Review Summary: THE definitive document of their virile, lachrymose madness...
I consider bands who release double-albums foolhardy, or at the very least victims of their own faith. We have made some ground past the leather-skinned, dark-minded desert landmark that was the double-album era. It seems that nowadays we live in an era where the art of sparcity of design is common law in rock music. Every now and then I discover a modern evocation of those times ('Stadium Arcadium' by the Chili Peppers, flawed and still brilliant) to sink my teeth into, and each time I do it encourages moderate angusih in me that they are so rare an occurance. My idea of the perfect art is one that you can not only love for what it IS, but one that you can like for what it ISN'T. That is why I LOVE 'Physical Graffiti', totem-pole grandeur and non-chronological sequencing and all.
That phrase should not be read that the album leaves me with an impression of perfection. It is, in a way, both a microcosm of that type of rugged, bruised beauty I adore and the epitome of the reason the double-album is the territory of the wing-and-a-prayer. Not only does this double-set distill the archetypical Led Zeppelin
Just so you can dispense with the traipse across familiar territory, for those who only have a casual romance with the Zepp, we'll cover what you might have already had the pleasure to encounter from this set. 'Trampled Under Foot' is a stunning exercise in relative minimalism in make-up and utter excess in execution; 'Houses of the Holy' is rootsy, hollow, blunt in impact and grinningly distasteful. Whether any of that appeals to you is dependant purely on personal taste. Then there's 'Kashmir', a peak as vivid, creative and generous in its chaos as anything a band's ever laid to wax. It is like the divine morning sun rising OVER the continental body of this work, so for that reason we'll treat it as an entity unto itself. Hereafter, it will go unmentioned.
There is, of course, much bludgeoning hard rock. 'The Rover' stands out markedly from the coarse texture of its peers, defined by the fibrous, poignant lines of melody lent to its chorus by Jimmy Page. His artfulness is in plentyful supply throughout, no more apparent than on the virgin purity of the tear-inducingly beautiful and infantic 'Bron-Yr-Aur'. 'The Wanton Song', brazen and sadistic and t'RIFFic, simply does not give a f**k about its rampant, galloping debt to 'Immigrant Song', signifying that Page's ratified plagiarism has progressed to a gleeful, self-satirising level. 'Night Flight' is pleasantly dulcet, its comparatively subtlety providing a respite. And 'Custard Pie': a lethal opening, though slightly misleading when considering the wider scope of the material to follow (and the track's own one-way motion). A far-cry from the overwhelming gambits that were 'Black Dog' and 'Whole Lotta Love' though it is, it's a fine Bo Diddley pastiche.
And when you think that Led Zeppelin have superceded themselves in the stakes of the blue, the wretched and the shamelessly wanton, they proffer you unabashed, glittering chasms of confessional pop. 'Down by the Seaside' has the tang of Bacharach and David, blended with a familiar hard rock spice. 'Ten Years Gone', hauntingly melodic and self-consciously allegorical (and more than a little self-congratualtory by its mear nature), beguiles one at first with its idiosyncracies of tone and nuance and then with its inner beauty. Along with 'Bron-Yr-Aur' and 'The Rover', it is the most instinctive and open-hearted committment to the album. 'In the Light' s amorphous post-psychedlia has a similar approach: a sideways charm, then infection. Its cosmic leanings wear thin pleasingly swiftly, leaving the bones of the song stretched and ready to admire.
And, of course, there is a fair bit of material that is lovably useless. 'In My Time of Dying' has admirable scope and ambition, but proves only the fact that Page's relationship with hard blues was merely a touchstone, whereas those who've succeeded with operatic blues (the Stones' 'Midnight Rambler' serves as a case in point) see it as a cornerstone. The last three of the album's tracks do not merit lengthy analysis: they're all fabulously weak, banal and pro-forma. Or, in the case of 'Black Country Woman', just sketches. Bad sketches.
So yes, this is the definitive Led Zeppelin rendering. 'Physical Graffiti' does not have the schizophrenic eclecticism of 'The Beatles', nor the consistent cinematic aura or tremendous songs of 'Exile on Main St'. But is has an adroit slender and a lyricism that both of those albums lack. Enjoy it for what it is, and for what it isn't. That's the beauty of art.
Great Songs: 'Kashmir', 'The Rover', 'Bron-Yr-Aur', 'Ten Years Gone'
