"This photo here," His back starts to face the audience when he addresses the pull-down projector screen from behind that's an other-worldly type of enormous, "Would've been from...'71, I'd say." He still hums and 'um's' in his later age, a nervous, shy habit that can't seem to break despite that maturity creased in his face.
He's always a bit jittery, one hand constlaty moving whilst the other one is stationary on the chair, picking at his lip or the thin black scarf tied around his neck (to match the black heeled boots, the black slim pants, and the black leather jacket of course). Though now, as he sits comfortably in a plush suede chair, a polite cross of his legs, he talks more in the past thirty minutes than he did for most of his twenties. And the crowd certainly doesn't mind it, evidenced by their uproar of applause and giddy, toothy smiles that never fails to make his insides turn and a flush of embarrassment overcome him.
There's a quaint, brown table just to his left, the polish seemed to warn and rubbed but the wood just fine, a pair of blue mugs with water in them, a handkerchief he'd pulled from his pocket (he gets a nagging cough on stage sometimes), and a well-sized, thick, hard-cover copy of a book with his mug (shot, that is) on it from, what the humble Jimmy Page considers, his more attractive years.
"She was a good friend of mine I met in London." His knuckles come to rest just below his lip, straightening out his back before it curls against the chair, "She- April, made all of the, um, my stage costumes." Jimmy uncrosses his legs, ankles bending inwards a tad before he becomes restless again and crosses them the other way. He looks towards the interviewer's side profile, his own eyes transfixed on the unseen content, a moment of real Led Zeppelin fanboy fascination overtakes his expression. The guitarist returns to stare at the image of his youth.
There's so much to say about this photo, so many things to come to his mind but the better, conscious side of him holds him from saying. With over 700 pages in his 'autobiography,' and hours of deep digging in his reading glasses hunched over a lightly lit desk for the rights owners of every photo, he found this particular photograph in his personal archive and thought it was compelling enough to dedicate a page to.
So, why isn't he saying more? The audience gawks at the way he speaks, the way it's so calculated and well thought out. He's got a Rolodex of expansive words in his wisdom ripened mind that sound so essentially educated in his posh accent and soft-spoken voice. There must be more little lined index cards with more words to start the story and explain this picture.
The photo is supple and domestic, in color as well. It certainly is 1971, which is further backed up by the fact that Jimmy (in the photo) has a thick, dark, and extremely full beard that runs along his cheeks and is wiry just under his nose. He sits on the ground in a light pair of flared jeans that could barely hug his thin legs, a fisherman's bucket hat on his shoulder-length wild hair.
Present 70-year-old Jimmy dually notes that it's a surprise the damn hat wasn't glued to his head the way he wore it like you do underwear or socks.
A sizeable rectangle of white fabric lays in front of him, and though you couldn't tell from the photo, its texture is silky and reflective of the natural light. Another thing an onlooker wouldn't see was the memory of tiny pins getting stuck in his palms and fingertips. He, visually, is seen looking at the pattern mapped out on the fabric intently, hands braced on the ground as he sticks another small pin into the paper. You could barely see the man's face when his hair fell on the front of it as it did at this point, but it was undoubtedly James.
He distinctly remembers a Janis Joplin record in the turntable that sat humbly on the hardwood flooring. A small stack of records lays next to the crossed legs of a young woman, dressed in shorts that end somewhere above the knee and a flowing white blouse with two long tassels from the ties in the front swinging down. A long white scarf is rolled and tied into her hair, the excess tails falling down her shoulders by a beaded necklace that was a gift from Robert- who also took the photo.
She smiles, but not for the camera, it's a caught-in-the-action type of shot, watching Jimmy who (usually) knows what to do with his fingers, crawling up and down the neck of a Les Paul like he was born with the reflex, stumble over a few thin, dainty pins. A pair of round prescription glasses rest on top of her head and pull back some of the rowdy, voluminous coils of curls that, really, was an oxymoron because she couldn't make out her own hands without the bifocals. Blind as a bat, Robert would say, Like John Lennon, you see. Round glasses, bad attitude... That's usually when she'd tip her head back and laugh, tossing a wad of crumpled scrap pattern paper at his head, the effortless smirk of amusement on his lips.
"We'd stayed up for days on end- ahm," He coughs into his fist, laughing slightly, "But really I didn't have to, I didn't know how to sew whatsoever. I was just terribly picky of how I wanted everything to look, so I acquainted staying up and probably being a nuisance to furthering the process." The interviewer returns eye contact, "Probably how I still figure things out today." He chuckles lightly, his audience follows at the cheek.
"But this was in Wales, Robert's home in the countryside- where lots of Led Zeppelin III happened." He mindlessly points to the acoustic guitar leaning on a plush-lined sitting chair, next to it a mandolin that is dwarfed by the Gibson. The house is playfully cluttered and messy, it feels homey and comforting- and obvious that two young children live there.
"Try these on, love." April nearly springs up from the floor, finishing the last seam in the sewing machine placed on the ground, carefully going over it back once more.
The trousers are simply regal, they glint against the sunlight like the Queen's best jewels, and the dragon that crawls up the side of the leg hisses in great a detail of embroidery. He holds them up, inspecting them with a close eye; C'mon, drama queen, Robert shouts, Try them on so I can kick you out of my home. His blond hair shakes with his laughter, ringlets bouncing.
"She was one of those people," Jimmy rubs his hands over the thighs of his jean-ed legs, "that was always on the same creative level with me. Always one step ahead of me, even."
And this was true. In lamen's terms, Jimmy Page was a bit of a brat. Always getting what he wanted rather than needed, being Peter Grant's coveted son that he never had, and having the first, last, and final say in every single project, note, and camera shot. He was the center of Led Zeppelin, if not musically but also the yielder of the reigns. Grant was just the scary persuader who was utilized in the lack of Jimmy's physical intimidation, skinny arms and all.
April recognized this, and as a hired employee, she respected this. She even entertained his authority complex, smiling lowly to herself in amusement when he'd huff and puff and carry on with grandiose hand gestures and the posh exaggeration of his mother. Once they'd gotten closer she'd poke his side with a white pencil, stilting his rant, to say, "The princess shall get what she wants," and bow. He'd scoff and flick her nose, pouting with his wild curls frizzed out from the summer heat in America, "You'll at least address me as Queen. I know my worth."
She, somehow, could always see in retrospect. She was the one hand that could be placed on Jimmy's shoulder to calm him down because he believed her. Though he was the aesthetically creative powerhouse of the biggest band since the Beatles, his only execution primarily relied on her.
With a hand firmly gripping the side of his boot, and a nostalgic grin splayed over his aged face, Jimmy Page realizes he is still rendered speechless by the sheer memory of April Ammond.
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A/N: HEYYYY this story has been sitting in my drafts for almost a year....so here's some jim content
BINABASA MO ANG
unwind - J.P.
Fanfiction"What is this?" "My costume," he slurs, one hand running through his mess of hair, "You need to fix it, something's come loose." He regains a stable footing by leaning on the thin walkway halls of her modest hotel room, "You're very good at it." -- ...
