Imagine being paid to see Led Zeppelin, one of the biggest bands in the world at the time (1972). My job was to show people to their seats, kick people out of seats they hadn’t booked and generally act as usher until the show started. When the show began. Zep were cranked to the max, and everybody was on their feet from the first notes of “Whole Lotta Love”. My eighteen year old self was having a great time shoving the headbangers back from the stage and watching Jimmy Page on his twin necked Gibson while Robert Plant bare chested, blond locks flowing, strutted around the stage.
Coming to the scheduled end of the concert, my Dad, the head usher, was becoming increasingly concerned they would play too long which would mean unsanctioned overtime would have to be paid to us ushers. He wasn’t about to let that happen. After consulting with Led Zeppelin’s roadies and telling them the situation, he was told to “piss off”. Which he did. Mysteriously, the power to the stage went off and nobody knew why. My Dad suggested that power might be restored shortly but it would have to be their last number. Agreed. Power went back on, Zep did their last number and everybody was happy.
Reading a book about Led Zeppelin many years later I learned that their roadies had a reputation for fighting and being highly aggressive when displeased. Perhaps they might have heard that my Dad was a detective with the Garda (police) in Dublin and could be one phone call away from calling in a wagon load of hefty boys in plain clothes who would happily settle things mano a mano. They had no love for long hairs or rock music.
I got a set of drumsticks from John Bonham who kindly autographed them, and which I stupidly traded later for a double album “Fill Your Head With Rock”. Yeah. Really!