A list (in no particular order) of my 500 favorite songs (singles, deep cuts, hits, and more) of all time. Includes a wide array of selections from rock, punk, funk, R&B, soul, classical, jazz, folk, and world music.
"Dancing Days" from Houses of the Holy (1973) is the perfect Zeppelin pop song. It's a compact, rocking capsule of everything that made the band legendary: a thunderous (yet grooving) rhythm section, layers of exhilarating guitars, preternatural tenor vocals, and a fusion of East and West that blurs musical and geographical boundaries.
From all of the books, articles, and Web blurbs I've ingested and digested about the band since adolescence, I know the track was inspired by Jimmy Page and Robert Plant's travels in India, where the duo soaked up all of the music around them. In short, the Indian rhythms and tunings they heard organically made their way into Page's undulating riff on "Dancing Days," which, incidentally, got its name because the band celebrated completing the song's backing track by dancing on the front lawn of Mick Jagger's mansion, Stargroves, where a good chunk of Houses of the Holy was recorded.
Lyrically, it's also one of my favorite Zeppelin songs. Plant strikes a balance between cheeky innuendo ("tadpoles in jars" and whatnot) and bucolic fun, complete with booze-sipping at sunset. In fact, this ode to summer does more for me than a dozen Tolkien references and ladies purchasing staircases into the clouds combined.
That aaah-aaah-aaaaaaaah-aaah! banshee wail. It's as jarring as it is invigorating. Case in point: I was sitting at a New York Rangers hockey game not too long ago. It was second period, score still 0-0, and the Rangers were struggling to get momentum going. To be blunt, the crowd was damn bored. But the moment "Immigrant Song" and Robert Plant's vocal came blasting through the Madison Square Garden speakers during a T.V. timeout, you could feel the crowd perk up. Not two seconds after puck drop, the crowd began yelling Let's go, Rangers! like their lives depended on it, and the guys on the ice finally woke up to earn their millions. I bring this up because "Immigrant Song" was made for arenas. In fact, it opened pretty much every one of Led Zeppelin's shows from 1970-1972. As Plant notes in this video, the song was inspired by a gig the band played in Reykjavik in 1970. Zep had been invited to Iceland as British cultural ambassadors and were set to play a concert arranged by the government. Unfortunately, the band's arrival coincided with a massive strike by the nation's civil servants, so the concert was going to be scrapped. But one of the universities in Reykjavik (Plant doesn't say which one) stepped in to save the day, calling off classes for two days so that faculty and students could prepare the city's Laugardalsholl Hall, an indoor sports venue, so that the concert could go on. The warm welcome from the nation and outpouring of affection from these college students really struck the band, Plant in particular. As he says in the clip, "We got off a plane, and we were given Iceland on a plate." To capture the feeling of the Icelandic visit, Plant borrowed imagery from the small nation's Viking heritage, imagining Zep as modern day Nordic warriors coming to conquer new lands. That said, the song is not the cock-rock manifesto for conquering the world that most people think it is; it's meant to be funny. It's Plant and his pals making a joke about their public image as leaden metalheads. Actually, quite a bit of Led Zeppelin III is a message to fans and the music press to "lighten up." (Check out the tracks "Out on the Tiles," "Gallows Pole," and "Hats Off to (Roy) Harper" for further evidence.)
At first blush, there doesn't seem to be a lot going on in "The Wanton Song," a track from Physical Graffiti (1975) that came about as the result of an impromptu jam during a soundcheck on the band's 1973 tour. Jimmy Page just plays the same two notes, an octave apart, over and over. And Robert Plant delivers one of his less subtle and more reptilian sets of lyrics. There's no mysticism or references to Tolkien lore, only slightly poetic references to shagging groupies. (Like the song "Sick Again" from the same album, it's an illustrative snapshot of 70s hard rock excess on the road.) But there's just something about the simplicity and raunch of Page's riff over the dripping funk of John Bonham's drums and John Paul Jones's bass. It creates a hypnotic effect that somehow never grows stale, even after repeated plays. (I know, because I listened to the song on repeat for a solid 3 hours once when I was working on a web design project in college.) There's also something electrifying about when the band moves in unison through the series of complex (almost jazz-like) chord changes from the grimy verses to the sparkling instrumental choruses. Page's guitar fed through a rotating Leslie speaker almost sounds like chirping birds greeting a brand new day, which I think fits the theme of the song pretty well: whatever hormone-fueled mistakes took place the night before get erased with the light of each new day/each new face/each new city. And the wheel rolls on...
