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Chapter One
Crash Landing
“Richard, something bad has happened to one of your Led Zeppelin boys.”
Julio Gradaloni had a grim expression on his face as he nervously shuffled through his briefcase, finally pulling out a newspaper and placing it on the table in front of us.
“What do you mean?” I asked him, feeling some anxiety starting to chill my body. “What's happened?”
Julio was my attorney, a stocky, no-nonsense lawyer in his middle fifties. He was sitting across from me in the visiting room at Rebibia Prison near Rome. I had been imprisoned there for nearly two months -- on suspicion of terrorism, of all things. During those weeks behind bars, I was bewildered and frustrated, desperately and futilely trying to convince the police and prosecutors that my arrest had been some kind of blunder, that I was no more likely to blow up buildings in Italy than would the Pope himself. But on this particular morning in late September 1980, Julio took my mind off my own problems.
“One of your musicians has died,” Julio said, trying to remain as composed as possible.
“Died!” I froze. After nearly twelve years as tour manager of Led Zeppelin, the four members of the band -- Jimmy Page, Robert Plant, John Paul Jones, and John Bonham -- had become like brothers to me.
Neither Julio nor I said anything for a few seconds. Then I stammered, “Was it -- was it Pagey?” Jimmy is so frail, I thought, so weak. Maybe the cocaine, the heroin had finally taken their toll. Jimmy's body must have justgiven out.
Julio wasn't making eye contact, perusing the Italian newspaper, preparing to translate the article about Led Zeppelin for me.
“No,” he said in a steady tone of voice. “Not Jimmy Page. Here's what the article says. ‘John Bonham, drummer of Led Zeppelin, was found dead yesterday in the home of another member of the world-famous rock band....' ”
Julio continued to read. But after that first sentence, I stopped hearing his words. I became numb, braced my hands against the table, and bowed my head. I swallowed hard, and could feel my heart palpitating.
“Bonham is dead,” I began repeating silently to myself. “Shit, I just can't believe it. Not Bonzo. Why Bonzo?”
I leaned back in my chair. There must be some mistake, I thought. It doesn't make sense. He's so strong. What could possibly kill him?
I interrupted Julio in midsentence. “Does the newspaper say what he died of? Was it drugs?”
“Well,” Julio said, “they don't know yet. But they say he had used a lot of alcohol that day. It sounds like he drank himself to death.”
Julio tried to change the subject. He wanted to talk with me about my own case. But I just couldn't. “Let's do it another day, Julio,” I mumbled. “I'm not thinking too clearly right now.”
I barely remember walking back to my cell. I crawled onto my bunk and stared silently at the sixteen-foot-high ceilings. I had this queasy feeling in my gut while pondering life without Bonham...without those high-voltage drum solos, his contagious laugh, and the sense of adventure that propelled us through many long nights of revelry.
“Are you all right?” one of my cell mates, Pietro, finally asked over the din of a nearby transistor radio.
“I'm not sure,” I told him. “One of my friends has died.”
My cell mates tried to be comforting, but I wasn't particularly receptive to their words. Finally, with an onslaught of emotions rushing through me, I snapped. Throwing a pillow against one of he walls, I shouted, “Damn it! Here I am rotting in this fucking jail for something I didn't do! I wasn't even with my friend when he died!”
I began pacing the cell. “Maybe I could have done something to help him. Maybe I could have kept him from self-destructing.”
It had already been a difficult two months in that prison cell. I had been put through a forced withdrawal from a heroin addiction, enduring many uncomfortable days and nights of nausea, muscle cramps, body aches, and diarrhea, while trying to figure out how I was going to extricate myself from the bum rap that had put me behind bars. One minute, I had been relaxing at the Excelsior, one of Rome's most elegant hotels; the next, policemen with their guns drawn had burst into my room, accusing me of a terrorist attack that had occurred 150 miles away. Since then, my day-to-day existence had become difficult -- even before the stunning news about John Bonham.
In the days and weeks after Bonzo's death, I received several letters from Unity MacLaine, my secretary in Zeppelin's office. “The coroner's report,” she wrote, “says that Bonzo suffocated on his own vomit. It says he had downed 40 shots of vodka that night. They call it an ‘accidental death.' ”
Bonham had died at Jimmy's home, the Old Mill House, in Windsor -- a home Pagey had purchased earlier in the year from actor Michael Caine. The band had congregated there on September 24 to begin rehearsals for an upcoming American tour, scheduled to start in mid-October 1980. Beginning early that afternoon, John had started drinking vodkas and orange juices at a nearby pub before overindulging in double vodkas at Jimmy's home. His behavior became erratic, loud, and abrasive. He bitched about being away from home during the nineteen-date American tour.
When John finally passed out well past midnight, Rick Hobbs, Jimmy's valet and chauffeur, helped him into bed. Rick positioned the Zeppelin drummer on his side, placed a blanket over him, and quietly closed the bedroom door.
The next afternoon, John Paul Jones and Benji Le Fevre, one of the band's roadies, tiptoed into the bedroom where Bonham was sleeping. Benji shook Bonzo, first gently, then more...
Stairway to Heaven. Copyright © by Richard Cole. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.
