Years ago, after packing away most of my old 45’s, I gave several to my friend Steve for prosperity’s sake. Among them was Led Zeppelin’s “The Immigrant Song,” one of their greatest triumphs from their third album, released in 1970. However, the treasure of this particular single was the rare B-side, “Hey Hey What Can I Do,” unavailable on any Zeppelin album (until the release of the first Led Zeppelin box set in 1990). I would never call Steve a big Zeppelin fan. (This may have something to do with an incident when his mom scrutinized “Whole Lotta Love” blasting through the tape deck. There’s nothing worse than having to explain Robert Plant’s sexual moans to your mother.) Steve preferred the angst and teenage wastelands of the Who, anyway; always a lyric guy. Being a drummer, I was drawn to the rhythm and blues, and the grunge and the groove, of Zeppelin. Like all of our friends, we discovered Zeppelin and the Who on our own, before there was a format known as “classic rock,” instead relying on the tastes of our peers (or peers’ older siblings). At a time when Zeppelin was only beginning to receive renewed radio airplay, it was quite unusual to hear “Hey Hey What Can I Do” on the radio. Luckily, I was able to track down “The Immigrant Song” at a record store so I could give it a spin whenever I liked.

On a warm summer night in June 1985, Steve and I bunkered down in my house while the parental units were away for the weekend. That night, we sat through Ken Russell’s interpretation of Tommy, sampled the booze from the decorative liquor bottles in the wet bar (replacing the missing contents with water, because, you know, parents never notice) and wound up meeting a couple of girls at the city park around the corner from the house. One of the girls was my ex-girlfriend. No, we didn’t hook up; in fact, there was no hookage that night, just some innocent flirting between my best bud and the ex. I didn’t mind. She had broken up with me back in the fall — my first break-up (complete with embarrassing Favreau-esque/Swingers-like phone calls on my part… ugh, painful). I realized I’d never have another shot with this particular beauty. What kind of friend would I be if I stood in the way of Steve’s teenage bliss? That night I basically gave him permission to date her, nullifying the guy code about dating your best friend’s ex-girlfriend. Eventually, Steve and I returned from the park and switched on the video of Zeppelin’s concert film, The Song Remains the Same. Giddy from our moonlight encounter, we pranced around the house like idiots, using my old crutches as guitars, imitating Jimmy Page drooling on himself during his killer solos. (more…)