An Overdue Robert Plant Concert Post

[apolla]

Blame it on my work. Blame it on laziness. Blame it on tiredness. Blame it on illness. Blame it on the boogie.

But it's finally here, in a much shorter (YAY!) than planned format.

Teenage Cancer Trust: Robert Plant and the Strange Sensation, The Royal Albert Hall, 4th April 2005

I well recall how I felt as I left Wembley Arena on 10th December 2003. I could hardly have felt more violated, more betrayed, more let down and more like chucking myself under a train. I stank of middle-aged people's marijuana and if anyone had looked closely, they would've seen tear tracks from my eyes, which were blazing the angry fire of the betrayed. I swore then that I would never tolerate 'The Doors For the 21st Century' (or as they're known in my world, the Not-Doors) ever again. I wanted to run off that moment to a graveside in Paris and beg my wild love's forgiveness for even considering going to said concert, let alone paying good money to do so.

You might say that a little part of my soul died that night. It's the reason I won't even think about Queen With Paul Rodgers, no matter how nice they might sound. I can't do it to myself again, you see.

So, I felt betrayed, violated, let down and all those other things when I left the Not-Doors far behind.

Monday was the exact and complete opposite. Let's not kid ourselves: Robert Plant can still belt them out like nobody's business. He makes Eric Burdon sound like a feeble-voiced little choir school brat. Robert Plant is probably Britain's greatest blues singer, black or white. So his jeans are a couple of sizes bigger than they used to be, and it looks like we're fortunate that he started buying shirts with buttons on sometime in the 80s. His face has the deep furrows and lines of someone who's been round the world, enchanted millions at a time, had relations of one sort or another with a long list of girls, taken quite a lot of recreational drugs, been in at least one serious car accident, had a child die and gone through the 80s with a mullet.

Oh wait, that is him. He looks his age, unlike Roger Daltrey (more of him later), who still looks curiously young, or David Bowie, who looks ageless. With the combination of white shirt, stonewashed jeans, cowboy boots and that hair, he looks like the product of an illicit liaison between a lion and a cowgirl from a Western movie.

So, to the music. Let’s start at the beginning. First up are Rooster. Now, the drummer was on Never Mind the Buzzcocks so I’m not entirely unfamiliar with them. They’re a pretty solid, if mostly uninspired rock band, right until a particularly familiar riff rips through the rarefied air of the Royal Albert Hall.

I almost hate to say it, but Rooster did a blinding version of Sunshine Of Your Love. Yes, I admit it: someone besides Cream did a bloody good cover of a Cream song. I nearly fell out of my seat with the surprise. Pleasant surprise, but surprise nonetheless. All in all, Rooster might well be a band to watch.

While the stage is being struck after Rooster’s set, a little bloke with cropped blond hair comes out. So, I’m not paying attention to any of it, preferring instead to discuss the finer points of Buzzcocks with Emily, who is starting to feel quite ill (nothing to do with Rooster, I hasten to add). And then said bloke starts talking.

Now, my eyes aren’t the greatest, even with my glasses on and from the distance I’m at, but I’d know Roger Daltrey’s voice if my ears were bunged up with cotton wool and I had Phil Collins piped into my brain. I must admit that at this point I started to ignore my sick friend and turned instead to watch dear Roger talking about the Teenage Cancer Trust and the auction of a Gibson guitar. The bidding started at £1500, so I turned my attention back to Emily!

So, second on the bill are a band called The Bees. Emily tells me she’s seen them before in Northampton, while The Man Who Would Be Tommy informs us that the band are his son’s favourite band. They’re not bad, although like Rooster they hardly set the stage alight. One member of the band seems to play about six different instruments, including a trumpet at one point, which is very cool.

It’s at this point I have a slight snark to report. I hate, hate, hate the way so many people don’t bother turning up on time. Aside from the inconvenience to the people who arrive for the start of the concert, it’s such an insult to the support acts. Every fucking band has to start somewhere, and I hate the way half the people there didn’t see fit to give them a chance. You paid for the whole thing, see the whole damn thing.

