Becoming Led Zeppelin: Came Saw Conquered

To their detrac­tors, Led Zep­pelin were far too com­mer­cial­ly suc­cess­ful to be tak­en seri­ous­ly as artists, and all too quick­ly suc­cumbed to what then become a clichéd descent into a hedo­nis­tic hell of their own mak­ing, with the inevitably trag­ic result.

What this exhil­a­rat­ing doc­u­men­tary fea­ture shows is that they’re far bet­ter under­stood as the spir­i­tu­al fore­bears of Radio­head. A band of, in this case, four incred­i­bly dri­ven musi­cal mavens hell bent on pur­su­ing a very par­tic­u­lar musi­cal direc­tion, who, inex­plic­a­bly, wake up one morn­ing to dis­cov­er they’ve con­quered the world, notwith­stand­ing the sin­gu­lar­i­ty of that musi­cal vision.

One of the rea­sons the doc­u­men­tary works so well is that, hav­ing shunned all and any pub­lic­i­ty for their entire careers, espe­cial­ly doc­u­men­taries like these, now that they’ve all agreed to final­ly par­tic­i­pate in one, they are each uncom­mon­ly can­did and open.

And they are ‘all’ here, as the three sur­viv­ing mem­bers are accom­pa­nied by the voice of drum­mer John Bon­ham, thanks to a recent­ly unearthed inter­view that Bon­ham gave before his death in 1980.

The rea­son these hith­er­to reclus­es have sud­den­ly opened up so casu­al­ly is the mutu­al respect that they and the film mak­ers enjoy. And the rea­son for that is Amer­i­can Epic, which was the project that film mak­ers Bernard MacMa­hon and Alli­son McGour­ty made before this one.

Amer­i­can Epic, which I reviewed ear­li­er here, is a 3 part doc­u­men­tary that charts the birth of record­ed music in Amer­i­ca in the 1920s, and the musi­cal gen­res that that gave birth to; the blues, coun­try, blue­grass, RnB, rock ‘n’ roll, rap, hip hop and all man­ner of pop.

The argu­ment this film makes, entire­ly con­vinc­ing­ly, is the Led Zep­pelin are the miss­ing link that con­nects every­thing that came before 1969, and every­thing that fol­lowed, after 1970. 

As much as any­thing else, this is cul­tur­al his­to­ry rather than mere music his­to­ry, in much the same way that Peter Gar­al­nick’s tow­er­ing Sweet Soul Music is as much about race and the Amer­i­ca of the 1950s and ‘60s, as it is about Sam Cooke and James Brown

So what we get for most of the first hour is a his­to­ry of 1960s Lon­don, and the dif­fer­ent paths that the four men take before final­ly form­ing the band. 

There’s Jim­my Page, becom­ing one of the most in-demand ses­sion gui­tarists, and then pro­duc­ers in town, work­ing with every­one from The Kinks and The Who to The Rolling Stones and Van Mor­ri­son

While Bassist, and then arranger, John Paul Jones was sim­i­lar­ly record­ing with all of the above, which is how they meet. While also arrang­ing for the likes of Françoise Hardy, Shirley Bassey, Dusty Spring­field and the Walk­er Brothers.

Even­tu­al­ly, in 1968, Page teams up with Jones to form a band, and, some­how, they enlist the tal­ents of the force of nature that is Robert Plant, and his close friend and col­lab­o­ra­tor, drum­mer John Bonham. 

In those days, the genial Plant was repelled from con­ven­tion­al soci­ety and main­stream cul­ture in much the same way that elec­trons are in per­pet­u­al flight from the pro­tons they orbit. Remark­ably, the sec­ond he and the oth­er three start play­ing togeth­er, every­thing fits into place, and sparks explode spec­tac­u­lar­ly into the ether.

When the film final­ly gives us a taste of the actu­al music, its sound is sig­nif­i­cant­ly rich­er from hav­ing been posit­ed in the midst of the cul­tur­al and musi­cal land­scape that it sprang from. 

Dif­fer­ent in size and scope to Amer­i­can Epic, Becom­ing Led Zep­pelin is every bit as impres­sive, and makes for absolute­ly manda­to­ry view­ing. And should, if pos­si­ble, be seen in a cinema. 

