Turn My Page | Led Zeppelin

Nobody's Fault But Mine

  Robert hopped into the limousine first, his skin-tight bell-bottoms being stretched to their max right in my face, much to my dismay. Then I hopped in, followed by Jones, then Bonzo. Richard slammed the door behind us and left without saying a word.

  Cop cars were positioned at the ready to escort us to the airport where we were to head off to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to preform at The Spectrum tomorrow.

  The driver of the limo looked back at us and asked: "Are you ready? I've been given the thumbs-up." No one said anything, so he zoned in on me. "Why the long face, son? Are you going to be sick?"

  "I'm hunky-dory, thank you," I promised. But I wasn't. I didn't feel too well; my throat was sore, I had upper stomach pains that occurred on and off, and worst of all was the small hang-over from last night. I told myself to throw the Jack Daniels away, but instead I drank away my embarrassment at what had happened between me and... oh, blast... what was her name..... Vicky!

  I was embarrassed at what had happened between me and Vicky. At the thought of her name I looked down at the silver bracelet around my wrist (that surprisingly fit fine) that gave a lyric from Whole Lotta Love. The pain in my chest flared up again and I blamed it on heart-burn.

  The driver turned back to face the road and started up the limo. At the sound of this, standing police officers raced toward their cars and sirens began to screech. The other people (managers and producers) began to swarm into their cars and two men clamoured into a moving truck that held our things.

  The limo, in the center of all the automobiles, began to crawl forward, waiting for the police wall to drive forward. When they did and pulled out of the parking lot of someplace that I did not know, the limo followed.

  They pulled out onto the highway and kept a steady speed behind the siren-blazing cop cars. The manager's cars drove behind us, and after them was the moving truck, then four drivers who would be ferrying our cars over, and finally the following wall of police cars.

  Commotion began in the backseat of the limo. Robert turned and grabbed the glass of champagne as well as four glasses from a luxury cabinet next to him. He handed everyone a glass and poured them a mouthful.

  "To not being beastly!" Robert proposed. Everyone laughed and brought their cups in for a toast. Alcohol was the last thing I wanted-- or needed. But I drank the champagne alike the rest, although it was not satisfactory. My stomach did a flip, yelling, "Stop drinking, stop drinking!" repetitively. But I couldn't stop.

  "You look all sixes and sevens, Jimmy," Bonzo observed. "Are you sure you're feeling fit?"

  "Huh?" Jimmy wasn't paying attention "Oh, yes, I'm sure. Look, I'm just nervous about the concert, aright! You all should be!" Yes, that's good, he thought, blame it on the concert when you know it's the fact that you got hammered last night on three bottles of Jack Daniels....

  "That's true," Jones observed. "After this one, we're going to New York, and we all know what New York can be like." Everyone agreed and drank their fancy Bubbly. Jimmy, however, restrained himself from drinking another glass. Although I knew he had the reputation as the heavy drinker, Robert knew that it was best to preform either high or completely straight (no alcohol, no drugs, good sleep(.

  "Hey, why did Peter turn down Woodstock?" Robert asked, trying to shake everyone up. Robert had really wanted to preform at Woodstock back in '69, but our manager, Peter, had said it would "change the public perception of us as a wholesome band". A wholesome band that did drugs and got hammered every other night, screwing ladies we don't even know. I chuckled. Wholesome. My ass!