So here's the thing: I think "Stairway to Heaven" is overrated and overplayed. It's a decent song, but it's also self-consciously grandiose in a way that suggests the band was trying to prove something. And then there's all the brouhaha over whether or not Jimmy Page stole the opening guitar line/chord progression from the 1968 track "Taurus" by the band Spirit—a band that Led Zeppelin opened for on its 1969 US tour. (Listen for yourself, and you make the call.) The real epic on Zep's 1971 untitled fourth album is "When the Levee Breaks," a dramatic reworking of the 1929 Delta blues tune by "Kansas Joe" McCoy and his wife, "Memphis Minnie" Lawler, about the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927. In fact, the only thing the band held onto from the original was the lyric. (In this particular case, they had the good sense and decorum to acknowledge "Memphis Minnie" in the writing credits.) Lawler's words paint a harrowing picture of the 1927 disaster: rising floodwaters and breached levees forcing throngs of people from their homes while others downriver awaited their fate and worried. The lyrics are eerie enough on the original recording; but in Robert Plant's hands, they have a gravity that's downright apocalyptic and an electricity that's irresistible. Granted, it doesn't hurt that he has John Bonham behind him, playing one of the most thunderous, resonating beats in all of rock (an effect that was achieved by Bonham playing his drum kit at the bottom of a stairwell and engineer Andy Johns recording him from two floors above). More than anything, though, I love this song for the little melodic shifts and genius production touches (like the backward harmonica line) that help foster the sense of building tension. Especially leading up to the final minute, when Page's guitar lines surface, pan across, and then get submerged—not unlike watching debris in floodwaters.
So it's pretty widely known what inspired the song "Black Dog" from Led Zeppelin's untitled fourth album: bassist John Paul Jones had been listening to the 1968 Muddy Waters concept album Electric Mud, which pairs the bluesman with young rockers to create acid-fried renditions of his old hits. Jones wanted to do a funky electric blues in a similar vein, but one that wasn't too simplistic. So he came up with the serpentine core riff, which wraps itself around alternating 4/4 and 5/4 time.
The song's start-stop vocal-instrumental sections were inspired by a different artist, however. That aspect of the song is an homage to Fleetwood Mac's 1969 song "Oh Well," in which Peter Green shifts between a cappella vocals and electric, bluesy riffing. (Yeah, kids. Fleetwood Mac was a very different creature in the late 60s.)
Anyway, the first time I heard "Black Dog," it was by accident.
It was probably mid-December 1981. To keep me from being underfoot while my mother was trying to bake Christmas cookies, she gave me the task of queueing up a couple of Christmas albums on my dad's turntable—a task I'd gotten pretty good at, even as a toddler. I pulled a stack of albums off the shelf, and I saw this one that had an old fashioned depiction of Santa Claus on the cover. (At least that's what it looked like to me.) So I stacked the record on the turntable along with the Norman Luboff Choir, Henry Mancini, the London Philharmonic, etc.
Time passed. "Jingle Bells," "Sleigh Ride," and the "Hallelujah" chorus played. Then, out of nowhere, this banshee wail blasted out of the stereo: Hey, hey mama, said the way you move / Gon' make you sweat, gon' make you groove.
I thought it was hilarious. To my ears, Plant's preternaturally high voice was the funniest thing I'd ever heard; I asked my mother if he was a Muppet. She got a big kick, too, out of me thinking that The Hermit on the front cover was some sort of Olde English depiction of Santa.
So, there you go.
As I got older, I came to appreciate the song for the flaming chunk of clever, raunchy blues fire that it is. Although, I'll admit, I still chuckle at the thought of a felt puppet version of Robert Plant, belting out this song.
If you've never read Cameron Crowe's 1975 Rolling Stone article "The Durable Led Zeppelin," read it. It sheds light on a number of things about the band--namely, what's fact and what's fiction. It also confirms that they're intelligent, talented guys who were intensely serious about their music (even when they weren't being all that serious on the road). It's really a great, well-written article by an 18-year-old Crowe. In the article, lead singer Robert Plant reveals what the song "Ten Years Gone" from 1975's Physical Graffiti is all about:
"Let me tell you a little story behind the song 'Ten Years Gone' on our new album. I was working my ass off before joining Zeppelin. A lady I really dearly loved said, 'Right. It's me or your fans.' Not that I had fans, but I said, 'I can't stop, I've got to keep going.' She's quite content these days, I imagine. She's got a washing machine that works by itself and a little sports-car. We wouldn't have anything to say anymore. I could probably relate to her, but she couldn't relate to me. I'd be smiling too much. Ten years gone, I'm afraid."
