1975 was an odd year. Much had changed: hippies were getting jobs, the Detroit muscle car was all but dead, Watergate was dominating the news, Margret Thatcher came into power, and Viet Nam was reaching an end. It also was an odd year for music. Disco was coming “mainstream” which was good because it was killing off 70’s bubblegum and those gawd-awful “variety shows” although some did survive. Glam rock was breathing its last breath with the death of Marc Bolan and Bowie chameleoning himself once again. Only this time with cocaine and supermodel pussy. The future of rock and roll no matter how plagiarized was uncertain and Page Incorporated did not seem to be worried.
Page & Plant circa 1975. Still a pair of dicks
The reason for this was simple: Schleppy was notorious for sticking to script on their past five contributions of sludge. Why should their sixth be any different? Their formula was easier than Walter White’s garage meth: endless riff bashing, deplorable soloing, cock-swagger vocals with lyrics about date rape, Hobbits, Vikings, oh, and let us not forget their “blooz” drudgery. Page knew it was time to feed his fanbase with no discernable delivery of a nutritious dish.
Physical in its original packaging
’Physical Graffiti’ now in its fortieth year (rereleased to the exact date) raises more questions for me about the state of Schleppy back than I can find answers for. Not that I give a shit either way. For one, they abandoned working in a studio for good to work out of a “mobile truck” that for its time was archaic as petrified shit. Page being the “producer” must have thought this was a wonderful idea at the time. No studio time bills, no suits from Atlantic looking over shoulders, and no time limits on sessions. Going cheap does not necessitate going better for the quality of this record only reflects his piss-poor decision. There were also rumors of “tensions within the band” with certain member(s) bitching about the barrage of touring. Makes one wonder why Page did not pull the plug right there. Oh right, he’s a total dick.
Page Incorporated going to work
Schleppy’s greed was also starting to become manifest. ’Physical’ was the first in a series of the band’s drek to be on their own label Swan Suck. thus telling THE MAN at Atlantic to “suck it.” Now, I’m all for anarchy but this was a business decision largely constructed by Peter Grant, a known half-Jew who loved money more than life itself. No doubt Grant’s Jewish side was a major pull on Page Incorporated and Schleppy’s loyal fans suffered; ’Physical’ was to be a double album to be sold at an inflated price with no label middle man to give a Nazi-esque gold steal to Grant. Yes, Schleppy were the Koch Brothers of their day.
And there was another dilemma: Schleppy needed a “hit” knowing too well they could not write one worth a shit but rather stumble into one like they did with ‘Stairway.’ What Schleppy really needed was another radio anthem since the 70’s was the fucking decade of decades for writing them. Of course, everybody knows the best anthem of the 70’s was ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ but that was a wee bit too pussified for Page’s plagiaristic ideology. Previous attempts had failed on The Pedophile Album and were downright embarrassing. This time they had two slices of vinyl to redeem themselves knowing that if they faulted on one disc they would have another try. I will admit I’m not familiar with Schleppy’s double wham-bam-this-bores-me-ma’am Graffiti. So I did my best to listen as unbiased to the “remaster” as best as I could but, er, couldn’t.
So what in the fuck do you cretins expect?
Side one of this original 4 side now two disc with a third disc for the remaster starts off like any other Schleppy mind-numbing pile of shit. Page layers his Les(bian) Paul to death only this time with keyboard overdubs while Plant sings about what I can gather is groupie pussy turning stale. ”Put on your night skirt and [your] morning gown” he sings so he can “surely shake ‘em on down.” Somewhere Dr. Suess is shitting in his grave. This riff recycles, the tune goes nowhere, and Plant once again improvises lyrics as if he was Keats at a Hooters. It’s all downhill from here. ‘The Rover’ sounds just as freakishly dull. Page rumples his thumping guitar into some sort of untuned, untoned, muddled noted fart fest. The plagiarism does show here coming off as the Yardbirds ‘Heart Full Of Soul’ with no fucking class. I have zero idea what in the fuck the lyrics are supposed to mean. ”You got me rockin' when I ought to be a-rollin', darlin', tell me, darlin', which way to go…” Ever hear of stopping and asking for directions, you plagiaristic assholes?
Unreleased Schleppy recording session photo
Side 1 ends with the ostentatious “In My Time Of Dying” which is an incredibly superfluously dull 11-plus minute epic about incompatible mumblings to Jesus, Jewishness, guilt, and fuck knows what. Page plays a sloppy slide while Plant goes off the fucking rails:*
”And I see them in the streets, and I see them in the fields, and I hear them shouting under my feet and I know it's got to be real Oh, Lord, deliver me. All the wrong I've done. You can deliver me, Lord I only wanted to have some fun.”
And I listened to your dismal tune, and I found it to be shit, and I hope you do fucking die, and I hope it’s soon.
Shit like this should be taught in every musical classroom on why white people should not play the blues as if they fucking invented them. See how easy it is to dismiss Schleppy as “blooz for white trash?” Then sit back amazed as white suburban after white suburban failed musician rushed to tongue the plagiarizing fuck’s sphincter. Therefore, it was good to have my first impression confirmed. ’Physical’ is aural wallpaper for assholes. Music so white it was practically transparent. Then again, these contradictions have always been at the heart of rock’n’roll: The Caucasian Negro Elvis. The transvestite hetero-stud Little Richard. The god-fearing devil-worshipper Jerry Lee Lewis. The poor boy-Satanist Rolling Stones. The speed-freak teenypop Beatles. The “brickies in drag” glam bands of the early ‘70s. So where does Schleppy fit in? Oh right, they don’t.
