Stairway To Heaven Read Free

night.
    Neither the Mods nor the Rockers ever shied away from violence. The worst of it erupted at seaside resorts like Clacton, often on bank holidays or during Easter weekends. There really weren’t any good reasons for those uglyconfrontations; the violence was an end in itself, a chance to vent our frustrations and let off some steam. On one July night, we arrived in Clacton knowing the Rockers would be waiting for us, and we were equipped to fight with more than our fists. Our arsenal of weapons, in fact, might have made General Montgomery envious, with armor ranging from knives to pickaxes. The Rockers and the Mods congregated on opposite sides of the street, shouting epithets and then finally approaching one another. There were a few isolated confrontations here and there, and then a full-fledged brawl exploded in the middle of the street over the length of a block. For twenty minutes, it was absolute chaos. Brass knuckles connected with chins. Knives cut into skin. Blood splattered on the pavement. There were wails of anger and screams of pain.
    Those kinds of riots made national and even international headlines (“The war of the teenage misfits”). One newspaper columnist warned, “The social fabric of England itself is disintegrating.” But the more attention the Mods and the Rockers got, the more committed we became to a life-style—and to the rock music—that millions in Britain found repugnant.
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    About this same time, while the musicians who would eventually become Led Zeppelin were finding their niches in the music industry, I was finally getting my own initiation into the business. In 1964, I had just returned from a summer-long vacation in Spain—my first real exposure to what life was like beyond working-class London. And I came back feeling restless and hungry to find an escape from the hard, dirty life on the scaffold.
    That opportunity finally presented itself at a club called the Flamingo in Soho, which was actually quite out of step with the times. While other clubs were preoccupied with the latest rock and pop music trends, the Flamingo was addicted to a soul and jazz sound. While its competitors were partial to the Beatles and the Dave Clark Five, the Flamingo embraced the music of Ray Charles and Marvin Gaye.
    One of the Flamingo’s regular bands was Ronnie Jones and the Nighttimers. The Nighttimers played a host of Otis Redding and Bobby “Blue” Bland tunes—“Respect,” “Mr. Pitiful,” “That’s the Way Love Is,” “Call on Me”—and other songs that reflected a rhythm and blues influence. I enjoyed their music, would hang around them before and after their gigs, and occasionally would talk to their road manager. I never really understood everything that he did, but his life seemed glamorous—certainly more exciting than my seven days a week on the scaffold.
    One evening, I noticed that the Nighttimers themselves were packing their equipment into their van, a task that had always been taken care of by their road manager. I walked over to Mick Eve, a tall, thin saxophonist whowas the Nighttimers’ leader. Mick had once played with Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames, but just about the time Georgie started making big money—400 pounds a night as a headliner—Mick decided that the music had become too pop-oriented for his taste, and he broke away to start his own band.
    â€œWhat happened to your roadie?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s gone on to something else,” Mick said.
    â€œI’m looking for a job as a road manager,” I told him.
    â€œDo you know anything about it?”
    Of course, I knew almost nothing. But I was desperate not to let this opportunity slip away. “Well, I can drive the van,” I said, groping for some way to peak his interest. “I’ve traveled and I certainly know how to get around.”
    Then I remembered that for four weeks, I had once