Popping the Zeppelin

I'm convinced both that Led Zeppelin is the most overrated band since the dawn of Rock 'N Roll and that bringing this up in the company of dudes is like going snorkeling in shark-infested waters with a chicken corpse tied to each ankle. I've seen stoner personalities fly into out-and-out berserker rages when I make this suggestion -- really, just calling attention to a fact, as I see it. You speak the truth about that band, and they begin to remind you less of gentle hippies wiping potato chip grease onto their tie-dye shirts than coked up Wall Street types informing you at maximum volume that it's a man's, man's, man's, man's world, as they loosen their neckties to facilitate the deep breaths their screams require. Touchier than they seem, those laid-back dudes, at least when it comes to L. Z.

Now I don't mean that Zep is the worst band ever, or even bad. Just that its brand got weirdly inflated. I forget who it was that observed that there are no jokes in Led Zeppelin lyrics, but, God, it's true. What a pious bunch of pop crooners they are. Of course, most rock lyrics are just embarrassing nonsense, and you avoid analyzing them the way you avoid looking at some middle-aged "free spirit" who's just peeled off her top at a concert. Just keep your eyes on the road, you tell yourself desperately, don't let it spoil your good time. Still, the best lyrics don't take themselves too seriously and even convey a sense of fun, or at the very least get out of the way or let you hear the tune.

In contrast, the Zep serves up an awful goulash of Celtic mythology references, hilariously ambitious allegorical conceits, and some Brit's idea of what the blues is supposed to be. I mean, really. Listen to Plant screech "Baby, baby, baby" or some such R&B standby. He sounds less like Sam & Dave than some creature Frodo had to stab to death in Lord of the Rings, some hideous beast that shrinks from the light and then crawls home to his cave to make platinum records.

Pretension, in other words. Trying to be something you're not. The bane of all popular art. In rock, a string of cliches or empty phrases is always preferable to some failed attempt at poetry.

Compare. Look. In one corner, Mungo Jerry:

In the summertime when the weather is high
You can stretch right up and touch the sky
When the weather's fine
You got women, you got women on your mind
Have a drink, have a drive
Go out and see what you can find

See, nice. Here is a writer who knows he is "Ray Dorset, founder of the skiffle band Mungo Jerry" and not "Wallace Stevens, major American poet." A useful thing to get learnt. Tune's not bad either. Now, on the other end:

There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook, there's a songbird who sings,
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgiven.

WORDS HAVE TWO MEANINGS! WORDS HAVE TWO MEANINGS! If single words can have not one but two meanings, imagine how many metric tons of meaning that "songbird who sings" is holding up! I'm surprised the little fella doesn't get discouraged and maybe start whistling S.O.S., like "Help! Oh, help! Those blokes from Led Zeppelin loaded me down with so much meaning I'm about to implode into a little pile feathers and blood and tumble off the tree into the brook! Omigod, heeeeelp!"

As a supporter of the humane treatment of allegorical birds, I can't help but feel that Led Zeppelin has to be devalued. I really thought when they talked about a "credit crisis" these past few months that they weren't talking about the long withdrawing roar of American empire or multinational banks bursting like soap bubbles so much as how various song-and-dance acts have gotten more than their fair share of love. Well, they weren't talking about that, sadly. I was wrong, and I'll be the first to admit it.