Various articles I've read over the years have said that the woman he's singing to/about in "Ten Years Gone" is Shirley Wilson, the sister of Plant's then-wife Maureen Wilson. Shirley, Plant's girlfriend from the mid-60s when his career was just getting started, wasn't a fan of the rock & roll lifestyle, and she gave Plant an ultimatum. So they split up, and Plant took up with her sister, Maureen, who was less concerned about his constant gigging and all of the trappings of life on the road. Despite building a life and having three children with Maureen, Plant pined for Shirley (as is crystal clear in the song). Some years later, after he and Maureen had divorced and Led Zeppelin had disbanded, he and Shirley got back together for the better part of a decade and had a son, Jesse Lee, in 1991. While the history behind the song is bar-trivia interesting, it's the quintessential Zep treatment of this ballad that draws me in every time. The shifting dynamics, the thunderous rhythm section, Jimmy Page's crunching riffs and countless layers of guitars (especially on that gorgeous bridge), and Plant's expressive vocal--they all combine to create an intensely powerful, yet immensely tender, song. I don't know of many bands that could pull that off without sounding hokey.
When it comes to prototypical hard rock, it doesn't get much heavier than Led Zeppelin II (1969). Written and recorded in short bursts while the band was touring North America and Europe in early/mid-1969, the entire album burns with an urgency and immediacy that makes it still sound fresh today. That said, for every thunderous, riff-based track like "Whole Lotta Love" or "Heartbreaker" that Led Zeppelin II contains, there's an equally nuanced track to balance it out. ("Light and shade" as the band's guitarist Jimmy Page likes to put it.) "Ramble On" is one of those amazingly nuanced tracks. It begins with Page's bucolic acoustic strumming, syncopated with a steady rhythm of 16th notes, played by drummer John Bonham. Played on what is a subject of debate: the most common claim is that he's tapping his drumsticks on his vinyl drum seat (or throne, if you will); other people postulate everything from a plastic garbage can lid to the bottom of his shoe. Based on how flat and sticky it sounds, my vote is for the vinyl seat. The feel is very folky (for a few seconds), until John Paul Jones--former session musician and self-professed Stax/Motown fanatic--comes in with his bass, which automatically lends an almost R&B feel to the song. Then, the layers continue to build as Robert Plant's hushed vocal breezes in, followed by a mellow, finger-picked electric guitar, which lends a bluegrass vibe for a fleeting moment. And the second you think the song is going retreat back into the woods for a quiet stroll through the falling leaves, everything shifts into high gear on the chorus, and you're on a Harley, doing 70 mph down a sunny country road: Page's guitar crackles, Plant launches into his banshee wail, Bonham punches his drums like they owe him money, and Jones--well, he just keeps it funky on the low end. A moment later, you've ditched the Hog, you're ambling down a wooded path, and there are Tolkienesque visions and a Medieval-sounding recorder, swirling through your head... It's easily one of the best songs the band ever put on tape and a very direct precursor to the band's 1971 epic, "Stairway to Heaven."
"D'yer Mak'er" from the 1973 album Houses of the Holy is probably one of the poppiest songs in Led Zeppelin's massive catalog. But I wouldn't call it "lightweight" by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, it doesn't blaze with leaden, electric blues fire like "Whole Lotta Love" or "Heartbreaker," but it's still a heavy groove, largely due to John Bonham's thunderous-yet-swinging drumming and John Paul Jones's insistent bassline. What's more, Jimmy Page's understated riffing throughout, Jones's syncopated piano overdubs, and Robert Plant's pleading (almost vulnerable) delivery give it a certain sexiness that make it the ideal song for fogging up the windows of your hooptie with someone special. Which is the perfect segue into talking about the title of the song. It's pronounced "Jer-maker," not "Dire Maker," as people often think. It comes from the punchline of an old Cockney joke: Man 1: My wife's going on 'oliday. Man 2: D'yer mak 'er? (As in, "Jamaica?" but spoken so fast and with Cockney r's inserted so that it comes out sounding like "Did you make her?") Man 1: No, she's going on 'er own accord. So it's a reference to "Jamaica," because the song is stylistically a take-off on dub reggae, as well as the phrase "Didja make 'er?" meaning...well, y'know.
Led Zeppelin's untitled fourth album simply is one of the greatest discs in rock and roll. And although not quite as famous as "Stairway to Heaven" or a perennial classic rock radio favorite like "Misty Mountain Hop," the song "Four Sticks" is one of the most unique, risk-taking tracks on the album. Unlike most rock or blues songs, which are in 4/4 time, the song is based on a North African folk rhythm that oscillates between 5/8 and 6/8 time every few bars, creating a hypnotic pattern that is extremely difficult to count out, much less play.