Page showing his street cred because you know, he's paid "dues".
Page’s reluctance to chart new territory comes as no surprise as being the norm for side two. Once again, there is a heavy reliance of “riffage” and little in the way of substance. Any difference that may foster some credit it lies in the sense that Page does not rely upon his plagiarist principles here but rather volume – with little contrast. No doubt, Schleppy was looking for concert staples here and everything was thrown into the machinery to see what shit from shit to other shit would stick to the wall. Little of it did but as one would expect from Schleppy. However, it did not stop them from proceeding.
’Houses Of The Holy’ centers itself around a basic open chordal pattern while Plant gives some insight to any history of the decade they were living in. This tune always struck me about the rise of cults, which would great for a tune, but Plant cannot help to fuck it up. ’Trampled Under Foot’ is a complete mess as Page’s “true genius” or rather, lack of, production skills come sharp into focus. John Paul Jones keyboards are a rip off of Max Middleton and the guitars are poorly overdubbed, flat, and piss-pick-pounded to death. The vocals are the real story here. Unintelligible sexist lyrics so poorly mixed that center once again about female objectification and rape varied with ghey metaphors about cars.
Schleppy fans after drinking the Physical Kool-Aid. What? Too soon?
I’m willing to admit if ’Physical has anything close to a heartbeat than Kashmir delivers a pulse where so far the listening has been rather asystole. The riff may be different but it is largely monotonal with a repeating pattering of crescendo to bridge to crescendo. Interesting if one’s discounts Plant’s lyrical nonsense:
”Oh, I been flying... mama, there ain't no denyin.’ I've been flying, ain't no denyin', no denyin.’”
Great. Dropping acid is one thing but singing about your boring acid trips to one of the most war torn places on earth is quite another. Where is the self-realization here? The imagery of Kashmir is just as one-dimensional giving the listener little joy for being ear-fucked to death with such inanity. Justin Bieber could have written ’Kashmir’ on acid only better. Much better.
Justin, just after he literally shit out a tune better than Kashmir
Side 3 is all over the place; it could make for a somewhat enjoyable Schleppy offering left to its own devices. I found this to be unfortunate that it made up ¾ of this original 4-sideded, reduced to 2 disc, regurgitated to an 3 disc, yeah, we’ve already been over this. It certainly is the most effeminate bunch of hashed-out tunes they ever did considering they were making a living by writing about blatant misogyny. Maybe they were looking to do a “mellow side” in order to give the listener a breather or fresh(er) groupie pussy. I could care less. In The Light’ is trippy, attempting to be spiritual druggy, but is neither. There is no question that side 3 was really a precursor to a Plant solo outing and maybe that is what he was attempting to do here. He had strong ideas even if he was trying to differ from the usual fairy tale-isms of his boring wordsmith in order to appease the sucky occultism of Page’s interest. Fuck knows that never gets tiresome.
"Boats...is he singing about fucking boats"
Little of side 3 does work. What does is more or less reflective rather than a progressive. I am not sure what to make of it. Although I am willing to say somewhere between bad emo poetry meets Herman’s Hermits. ’Down by the seaside, see the little boats go sailing…” Granted, this is a departure from talk about Goblins and Harry Hobbitville only more…childish. ’Ten Years Gone is imaginative revenge porn for cruel girlfriend while ‘Bron-Yr-Aur’ is total Pageism, a 2-or-so minute caricature instrumental complete with sloppy tuning as if he playing his instrument in bucket molasses and mud; a dismal stab at ingenuity that oddly fits well on an album already full of lackluster strangeness and incomprehensibility.
Ten Years Hannah
Physical ends itself on the pointless return of where it began. Think of that famous T.S. Eliot line where he said something about exploring and never ceasing to refrain from it only to return to where you started and know the place for the first time so some such shit. Side 4 is really the epitome of Eliot’s genius with the only constant being Schleppy were clueless where to start. Page’s origin is his habitual bag of riffage stances; Plant to his pelvic grunting. The musings of side 4 left me confused although I should not be: sexism, drug use, and interracial racism (I guess to keep it “real” for their “blooz” illusions) all come to the fore and yet Schleppy plays them as if they alone give such lameness credence.
Schleppy blooz: plagiarism without respect
The problem with Physical Graffiti wasn’t that it was bloated, it was bloated without filler. Page knew he had an album that he could exploit to his audience but not entirely sure how. Writing purposefully for concert staples is great but hardly makes for a great listen as an entire album, more like a novelty than any other previous Schleppy offerings. Arena rock was coming into existence and he lacked the blueprint from which he could steal. Even Eurovision was in its infantile stage. I’ll give Page credit for his Quixotic attempt at trying to generate a ‘Tommy’ or ‘Exile’ and not coming off like the dick he truly is. That could be due to the input of his bandmates who knew Page could only thieve so much. Whereas those aforementioned albums were necessary of two slabs seeing both artist were exploring and creating from their influences and finding their own niche Page Incorporated only treads water. Twice. There is no road map here.
Swan Song, indeed
*Further reading:https://chorpenning.wordpress.com/20...and-heres-why/
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Originally Posted by WARF
