Back in 1991 or ’92, my mother took me to Costco. This was before everyone had become addicted to it and reliant on it for just about everything. Back then, they had introductory box sets of bands, and Led Zeppelin came in a big yellow box, with a zeppelin floating over what I remember as crop circles. It contained all of their albums in chronological order across four extra-long CDs—or maybe eight CDs? I can’t remember exactly, but there was a lot of music in that box.
At that point in my listening career, I was twelve or thirteen years old, asking for R.E.M. CDs, having just discovered early Bob Dylan, and having already gone through my Beatles and Police phases. Robert Plant was liquid and effortless, right alongside my Axl Rose obsession, which had carried me from fourth through seventh grade. But Plant was something stellar and slinky, far sexier than Axl Rose, with an actual ode to the blues.
There is so much Led Zeppelin lore I could get into, so much history, so much influence, and so much they themselves had to admit to being influenced by. But this article is about Robert Plant.
I don’t think I’d even be writing this article if my mom hadn’t taken me to Costco. So, thank you to whoever decided that CDs would be the best way to grab teenagers’ attention in the ’90s.
My sixteen-year-old daughter went through a Hamilton craze a few years back, alongside a whole lot of other sixth- and seventh-graders. That was the last time I experienced the grandeur of the Orpheum Theatre, the incredible sound quality, and the wonderful staff who make the whole experience what it is.
She got to meet the cast outside and collect autographs, while my mom, who was in her seventies at the time, had her own adventure navigating Market Street with us. As anyone who tries to see shows in San Francisco these days knows, getting there is part of the experience.
Thinking back to my Bay Area childhood, I wonder what performances I might have seen at the Orpheum. I have a vague memory of seeing a ballet there when I was very young, perhaps The Nutcracker, though I can’t say for certain. Whatever those early experiences might have been, being welcomed back to that beautiful theater for Robert Plant and Suzi Dian was incredible.
I’d secretly watched recordings of the set many times in the two years leading up to the show, so I had a pretty good idea of what songs he might cover. I’d also admittedly skimmed the Saving Grace record to get a feel for it. But nothing quite grabs you like a Led Zeppelin song, even when it’s reimagined through a blend of Eastern Mediterranean, Appalachian, and Welsh sounds.
The set moved between Led Zeppelin songs, gorgeous renditions of traditional material and other artists’ work, and music from Plant’s own catalog.
The band opened with two traditional songs before moving into a very drawn-out, stripped-down version of “Ramble On,” and tears immediately welled in my eyes.
I’ve listened to that song countless times throughout my life. For a period of time, it was my karaoke song, and it’s been along for the ride since I was in my twenties. Every time you hear a song like that in a different decade of your life, it means something else. I’m not willing to put it in the vault, never to listen to it again. There are some beauties that come across the radio that I have to shut down immediately because I’ve reached my quota. But I don’t think I could ever hear “Ramble On” too many times.
Watching Robert Plant command the band is fascinating. He moves like a music teacher weaving a web, drawing everyone into the same musical current. His body moves differently now, though. The gestures come in smaller quantities, in more measured increments. Gone are those enormous extensions, his arms reaching way up into the sky while the microphone dangled down as he pulled his body back to belt out whatever incredible banshee howl was coming next.
Now, his hands and elbows rise, but they don’t extend quite as far. He seems a little more at home in his own body, looking toward the musicians around him rather than appearing disconnected from himself, as though he were channeling something directly from the heavens.
It feels more like a group effort now, with Robert Plant commanding the stage the way a beloved high school band teacher might lead a favorite ensemble. He points his finger and locks eyes with the musicians while singing the more poignant parts of the songs, as if he’s directing not just the music but the emotion behind it. At times, he holds his hand flat, palm up, in front of a musician’s face, then draws it back toward himself, wiggling his fingers as though he’s calling the words straight out of their mouth. The gestures are subtle but mesmerizing.
The musicians hang on his every word, every gesture, every cue. But he wouldn’t keep these people around if the chemistry between them weren’t pure alchemy.
I try not to get too caught up in speculating about the interpersonal relationships between musicians, but there is a certain kind of love between Suzi Dian and Robert Plant. Whether it comes from the music itself or from something deeper in the energy they share, their connection feels absolutely perfect.
