Led Zeppelin IV at 50 — BRENT BALDWIN

While it’s hardly a unique statement, I’ll confess that I love, love, LOVE Led Zeppelin. Deeply, and without an ounce of shame.

Up until 7th grade, my musical tastes were — as it was for most kids that age — the product of top 40 combined with whatever music the parents had playing at the house. The isolated geography of rural Maine — while beautiful — made for perfect insulation from all the latest hip and happening things. All of which is to say, my tastes ran a bit all over the place, and were by any measure epically uncool.

As is true for many kids, junior high was an absolute nadir point in my timeline. I played sports in a desperate attempt to fit in, but I lacked any sort of natural athleticism. A small, socially awkward kid, I was a natural magnet for bullying and the occasional beatdown. Beyond a (very) small circle of similarly nerdy kids, my social circle was quite small. I resolved to keep my head down, avoid interaction, and ride the storm out to the best of my ability.

On the first day of 8th grade, I was tasked with showing around a new arrival to Bristol Consolidated School.. Ben Day had just moved to the area from New Haven, and his tough demeanor, permanent scowl, and large build made him indistinguishable from a third-year high school student. I set about my tour guide assignment, quietly nervous in the presence of someone who was clearly WAY cooler than I. But hey: I was fortuitously wearing my newly acquired Def Leppard t-shirt (won the previous week at the Fryberg Fair’s BB gun target range, thank you very much), and I secretly hoped that — with a little luck — he might mistake me for a cool, badass dude.

Results: debatable at best.

Not one to hold back his opinions, he immediately declared that Def Leppard sucked… a vastly inferior copy of much greater groups. Bands like Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, and Led Zeppelin. When it became evident that my nodding head was a failed attempt to cloak my cluelessness about ANY of these outfits, he paused, rolled his eyes, and began to school me from the ground up. Rock Music 101 was now in session.

*Based on the author’s extensive research: debatable at best*

Once I’d recovered from the shaming, I began taking as many mental notes as my little head could carry, and immediately resolved to sign up for one of those buy-three-albums-for-a-penny record clubs. My mental notes could have been better, though, as the Led Zeppelin album RCA sent me was CODA: a universally maligned and hastily released posthumous disc they put out following the death of John Bonham. A record is a record, though, and — owning so few — I played it on a daily basis, figuring it might somehow make me a cool, badass dude.

Results: debatable at best.

In spite of the rocky start, a friendship sprouted up between the two of us. Which proved to be an incredible asset, and not only for the free music education: as a bigger, tougher kid, he quickly fell in with other kids of that ilk. Before I knew it, some of the very boys who had treated me to my first schoolyard beatings were now treating me to my first cigarette, my first joint, and my first introductions to bad-in-the-best-way girls. All of which was equally exhilarating and terrifying. But hey… in my mind, I’d become a cool, badass dude at long last.

Results: debatable at best.

Anyway… I decided I needed to up the ante and get another, much better Zeppelin album. A better one. Christmas was creeping up, and my wish-list was pretty short: consisting almost exclusively of albums recommended by Ben.

When December 25th rolled around, I was ecstatic to discover beneath a sheet of wrapping paper the holy freaking grail: Led Zeppelin IV. Once family gift-giving was finished, I raced to the bedroom to toss the disc on the turntable I’d picked up at a lawn sale the previous year. As my eyes took in the enigmatic, textless album art, I basked in the glorious sounds emanating from my stereo’s tiny speakers.

Holy freaking crap.

My 13 year-old ears had never encountered anything even remotely like THIS. While awkward junior high dances had provided me with passing familiarity with two of the songs (Black Dog and Stairway to Heaven), I don’t recall if I knew who had produced them prior to this moment. Once side one was wrapped, I excitedly flipped the disc over.

Holy freaking crap.

The four songs found there were all unknown to me, but I was nevertheless entranced. So heavy (When the Levee Breaks, anyone?)! So light (Going to California)! So sunny (Misty Mountain Hop)! So mercurial (Four Sticks)! Thunderous drums, mountainous guitars, god-like vocals, and… whatever that other guy did (note: as someone who would later become a studio arranger and multi-instrumentalist: I now fully comprehend that “that other guy” was every bit as important as his bandmates). This. Was. Epic.

Now, up until this point in life, my only direct musical experience had been the piano lessons I’d quit years before and playing percussion in the school band. Coming from a musical family, I had a natural aptitude for such things (read: I could get good grades, sit first chair, etc. w/o much — or any — practice), but I certainly didn’t possess the passion. Suddenly, it’s as if I’m hearing music for the very first time. The desire to better understand this beautiful-yet-dangerous sounding instrument known as the guitar took root: an epiphany which would have a life-long impact.

Once the second side wrapped, I flipped back to side one. Rinse and repeat. Lying on my bed, I repeated the process until mom called for me to come downstairs… for supper. Somehow, without my having noticed, the day had passed in its entirety and I’d barely noticed.

If I ever became cool at any point in my life, I’d say that this the precise moment that occurrence took root.

Results: well… still working on it.

In the following spring, Ben and I formed a band with some of our classmates, though it wasn’t immediately apparent where I’d fit into the mix: drums were already covered by my best friend Dave Means (with whom I’d go on to play with in a couple high school bands), and keys were fielded by Ben on his small Casio (hardly enough to evoke the power of his hero Jon Lord, but a start). I tried my hand at the six-string when guitarist Jesse Boyd (incidentally, the nephew of some guy named Joe Boyd) missed a practice, though my utter lack of experience put me too far behind the other guys.

This might have nipped my music career in the bud then and there, but Ben insisted that I remain in the group. Noting my nonstop noodling and sketching (a nervous tick which lives on today), he declared that I would stay on as non-playing partner, and I was dubbed the band lyricist and poster artist. We only ended up writing a couple of not-very-good songs (I’ve got the tape somewhere) and we never managed to play in front of people, but the experience got me thinking seriously about what it might take to make a band happen for real.

Ben and I remained friends, though we drifted apart after he dropped out of high school (whether that was his or the school’s choice is still unknown to me). He struggled with addiction (as I later did), but got himself straight in his late teens. I spoke with him a bit before heading off to study music at UMass Lowell, which is where I was when I received the phone call that the lobster boat he worked on had been lost at sea, with all hands lost.

I can’t hear Led Zeppelin without thinking of Ben, and while a heartache remains just beneath the surface, I remain eternally thankful for having met him. I’m not sure where I would have ended up if his path had not crossed mine, but I am 100% certain it wouldn’t have involved being a professional musician.

Thank you, Ben Day. And happy 50th to Led Zeppelin IV.