Led Zeppelin hasn’t been part of my everyday routine for some time. But much like taking a long walk outside, returning to their music always leaves me feeling rejuvenated and thinking that I should do this more often. For me, their music typically comes up during lengthy road trips, sometimes helping you power through the night or, in the case of “Going To California,” it’s summoned by the sunrise during the 18th hour, or during a long hazy afternoon while everyone else in the van is asleep – the driver and the co-pilot sharing a calm and pensive moment.
Zepp typically reminds me of being 14-years-old, having barely managed to obtain some ditchweed, stoned and laying in a big patch of grass while dreaming of bigger things. I’m not a musicologist or historian but I’ve always believed that was truly the magic and captivating spirit of L-Z; their music taps into some long held nostalgia that’s been waiting to hold you in its arms and speak of distant lands that you might one day visit. It’s simultaneously the comfort of home and a desire or promise for an untold experience.
Speaking of unknown futures, it’s impossible for me to imagine my chosen genre existing without Zeppelin’s unwavering and unavoidable contribution to rock and psychedelia. Listening to this record again brings a desire to make music that wallops you on the head saying, “Wake up, motherfucker! Listen, look, and live with us for just a moment,” which I find is a quality lacking in much of today’s modern psychedelia.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go for a ride, windows down, rocking out a la Jack Black in School of Rock and hope someone’s life is changed from the music billowing out of my car.