And I defy you to resist imme­di­ate­ly going in search of, at the very least, those first two albums the sec­ond you exit the cinema.

Watch the trail­er for Becom­ing Led Zep­pelin here:

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The New U2 Album, Robert Plant and Staying Relevant.

U2.

U2’s Songs of Inno­cence.

Vet­er­an U2 fans have long greet­ed the launch of a new album with increas­ing trep­i­da­tion. Last week was, alas, more of the same. Their lat­est, Songs Of Inno­cence, sounds like the album from a Broad­way musi­cal, cel­e­brat­ing the youth of a 90s rock band. The tracks might very well be, as the band keep telling us, a col­lec­tion of inti­mate, per­son­al songs, but they sound like they are being per­formed by a U2 trib­ute band. Some of the riffs have been lift­ed clean off of the Joshua Tree.

U2’s prob­lem has always been Achtung Baby (’91). Which wasn’t just a seis­mic leap for­ward for the band at the time, it was one of the sem­i­nal albums of the decade. The prob­lem then is, how on earth do you fol­low it?

Achtung Baby!

Achtung Baby!

Zooropa (’93) and Pas­sen­gers (’95) was the sound of band grap­pling with what to do now that they’d become the glob­al phe­nom­e­non they’d always dreamt of. You could hear them intent­ly lis­ten­ing to what was going on around them try­ing to feel their way for­ward. All That You Can’t Leave Behind (‘00) was a very pleas­ing col­lec­tion of con­ven­tion­al sin­gles, but was tac­it­ly under­stood as a brief hiatus.

But the three albums over the 14 years that have fol­lowed have proved whol­ly unre­mark­able and have mere­ly pro­vid­ed the band with more-of-the-same to per­form live with. So why not be done with stu­dio albums for good? Because a live band is essen­tial­ly what they’ve become.

It’s per­fect­ly accept­able in the worlds of RnB, blues and jazz to stop fever­ish­ly pro­duc­ing new mate­r­i­al, and to spend your lat­ter years re-exam­in­ing your can­non, con­cen­trat­ing instead on pro­duc­ing the kinds of live per­for­mances that only come with age and expe­ri­ence. What’s the point of fur­ther adding to an already impres­sive back cat­a­logue with mass pro­duced, sub-stan­dard, repli­ca copies?

Robert Plant.

Robert Plant.

Incred­i­bly few bands man­age that per­ilous bal­anc­ing act of fill­ing vast sta­di­ums and of pro­duc­ing qual­i­ty albums of gen­uine sub­stance. U2 were one, Led Zep­pelin were anoth­er. Amaz­ing­ly, Robert Plant turned his back on the peer­less 70s hell-rais­ers in 1980, and has been qui­et­ly plough­ing his own fur­row ever since.

His musi­cal wan­der­lust has seen him explor­ing the roots Amer­i­cana of the deep south, and of where all that came from in the music of west Africa. Unex­pect­ed­ly, if quite cor­rect­ly, he burst into pub­lic view again in 2007 with his Ali­son Krauss col­lab­o­ra­tion Rais­ing Sand, which won the Gram­my for Album of The Year in 2008 and sold by the tonne.

Lullaby… And the Ceaseless Roar.

Lul­la­by and… The Cease­less Roar.

Band of Joy fol­lowed in 2010, prov­ing for those not in the know that Rais­ing Sand wasn’t a blip but part of a ful­ly formed renais­sance. And now he’s back with anoth­er new band (part of an old one actu­al­ly), with his lat­est album, Lul­la­by and… The Cease­less Roar.

The Sen­sa­tion­al Space Shifters include mem­bers of the Strange Sen­sa­tion which he formed over a decade ago. He’s joined by both the key­boardist and bassist from Por­tishead, as well as Justin Adams, a pro­duc­er who’s worked with Bri­an Eno and, more recent­ly, the blues Tuareg band, Tinawiren. That’s how you stay rel­e­vant. Musi­cal­ly inquis­i­tive, reveal­ing, prob­ing and plain­tive, it gets an approv­ing 7.0 from the boys from Pitch­fork here. And could eas­i­ly have got more.

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