menacing manner, "I'm Peter Grant, the manager of the Yardbirds…well former Yardbirds… anyway." He said and extended a large hand for Robert to shake, he was quite strong but behind the "don't fuck with me mate" façade, Grant seemed to also ooze of sincerity.
Jimmy was anxious to see the bloke sing, say no and get the hell out.
This place seemed desolate which made him uneasy, nobody gave a fuck about the show that was about to go down and when he'd asked the bar keep about the band called Hobbstweedle in which the singer he came to see was in- he greened saying that Plant was a wailer for sure but the rhythm was all wrong and as Jimmy could see for himself they weren't much of a hit round these parts.
Understatement of the year! Except him and Peter there were perhaps a dozen other people.
Jimmy preferred Peter to do all the handling and proceedings concerning Plant in the very likely event that the whole scene went down in flames. He liked not to be involved.
He'd just say the word and Grant would break it to the chap and everybody could go home, no guilty conscience.
But secretly Jimmy hoped he'd be wrong, many long months have passed since the original Yardbirds walked off, leaving Jimmy with their name only.
He was pining for inspiration, a voice that could make all those riffs and patterns he had bursting from his mind, come to life.
That and the fact that Chris was pretty much on his last nerve, Dreja was disinherited with the music scene and he was pretty much out the door, which would leave Jimmy pretty much desolate. Peter came back and sat down next to him.
"Well?" asked Jimmy.
"He's a cheeky little bugger, that one."
Peter's words were muffled by the shrill of an out of tune guitar and the racket of drums as the band called Hobbstweedle assumed it's position on the small platform that this little piss hole called a stage.
"That's him, the blonde mode" said Peter and shamelessly pointed out Plant who was quite obviously heading for the mike stand. Plant came bouncing off the walls as soon as the music started.
A slim figure in a velvet suit, his hair was a ripple of golden ringlets cascading over his eyes as he shook almost violently to the beat.
A handsome gent indeed, thought Jimmy.
Well if looks were somewhat of a desirable ingredient in a front man then Plant easily fitted the mold of groups such as The Who or The Jeff Beck Group.
By the first note that Plant belted it was a whole other ball game and quite clear that the boy had talent.
He could sing for sure, it was blues all right, though obviously not quite black, but still it was thick and urgent coming out like liquid fire from the lips of this scrawny teen.
The songs were mostly obscure to Jimmy, mostly American West Coast psychedelic sound that Jimmy never quite came to terms with.
Though he had to admit that Robert's rendition of 'Somebody to Love' by Jefferson Airplane sent the shivers down his spine.
As the show ended, Plant who inevitably spotted Peter and Jimmy came rushing down towards them.
It was only upon arrival that he actually tried to contain himself by curbing his enthusiasm.
During the obligatory hand shaking and introduction, Jimmy scrutinized Plant more carefully; only vaguely did he notice the youth's inquisitive look at him.
If Plant seemed handsome on stage he was quite breathtaking up close, a tall and slender young man with big blue eyes and elegantly molded features.
Robert had somewhat thin lips preserved in a constant pout, and his golden unruly mane was like an aura framing his face.
"Well?" asked Plant, clearly aiming and hitting the bull's eye as his eyes said everything- the very thing Jimmy had seen and felt himself so many times, 'Am I any good? Or is this another failure?'.
But could he be misreading him? Something had to be wrong; he couldn't have such looks combined with that voice and not make it thus far.
Plant was nineteen, what was he still doing here? No recording career, no money and certainly no fame.
The chap must have a rotten personality, of course! Why else hasn't he made it yet? He's probably quite impossible to work with.
Knowing himself to be handful at times as well, Jimmy knew he couldn't bear a pompous asshole for too long and he wasn't one to work hard in order to like someone.
Either it was there or Jimmy simply dismissed the person.
Jimmy gave Peter the 'I time need to think' look and Grant mustered all his subtlety, which wasn't much, "Yes, well…we'll think it over, love, and give you a call later on this week."
And with that the pair left.
"So what do you think?" asked Jimmy as they went outside.
"Could have put in more than two words all night Pagey.
I wouldn't have deducted it off your royalties, I swear" joked Grant.
Jimmy gave Peter a stern look
"Well", the manager sighed,
"I may not be as so eloquent to describe in words the subtleties of music, but as you know I DO have an ear for talent."
"Yes, that you do" agreed Jimmy, "So may I have your humble opinion? Should I chance on an unknown kid who probably can't even read notes?"
"I'll remind you of your early session work when you were assigned to rhythm guitar on the same account, Pagey my boy."
"You're doing it on purpose…aren't you? Avoiding the subject?"
"I say yes, from a business point of view of course." said Peter at last.
"Of course you do" Jimmy chuckled, "well he does have an incredible range, I'll admit that…but, look at him he's got talent AND looks but he's still singing to doped-up beer-clouded modes in some forsaken piss hole."
"And you're wondering if he's damaged goods?" asked Peter.
Jimmy nodded, waiting for Peter to go on.
"I say sit down with the lad and see if you got the same vibes…if not, chalk it off to experience, eh?"