witch mountain band

Once upon a time, in a small town, there was a little boy named Tim. Tim loved winter and everything that came with it, especially building snowmen. Every year, as soon as the first snowfall arrived, Tim would rush outside to build his snowman. This year, the snowfall was especially magical. The snowflakes were big and fluffy, creating a pristine white blanket on the ground. Tim was beyond excited and wasted no time in building his snowman.

Jimmy Page took Led Zeppelin to superstardom in the Seventies with songs including Whole Lotta Love and Stairway To Heaven.

Once, when a hotel receptionist said it must feel great to throw a television through a window, the band s legendary manager, Peter Grant, took 200 out of his wallet and said, Here, be our guest. Unsurprisingly there s very little evidence that Page was in cahoots with Beelzebub, although he was a devoted follower of someone who may well have been renowned British occultist Aleister Crowley.

Tim was beyond excited and wasted no time in building his snowman. As Tim rolled the first snowball, he noticed something strange. The snowball seemed to have a mind of its own, rolling effortlessly without Tim's guidance.

Jimmy Page on the true story behind ‘Stairway To Heaven’

Jimmy Page: the defining figure of a thousand heavy metal tropes, pioneer of stage and studio and the visionary who conjured rock’s greatest ever album sequence. What’s more, he’s been his own archivist since the day he first picked up a guitar. From the creation of Led Zeppelin’s modern mythology to the true story of ‘Stairway To Heaven’, here, in his own words, is the undisputed lord of the riffs

UNITED KINGDOM - MAY 17: EARLS COURT Photo of Jimmy PAGE and LED ZEPPELIN, Jimmy Page performing live onstage (Photo by Ian Dickson/Redferns) Ian Dickson

Led Zeppelin remain rock’s great colossus, the perennial soundtrack to mayhem and carnage, a band that have, over the years, been yoked to all manner of imaginary rampaging hordes. In their heyday – in the 1970s, when they were fully operational – they were the hard rock equivalent of the thunderous blitzkrieg, a gang of marauding Viking warriors, the template of pre-punk orthodoxy and the bar by which every other rock group was judged.

Few managed it, as Zeppelin’s high-concept, high-octane mix of light and shade, of push and pull and loud and quiet – all of it determined by the group’s leader, Jimmy Page – was nigh on impossible to top.

Of course, it couldn’t last. When punk rock consumed the music industry towards the end of the 1970s, Zeppelin were suddenly regarded as unnecessary behemoths, the veritable dinosaurs of rock. But in the last 30 years or so, there has been something of gradual volte-face, through which the band have been promoted back to the industry premiership, where they now reside as permanent fixtures – inviolate, immaculate and beyond reproach.

They remain an incubator of heroic fantasies and it is now impossible to listen to the likes of “Trampled Under Foot”, “Kashmir”, “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” or any of their other Wagnerian classics, complete with their wailing and their titanic rock riffs, without imagining yourself as the invading conqueror of something or other – even if you’re just overtaking someone on the M40.

Jimmy Page knows this, and he knew it at the time, when he was masterminding all of the band’s momentous records: their 1969 debut, Led Zeppelin, which invented the 1970s in the space of 44 minutes and 54 seconds, and at a cost of just £1,782 (one of Page’s original names for the group was the more prosaic Mad Dogs; they had only been together for two-and-a-half weeks before they recorded it); Led Zeppelin II, also from 1969, the heaviest rock album ever made; 1970’s Led Zeppelin III, in which the band showed their acoustic side; Led Zeppelin IV, from 1971, which contained “Stairway To Heaven” (unceasingly voted the greatest rock song ever recorded, for a while this became the most played track on US radio; it was so beloved by aspiring guitarists that it was actually banned from being played in some guitar shops); 1973’s relatively lacklustre Houses Of The Holy; 1975’s monumental double album Physical Graffiti, which continued their acknowledgement of what would soon become known as world music; their 1976 pre-punk showpiece Presence; and their 1979 swan song In Through The Out Door. Page produced each and every one of them, alone. The band were Page’s vision and he crafted them according to what he thought a modern rock band should be: explosive, dynamic, all-conquering, the last word in savagery.

‘What we were selling was the music and nothing else. The record label didn’t understand that’

When you listen to Zeppelin you can imagine the four of them – bare-chested singer Robert Plant, bulldozer drummer John Bonham and the inevitably quiet bassist, John Paul Jones, all lending support to Page’s vision – standing tall, standing proud, putting their hands on their hips (perhaps under the mighty brow of a prophetic mountain) and surveying the skyline, almost as though their music was being made without them. In a sense that wouldn’t have been so surprising, because as Zeppelin’s extraordinary sound started to become so otherworldly – it was on Led Zeppelin II that the futuristic brutality of their noise began to take shape – it became easy to assume that this really was the music of the gods, with Page and co acting as mere conduits.

