I stood side stage as bands like Ten Years After, Fleetwood Mac, the now receding Vanilla Fudge, and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young set up backstage. I was told by Peter that I could go back and converse with all of them after the festival was through, but my anticipation to meet Stephen Stills and Stevie Nicks was unbearable. Crowds of still-proud hippies were congregating before the stage and I looked into the eyes of some of the dazed faces. Feminists, hippies, psychedelia trenders, bluesers, troubadours, groupies, once-military men, and the exhausted stood about patiently, all melting together for one thing. I assumed this was what Woodstock was like, just in 50 times less the magnitude squeezed in one acre. The first sweet smell of marijuana wafted my way and I sighed before slinking backstage.
I saw John McVie flash past me toward the rest of Fleetwood Mac and restrained myself. In the distance, beyond Ten Years After, stood my boys, in a circle, next to Peter going over their numbers. Half of Pink Floyd were deep in conversation with Neil Young and my heart sped up. Everyone was here. I pardoned myself through the groups and stood closely behind Jimmy, trying to make sense of what Peter and John Paul were saying.
"...And if that happens we...?" Peter quizzed.
"Get the Hell out of here," John Paul replied. "The Hell's Angels are here, not the Rolling Stone's, but they're security. Jim, what number first?"
"The Ocean?" he suggested, glancing for looks of approval around the circle. "Then we can do In My Time... Then maybe we'll cut right to Stairway, then Whole Lotta Love, Black Dog, Lemon Song, and we can end with Rock 'n Roll, and encore Since I've Been Loving You."
"What about my Dick?" Bon asked and it took me a moment to fully understand that he meant Moby Dick.
"After Lemon Song," Jimmy replied, carefree.
"I like it," Bonzo gurgled, obviously just as shit-faced as he had been on the way to Dudley. "Lets blow this shit. Cannons!" Then Bonzo did something I had never hear him do before, something that only seemed to frighten me and the other bands; he let out a ferocious, bass-deep bear roar, loud enough to make every band preforming look at him.
"Why are we fucking headlining for other bands?" Robert complained. "I thought we were over this in '71? We've already kicked Vanilla Fudge to the curb, and we've already out-played Ten Years and Fleetwood. What's the point? This'll drag us down."
Peter pulled Robert close by the collar of his jacket and growled something so low that I couldn't make it out. Jimmy turned to me while G read Rob the riot act and smiled at me. "Wish us luck!" He made a funny face and placed his hands on my shoulders before leaving for his guitar.
"Good luck!" I called after him. Someone near him saw me and turned to Jimmy, presumably asking who I was. When they both looked at me and grinned, I blushed and turned back to the group.
The lights darkened and the people out front began to cheer. I shuddered and followed Peter and Richard to the lounge where we could only sit and wait until things got hectic. Vanilla Fudge were first and I sat it out. When Fleetwood Mac, Pink Floyd, and CSN&Y preformed, I watched avidly. I met all whom I wanted to meet as they came off, right up to Dave Gilmore. When Zeppelin went out, the crowd went wild. By this time, groupies collected backstage and I found myself not only hating them, but awe of them. They were stunning and lucky.
Seeing Zep in their element was striking. They were lost in their work and the songs were better. Bonzo was free to break out and extenuate anything; John Paul seemed out of touch; Robert had ascended into some other world, his eyes clamped shut and his hand raise effeminately; and Jimmy could hardly take the time to look up. The drugs were too heavy in his system-- their systems-- and he held his head and knees as if they were 100 kilos and he might collapse under the weight at any moment. It was sickly and I found myself almost in tears studying him.
After some time, when the concert had ended and the roadies and groupies had done their jobs, G engaged me desperately.
"Ricardo says we have ter git to an Inn tonight," he announced in hysterics, "we'll never make it. When we get ter the hotel, ring Henderson Collige and tell them ladies we ain't going ter be back until the 30th."
"Why are we going to be gone so long?" I asked. I had assumed we were only going north for the concert, but why would they need to be away seven days?
Peter stood, stupefied, eyeing me. "Din' they tell you? We're going up ter Boleskine, Jim's 'ome in Scotlin. We've got a- a-" he glanced both ways, "- movie ter do. Releasing next year, knock wood. Then we got ter go over some paperwork for the new label we're makin'-- 'Slut and Slag,' Rob wants ter call it, but Jim likes 'Swan Son--' Hey! You supposed ter be back here?" He disappeared toward someone behind me and I digested.
I'd be gone for a boring half-fortnight!
Merry pretend Christmas Eve! :)
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