After all, Led Zeppelin were a support band once. The Doors were a support band once. They all started somewhere. Did they all set the stage alight? Not so much. Mind you, Led Zeppelin once supported the Doors. Zeppelin were at their live height in the early Viking pillagers days, while Jim was in his rambling alcoholic phase. Imagine some stuck-up fan then, skipping the support and missing Led Zeppelin but having to endure Jim’s pretentious, wholly unbearable drunken poetic nonsense.

So anyway, The Bees were OK. After their set, while the stage is being struck and then the next lot set up, Roger comes back on to present the auction winners with their signed Gibson. They got it for $2,500... which considering most Gibsons are that expensive anyway, seems to be something of a bargain. Mind you, I couldn’t even take part, so how would I know?

It takes ages for the roadies to set up the stage for the next lot, a stage set up that includes a big red rug of probable Arabic production. It’s probably nine thirty before the lights go down again and the new Plant single plays over the PA. In fact, certain people seem determined to milk the frisson in the air for all it’s worth. The band come out, but there’s no sign of His Percyness for some time. Or maybe it just feels like ages. Then finally, he walks on like a cardinal at Easter mass at Westminster Cathedral.

So I’ve gone on for two pages already, and I haven’t even got to the music. I can’t find the words to quite describe it, and I’ll put it this way: he’s fucking marvellous. He does roughly one solo song to every Led Zeppelin song, which is a good ratio for ‘I’m Not Percy Really!’.

Highlights included for me the rendition of ‘Morning Dew’ and hearing previews of his new albums. Everything has a strong Arabic flavour, as is to be expected from Robert these days. It’s a good way to do things, because he seems passionate about the music, but not only that, it means that even the most familiar of songs sounds new, different and fresh.

Make no mistake, he’s still got a questionable sense of personal rhythm, although as per usual, it always works out OK in the end. He still can’t dance, but it’s still fun watching him try. His voice has dropped at least an octave since his Hammer of the Gods days, but it’s still strong and Blondie can still belt them out like a good ‘un.

Of the songs you’ll recognise, ‘Heartbreaker’ gets a great reception from the crowd, while ‘Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You’ sounds as beautiful as it did 30 years ago. And then, there is ‘That’s The Way’. Now, this is a song off Led Zeppelin III, and it’s one of the first LZ songs I really fell completely in love with. To hear Robert Plant himself, in person, singing it to me (and another thousand people, but whatever) is one of the most amazing things ever. I swear, tears swelled in my eyes and I sat perfectly still, soaking it in through every pore, hoping that it might not ever end.

The whole band seem to be having quite a riot, which is a nice thing to see. But it’s a shame that the crowd seems to tolerate his solo songs and then hollers for the Zeppelin songs. The new songs are pretty good, man- although ‘All The King’s Horses’ is ridden with a few cliches.

Percy’s also got political, for almost the first time in his career. He’s got some things to say, and man, he’s saying it. For someone with such a love of Arabic culture and the near-mythical East, I’m not surprised to hear him railing against current political figures. It’s not bad, but for the solo stuff, I’ll certainly reserve judgement until Mighty Rearranger comes out and I can sit and listen to it. The concert did mean that I’m now really looking forward to it.

So what can I say? I sat and watched one of my greatest heroes do his job very well. I sat and realised that the only one of my icons still alive isn’t just alive, but really living. Blond Zep has never been content to rest on his laurels, but he’s now comfortable enough to perform stuff from his past. He’s a good lad, is our Robert Anthony.

And then, the encore. A new song and then something else. Started off very slowly, and then slowly, surely he sings the following:

"You neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed coooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooolin........"

Yes, I've sat and watched Robert Plant sing Whole Lotta Love. Right there in front of me. Dear God in Heaven, I've been a good little girl this year and this must be my reward. Started off slowly, became electrifying. And it was Good. It reminded me of the one beautiful moment at the Not-Doors concert, when Ray played the intro to Light My Fire. Some things will always stir the soul, and those things are two of them. And yes, in the hands of this 56-year-old, Whole Lotta Love is as smutty as ever it was.

And after all that? Roger Daltrey comes back on to remind us of the charity element of the evening. Some of the teens the TCT has helped are brought on stage. And then, as if the preceding hours haven't been enough of a treat, Roger Daltrey and Robert Plant link arms and skip off the stage together. Fucking SKIPPED. God love them, and so do I.