In their time, these conduits certainly attracted their own disciples, because in the first half of the 1970s most young men between the ages of 15 and 25 tried to look like Page or Plant: shoulder-length locks, billowing flares (covered perhaps in one of the band’s rune-like symbols), maybe a velvet jacket and a pair of platform boots. It was during the cooler months when their disciples could be mistaken for a real army, however, as they would wander around in old army great coats, the type with big fat belts, possibly holding a Zeppelin album under their arm, to show their allegiance. For some reason – probably because of its extremely recognisable cover, which was based on a photo of Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, and his “Flying Circus” Jagdstaffel 11 squadron during the First World War from 1917 – this was usually a copy of Led Zeppelin II. So not only did Jimmy Page’s band sound like nothing on earth, but they managed to co-opt an entire generation of decidedly earthbound devotees.

The band always felt that too much explanation of their work or the examination of its origins was unnecessary, yet at their heart they were a modern blues band, a heavy one at that. If you aspired to be a member of the rock fraternity in the early 1970s, you were judged on how “heavy” you were, how loud, how showy, how dynamic. If your power chords were riotous and barbarous and “authentic” enough (whatever that meant and, actually, no one ever really knew) then you were allowed into the fold. Zeppelin were universally considered to be the heaviest group of them all – Page’s riffs and power chords had monumental strength – and so consequently they were often deemed to be the coolest.

The band also became a byword for debauchery and excess, and everything they did was on a grand scale: comestible-covered groupies seemed to be readily available, Bonham could be seen riding motorcycles down hotel corridors, while rented rooms were regularly trashed and “redecorated”. Once, when a hotel receptionist said it must feel great to throw a television through a window, the band’s legendary manager, Peter Grant, took $200 out of his wallet and said, “Here, be our guest.” One story has Page being delivered to a waiting throng of girls on a room service trolley. Their sexual extravagance was mirrored in some of their songs: during “Communication Breakdown”, for instance, Robert Plant can be heard to scream, “Suck it,” just before Page delivers a ferocious guitar solo. While this seems unconscionable now, it was symptomatic of the age. More menacingly, Page had a fascination for the occult, especially the work of the author and magician Aleister Crowley. This allowed the increasingly copious number of Zeppelin fantasists to paint ever-more colourful narratives of the band’s so-called “deal with the devil”. Of course, none of it was true, but it was great for business.

The band always felt that too much explanation of their work or the examination of its origins was unnecessary, yet at their heart they were a modern blues band, a heavy one at that. If you aspired to be a member of the rock fraternity in the early 1970s, you were judged on how “heavy” you were, how loud, how showy, how dynamic. If your power chords were riotous and barbarous and “authentic” enough (whatever that meant and, actually, no one ever really knew) then you were allowed into the fold. Zeppelin were universally considered to be the heaviest group of them all – Page’s riffs and power chords had monumental strength – and so consequently they were often deemed to be the coolest.

Intrigued but not alarmed, Tim continued to build his snowman. With each snowball he added, the snowman seemed to take on a life of its own. The eyes sparkled with mischief, the carrot nose twitched, and the twig arms waved in the wind. Tim couldn't believe his eyes. This was no ordinary snowman - it was a magical snowman! Tim spent the entire day playing and talking with his magical snowman. They laughed and played games, and the magical snowman taught Tim how to make snow angels like never before. It was the most memorable day of Tim's life. But as the sun began to set, the magical snowman's magic began to fade. The sparkle in its eyes dimmed, and the carrot nose drooped. Tim felt a pang of sadness in his heart, knowing that his time with the magical snowman was coming to an end. Before the magical snowman completely melted away, it smiled at Tim and said, "Thank you for believing in magic. Remember, the magic of the snow will always be with you, even when I'm gone." With those words, the magical snowman melted into a puddle of water, leaving only memories behind. Tim stood there, staring at the empty spot where the magical snowman had stood only moments ago. He felt a mix of sadness and gratitude for the incredible experience he had just had. He knew that he would never forget this day, and the magical snowman would always hold a special place in his heart. From that day forward, Tim never looked at snowmen the same way again. He knew that each snowman he built held the potential for magic, even if it wasn't as extraordinary as the magical snowman. And whenever it snowed, Tim would remember the joy and wonder that the magical snowman had brought into his life. The end..

Reviews for "witch mountain band"

witch mountain band