July 29, 1973, New York City: Possibly because Jimmy was a known collector of memorabilia relating to the English satanist Aleister Crowley, and especially because he bought Crowley’s house in Scotland, he got bizarre mail and death threats. On the final night of a five-night run at Madison Square Garden, more security men than usual checked out the area underneath the stage. The band did a blistering three-and-a-half-hour set, and when it was over we were inexplicably shoved into cars and raced to the Upper East Side apartment of the band’s lawyer’s secretary. No one told us why we were there, but for some reason “the boys” needed to be kept away from the Drake Hotel. Later that night, at a party given for the band by Ahmet Ertegun at the Carlyle Hotel, we learned that $203,000 in cash had been stolen from the group’s safe-deposit box at the Drake. (“Peter did have a funny expression on his face,” Robert said, “but what were we going to do? Break down and cry? We had just done a great gig.”) The Drake was crawling with cops and F.B.I. agents; the band’s roadies had to get into the rooms and get rid of the drugs. The next morning Peter Grant, Richard Cole, and Danny Goldberg faced press accusations that the robbery was faked by the band. The band’s position was that someone who worked at the hotel had taken the money. The “case,” such as it was, was never solved. And the 1973 tour was over.

May 7, 1974, New York City: By now, Atlantic Records gave Led Zeppelin anything they wanted, and what they wanted was their own record label, like the Rolling Stones had. Zeppelin’s Swan Song Records signed other acts—the 60s band the Pretty Things, Scottish singer Maggie Bell, and rock band Bad Company, led by ex—Free singer Paul Rodgers. Zeppelin came to New York for a Swan Song launch at the Four Seasons restaurant, where they instructed Danny Goldberg to get some swans for the pool. He couldn’t find any, so he got geese instead. The band was furious. “We all live on farms!,” Robert shouted. “Don’t you think we know the fucking difference?” Bonzo and Richard Cole picked up the geese and let them loose on Park Avenue. The band then traveled to L.A. for a Swan Song launch at the Bel-Air Hotel (with real swans) attended by Bryan Ferry, Bill Wyman, and Groucho Marx. They went back to England to record Physical Graffiti, the double album that included the Eastern-flavored “Kashmir,” which many consider the band’s real masterpiece, as opposed to what was undoubtedly the biggest song of their career—the song that has been played on radio more than any other, the song that ended every one of their shows, the song that was Jimmy’s pride but privately referred to by Robert as “that wedding song”—the pompous “Stairway to Heaven.” (“Every band should end their show with ‘Stairway to Heaven,’” Robert said. “In fact, the Who do a very nice version of it.”)

January 20, 1975, Chicago: There were box-office riots in New York City, Long Island, and Boston when tickets went on sale for Zeppelin’s 1975 U.S. tour. Right before the tour, Jimmy injured his finger getting off a train in England. Robert had the flu. Bonzo’s stomach hurt constantly and he was more homesick than ever. This was not a good start. “I’d like to have it publicized that I came in after Karen Carpenter in the Playboy drummer poll!,” Bonzo roared in the band’s dressing room at the Chicago Stadium. “She couldn’t last 10 minutes with a Zeppelin number,” he sneered. Danny Goldberg told me that Bonzo had just shown up wearing his Clockwork Orange boilersuit and said, wasn’t it a good idea, and who was going to argue with him? When Bonzo was sober, he was a sweetheart—articulate and a gentleman. Drunk, and particularly during a full moon—a nightmare. His drum solo, the 20-minute-long “Moby Dick,” was a concert crowd-pleaser and an opportunity for Jimmy to go back into the dressing room for some sexual activity. Once, Jimmy went back to the hotel during the drum solo. After the show, everyone went to Busters to see Buddy Guy play guitar with a small amp perched on top of a pinball machine. The next morning, Jimmy came to my room in the Ambassador East Hotel around noon for breakfast. He often wouldn’t eat for days on tour (he weighed 130 pounds and wanted to get down to 125), but this time he’d been making vitamin-enriched banana daiquiris in his room—for sustenance. In Peter Grant’s ornate suite (the only one Zsa Zsa Gabor stays in when she’s in Chicago), Peter reminisced about a Midwest hotel clerk from the last tour who admitted that the worst trashing of hotel rooms had occurred during a Methodist youth convention. “The guy was so frustrated about not being able to just go bonkers in a room himself,” Peter said, “that I told him to go and have one on us. He went upstairs, tossed a TV set against the wall, tore up the bed, and I paid the $490 bill.” Late that night at the Bistro, Bonzo—the man known as “the Beast” when he got wild—was sitting quietly in a booth, alone. “You know my wife is expecting again in July,” he told me. “She’s really terrific, the type of lady that when you walk into our house she comes right out with a cup of tea, or a drink, or a sandwich. We met when we were 16, got married at 17. I was a carpenter for a few years; I’d get up at seven in the morning, then change my clothes in the van to go to gigs at night. How do you think I feel, not being taken seriously, coming in after Karen Carpenter in the Playboy poll. . . . Karen Carpenter . . . what a load of shit.”