The next Led Zeppelin song was “Four Sticks,” but it was “Orphan Girl,” the Gillian Welch song that followed, that gave Suzi Dian her moment to take the stage. The room fell silent.
“Orphan Girl” is one of my favorite songs ever written, and Suzi’s rendition was fabulous. There is something about hearing a song you already love delivered with that kind of care in a room full of people who are willing to stop and listen. For those few minutes, the whole theater seemed to belong to her.
My favorite Zeppelin moment came soon after, with “Friends.” That song is so rocking in such a subtle way. Plant maintained his stature and physicality while rocking out hard.
He was saving his energy for something that would come later, something that had the whole room on its feet
I should mention that directly behind me was a man in denim from head to toe, with long blond hair down to his shoulders. He was throwing up two matching devil-horn hand gestures and rocking out like Wayne and Garth, screaming for every song. And we were sitting inside an opera theater at the time. It was pure comedy.
There were definitely people in the audience over seventy, and my concert partner remarked that these people were right back where they started. The minute a Zeppelin song kicked in, people began making their way toward the front, despite this being a seated show. The crowd gathered near the stage, standing with their arms raised for every Zeppelin tune.
The underbelly of the performance was much mellower, with Eastern-influenced sounds and a lot of percussion. Yet the sheer heaviness of the room’s sound encapsulated the music so well that the performance was still incredibly loud and full-bodied. Robert Plant came across as a rock singer even when the music around him leaned into traditional arrangements and the vocals were passed between band members.
The contrast was part of what made the show so compelling. The music could be delicate and earthy one moment, then turn around and fill the entire theater with a weight that felt unmistakably rock and roll. Plant didn’t have to force the transition. He seemed to understand exactly how much energy each song needed and how to let the band do its work.
I thought it was incredible that he performed Neil Young’s “For the Turnstiles.” It was such a sweet rendition.
Then came “Babe, I’m Gonna Leave You,” and I think our jaws collectively dropped. He pulled it off. The band did everything right, actually, and Robert didn’t have to push, pry, or force a single vocal.
I think the intimacy of the stage had something to do with it. The musicians were close together, creating a cozy atmosphere in which Plant didn’t have to run around to command the room. He could simply have his moments, allowing everyone else to collaborate with him while he moved about the stage like a wizard, pointing at people and pushing the energy toward the sky.
He was still Robert Plant. He still had that ability to pull an audience into his world.
At the end of the night, they closed with “And We Bid You Goodnight,” a traditional gospel song that the Grateful Dead famously used to close many of their shows. It was an especially sweet way to end an evening that had already felt like a love letter to so many different corners of American music.
Between Neil Young, Gillian Welch, Low, and the traditional material woven throughout the set, there were so many musical connections to savor. Neil Young has been a fixture in my listening life since my youth in the Bay Area. Gillian Welch, who has such a strong connection to the Bay Area music scene, has also been exploring the Grateful Dead’s catalog on her recent tour. And Low, one of the most affecting bands to emerge in the early ’90s, has a sound that still takes me back to that era. I’ve seen so many of these artists over the years, and hearing their music threaded into Plant’s world felt incredibly personal. Those Bay Area nods were a gift.
All night, Plant had been telling people that this wasn’t a rodeo and that he wanted everyone to sit down. He didn’t want to be heckled, he joked, but he seemed to love every minute of the audience’s enthusiasm. People were screaming his name, and the energy was getting to the point where it seemed someone might throw their underwear onstage at any moment. The man knows how to work a crowd, and he knows exactly what his music does to people.
At one point, he harkened back to an early Led Zeppelin visit to the Bay Area, joking about how nobody had been standing because the music—or perhaps the LSD—had been so good. I remember thinking that nobody was standing because everyone was probably lying on the floor.
When we finally walked out of the enormous theater and onto the dirty streets of San Francisco, a man was singing gospel music into a microphone, and a group of older people had gathered around him, dancing on the sidewalk. We stopped and watched, standing there in the glory of it all
- Robert Plant — vocals and harmonica
- Suzi Dian — vocals and accordion
- Matt Worley — banjo, guitars, cuatro, and vocals
- Tony Kelsey — guitar
- Oli Jefferson — drums and percussion
- Barney Morse-Brown — cello