In fact, drummer John Bonham was having a helluva time keeping time during the recording session because of the tricky shifting time signature. After a few failed takes, he picked up an additional set of drumsticks (i.e. two in each hand) out of sheer frustration and proceeded to pound out another take, which was flawless. Because he drummed with four sticks, the band called the track "Four Sticks."
I've also read that music journalists back in the day had labeled the band "four sticks in the mud" because they didn't care for talking to the press. So "Four Sticks" also was a proverbial "f you" to journalists and critics. (I've read this explanation several times over the years, but have yet to find an article from the 70s where a critic specifically uses the phrase "four sticks in the mud.")
Anyway, it's Jimmy Page riffing at his raunchy and majestic best. Robert Plant ripping his vocal cords to shreds. John Paul Jones doing double duty on electric bass and VCS3 synthesizer. And, of course, Bonzo drumming like a madman from start to finish.
I feel sorry for anyone who still thinks Led Zeppelin was a heavy metal band. Classic Rock radio plays "Whole Lotta Love" 100 times a day, and people equate that with the band's entire output. Even though that's like hearing only "Down By The Seaside" from Physical Graffiti and labeling them a country-rock outfit based on that one song. Sure, the boys could do blooze and decibels better than almost anyone out there in the 1970s. But, heavy metal? Hardly. If anything, they had a strong affection for early, fun rock and roll--Little Richard, The Monotones, Jerry Lee Lewis, et al. (I'll have to look this up, but I think maybe they even did a song about the subject.) I think that influence is pretty apparent on Houses of the Holy's "The Ocean"--a tribute to their fans in which lyricist/lead vocalist/golden god Robert Plant likens the roaring sea of people at their concerts to an ocean. The whole song is done with a wink and smile. There's John Bonham's barely audible chant at the beginning ("We done 4 [takes] already, but now we're steady, and then they went 1, 2, 3, 4...") before he and John Paul Jones trick you into thinking the song's in 4/4 before shifting to 7/8, just to fuck up your footwork. There's Jimmy Page's little oooooh's on guitar that sound like a reenactment of a nubile groupie getting frisky with a mud shark. And then there's Plant's a cappella lala-ing through the bridge, like he's about to teach us the letter of the day with Grover and Cookie Monster, just before everything abruptly shifts to a 50s-style doo-wop groove. It's weird, wacky stuff. And no one else could pull it off as gloriously and seamlessly as this band.
Since the previous two posts were about classical pieces, it only seems appropriate to talk about a rock track that incorporates elements of classical music: "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin. In music journalist and filmmaker Cameron Crowe's liner notes for The Complete Studio Recordings boxed set (1993), he states that guitarist Jimmy Page had been working on portions of the song for almost three years before the track was released on 1975's Physical Graffiti. It essentially was a warmup piece that gradually evolved into a full-blown composition with layers of guitars, mellotron, as well as actual strings and brass, arranged by the band's bassist/keyboardist/resident Swiss Army knife, John Paul Jones. Crowe notes that it's also one of Robert Plant's proudest lyrical moments, inspired by the vocalist's travels along a long desert road in Southern Morocco. Quoting Crowe's interview with Plant: "It was a single track road which cut neatly through the desert. Two miles to the East and West were ridges of sandrock. It basically looked like you were driving down a channel, this dilapidated road, and there was seemingly no end to it. 'Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dreams...' It's one of my favorites...It was so positive, lyrically." In the interview, Plant also praises drummer John Bonham's contributions to the track, citing Bonham's "thrift" as the key factor that makes the song work. And I completely agree. So many of Bonham's contemporaries from the late 60s and 70s were "busy" drummers; I'll put Keith Moon in that category (although, his wild man style was perfect for The Who), as well as Ginger Baker (curmudgeonly egomaniac who still has no sense of groove.) It's Bonham's straightforward, driving groove and tasteful use of fills and punctuating cymbals along the way that give the song its sense of journey. There's no showboating; there's only a deep respect for the song itself that comes through in every lick. Although it is hard to pick a favorite track from the Zep canon, "Kashmir" is definitely up there for me. Let's call it my favorite epic track of theirs. (I far prefer it to "Stairway to Heaven," which--don't get me wrong--is a finely wrought piece of music. It also has been played to death by FM radio and co-opted as a stoner anthem because of its veiled drug references wrapped in Olde English mysticism. It was cool in high school, but now it can be a little too much tie-dye and Tolkien to digest.) "Kashmir" is unique in that it perfectly combines a sense of mystic beauty and light with Page and Bonham's signature thundering crunch. It embodies the very name of the band: Led Zeppelin.
