Bibek Acharya
As a journalist, I have a habit of ruining the simple pub meet-up with friends by asking what I think are fun, hypothetical questions. After I’ve got them to name their dream Glastonbury headliners and all-time band line-up, I bring out the big guns: “If you had a time machine, what gig would you go back to?”. Jimi Hendrix, Oasis and Led Zeppelin are but a few of the heavy hitters consistently named.
The drunkest at the table flippantly say they want to see Hendrix light the guitar on fire, while the loudest want to go to Knebworth to watch Oasis, while a third simply dreams of a simpler time in music, where phones were plugged in devices, shirts would always be worn open-collared, and a 12-string was the only instrument that deviated from the norm. While there are many bands who champion this era, for this third member facing my quiz question, Led Zeppelin are the epitome.
They celebrate a brand of bona fide rock and roll that we millennials can only speculate about. The music industry was lucrative, the lifestyle excessive, and the tunes extravagant. Led Zeppelin seized the crown in this royal era of rock music, blending John Bonham’s ruthless rhythmic power, supported by John Paul Jones on bass. The pair platformed Jimmy Page’s electrifying guitar style that gave wings to Robert Plant’s soaring and powerful vocals.
While we British are understandably keen to adopt them as one of our own and label them one of the country’s finest exports, there is something more worldly about them. Almost as if they descended from intergalactic space to deliver a brand of world-changing rock. They became global megastars from the instant their debut record hit shelves and made the dangling carrot of breaking into America seem an entirely easy task.
Their sex appeal and charisma did indeed have a lot to do with it, but ultimately, they were a once-in-a-generation rock band whose music acted as a lightning rod to the 1970s—a decade where the economics of popularity were certifiably up for grabs after the dissolution of The Beatles.
But while our imagination of their live shows largely exists in American arenas and the sultry bars of opulent Hollywood establishments, their seminal moment was born of a familiar territory. Yes, to the surprise of the Oasis championing member of my pub discussion, the turf of Knebworth was hallowed long before the heady days of Britpop.
In 1979, the band played a raucous set at the now-famed Hertfordshire estate. The scale of the venue and their music alone brought the theatrics to what was a minimal stage setup, showcasing their enigmatic ability to be air-tight and improvisational in equal measure. And to frontman Robert Plant, one song in particular typified the energy of that display.
“You should go to a clip from ‘Achilles Last Stand’ at Knebworth. Because the unity between these guys was unbelievable. If you couldn’t get near that, then it would be a real soulless empty experience, which nobody wants.”
