Led Zeppelin concert. Tampa. June 3, 1977.
I roll up with the Brothers Scarbrough in their VW microbus. Rock concert! Yay!
Woodstock it ain’t.
Tampa stadium, general seating. We make our way through the bowels of the stadium. After reaching the large intestine, we position ourselves in front of the stage for maximum hearing loss. There’s no rock yet, aside from the pre-recorded variety. But there is a crowd. And that crowd is pissed.
An ugly crowd, in every sense of the word. Meth-crazed bikers (or biker wannabes) and enraged phosphate workers, for the most part. With a few terrified women who'd rather be someplace else.
The crowd seethes like an angry collective organism.
Crowd: “YAAGGGHHH BLAGGHGHGH!”
They wanna hear Led Zeppelin. Led Zeppelin ain’t here. The f**king concert promoters are making ‘em wait. F**k!
Crowd: “MWAAGGGHHH GLABAGGHGHGH!”
Screaming works no magic. The crowds adapts, and starts throwing rocks and bottles at the stage. When that fails to work, one asshole, taking a cue from "Smoke on the Water," fires a rocket at the drum set. Still no band. What are they doing wrong?
The crowd howls like the Monster from the Id in "Forbidden Planet."
Crowd: “RAGGARGGGHHH KLAGGHGHGH!”
A bespectacled, soft-spoken British rock promoter tiptoes on stage and politely attempts to reason with the madding crowd.
"Please. No rocks, bottles or flying missiles. Led Zeppelin will appear shortly."
It’s like Piggy trying to convince the "Lord of the Flies" hooligans that the Beast doesn't exist. “Hullo! I can make a fire wit' me specs!”
Piggy just pisses them off even more.
Crowd: “BWKAEMEMAGGGHARGH!”
“Led Zeppelin will be out momentarily. Please excuse the delay...”
The crowd-thing is now crackling with f**k-you hate.
"GREEAGRHHRH!"
Speaking of voltage, Mother Nature gets charged up, too.
A ring of black thunderclouds encircles the stadium and converges. A tightening sphincter in the sky. I feel like a log in Satan's toilet bowl.
The stage is still completely Led Zeppelin-free.
“Hey,” says Jeff. “Look at the stage. What’s that look like?”
I study the stage. A hodgepodge of speakers and rigging set up in a metal superstructure. Towering above it all? Two cranes, probably meant for some special effects thing.
“Lightning rod?”
“Bingo,” says Jeff.
Led Zeppelin finally appears. The crowd makes a noise like 5,000 Tasmanian Devils having a simultaneous orgasm.
“BLEGHAHANGHJGHHHHGH!”
Led Zeppelin plays three songs, but doesn't put their heart into it. A drop of water hits my face ...
And then it starts to rain.
Hard rain. Like God’s firehose. And once it starts, it never stops. Lightning and thunder, too, just to add to the pyrotechnic effect.
It’s like the Man Upstairs is trying to disperse the ugly crowd. But the crowd-thing doesn’t want to disperse. They came to hear a f**king rock concert and didn't give a flying f**k about galvanic death by electrocution. I paid $10 for my f**king ticket, man! The least they can do is play until they die! But the band has more sense.
To quote Jimmy Page: “Sod this! I'm not dying for these bloody redneck wankers.”
Or words to that effect.
The band gets the hell out of there. So do we. Behind us, a riot erupts. Cops bust heads.
My parents, back in Sarasota, watch it all on TV.
We make it home in one piece.
I save my ticket stub, but never get a refund.
Led Zeppelin never returns.
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