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Experimentation rock. By earliest revision, it was answer to the cyclic abhorrence in psychedelia which was wearing thin by actual musicians who thought dropping acid to heighten your senses was pointless when it came to musical expansion. It came out of the brainchild’s of Allan Holdsworth and Frank Zappa where music can take any direction by breaking not only the conformities of time signatures but the sound itself without going on the trip of brown acid. Zeppelin, at this stage of their plagiarizing career had one problem with experimentation rock. They loved the brown acid.
1974 was a banner year for Zeppelin. They had finally ripped off enough American black music with little consequence becoming the Arena Rock Gods of the Seventies. This was also the time Zeppelin became less democratic and more of a pet rock for Page’s theoretical chord progressions and occasional heroin “dabbling.” Houses of the Holy is dabbling into Jimmy Page’s central personality of living up the sex guitar god archetype that appealed mainly to young boys’ nonsexual homoerotic paradox. The standard set forth by other dog-and-pony British acts where songs had to be minimum of 10 minutes with cleverly organized drum, bass, keyboard and most of all, guitar solos. Lots and lots of pointless guitar solos. There is nothing more homoerotic than a younger man watching an older man play a guitar solo. Page, now known for not fully writing any song he ever started had to follow suit. And no, not the ones his was finally paying royalties for plagiarizing their music to.
House of the Holy also dabbles into the Zeppelin categorization of pretentiousness as Page fires up his Edsel 12-Sting and reconnects with his Harmony acoustic to nail out two bangers of the most under-produced and lyrically bloated noises you ever heard. No acid can be this bad, right? I mean, who ever heard of putting acid on a nail and then that same nail on musical chalkboard? That’s ridiculous. I musha bee-a-trppien’. Page and his worst half pen out another Simon and Garfunkel ditty only this time on mountains and hills instead of hobbits. Plant in his embarrassing ego-tripping effeminate singing combined with this weird mechanism of waxing pseudo-philosophy while once again being white boys in the flesh going stealth under the James Brown radar of another of Page’s clich? rip offs. By the way, I found that goddamned bridge. It was named the Bridge of Originality. No wonder Zeppelin couldn’t. find it.
Dancing Days is also a banger. Maybe a little “cultural-appropriated” for these days and times. Just a little? It stills today gels with all the other famous Zeppelin song staples of misogyny and date rape. Oh, and speaking of cultural appropriation, D'yer Mak'er, another self-evident misogynistic rant where Plant amazingly slurs his mumbles and lyrics into one racist stereotype after another. You hurt him “down to his so000l-Ooh,O-O-O-00000LL-Oh Oh” WTF is this?
I have a music theory that when bands take the brown acid and burn-out and then take it again is a sign that the record is ending. Page shrugs off his chordy guitar assault nutty-butty and opts for a trippy psychedelic feel to rebound his roots before being the plagiarizing center diva he is today. Who am I kidding? Spooky keyboards, rubber-band reverb, leslie-moduated vocals, and what’s that? Is that? No, it can’t be? A guitar solo? No acid is this good, right? Yes, let’s all go out on the brown acid and lie to ourselves that Houses of the Holy was a good trip. No it was great trip as we swim in the ocean of pretentiousness.
1974 was a banner year for Zeppelin. They had finally ripped off enough American black music with little consequence becoming the Arena Rock Gods of the Seventies. This was also the time Zeppelin became less democratic and more of a pet rock for Page’s theoretical chord progressions and occasional heroin “dabbling.” Houses of the Holy is dabbling into Jimmy Page’s central personality of living up the sex guitar god archetype that appealed mainly to young boys’ nonsexual homoerotic paradox. The standard set forth by other dog-and-pony British acts where songs had to be minimum of 10 minutes with cleverly organized drum, bass, keyboard and most of all, guitar solos. Lots and lots of pointless guitar solos. There is nothing more homoerotic than a younger man watching an older man play a guitar solo. Page, now known for not fully writing any song he ever started had to follow suit. And no, not the ones his was finally paying royalties for plagiarizing their music to.
House of the Holy also dabbles into the Zeppelin categorization of pretentiousness as Page fires up his Edsel 12-Sting and reconnects with his Harmony acoustic to nail out two bangers of the most under-produced and lyrically bloated noises you ever heard. No acid can be this bad, right? I mean, who ever heard of putting acid on a nail and then that same nail on musical chalkboard? That’s ridiculous. I musha bee-a-trppien’. Page and his worst half pen out another Simon and Garfunkel ditty only this time on mountains and hills instead of hobbits. Plant in his embarrassing ego-tripping effeminate singing combined with this weird mechanism of waxing pseudo-philosophy while once again being white boys in the flesh going stealth under the James Brown radar of another of Page’s clich? rip offs. By the way, I found that goddamned bridge. It was named the Bridge of Originality. No wonder Zeppelin couldn’t. find it.
Dancing Days is also a banger. Maybe a little “cultural-appropriated” for these days and times. Just a little? It stills today gels with all the other famous Zeppelin song staples of misogyny and date rape. Oh, and speaking of cultural appropriation, D'yer Mak'er, another self-evident misogynistic rant where Plant amazingly slurs his mumbles and lyrics into one racist stereotype after another. You hurt him “down to his so000l-Ooh,O-O-O-00000LL-Oh Oh” WTF is this?
I have a music theory that when bands take the brown acid and burn-out and then take it again is a sign that the record is ending. Page shrugs off his chordy guitar assault nutty-butty and opts for a trippy psychedelic feel to rebound his roots before being the plagiarizing center diva he is today. Who am I kidding? Spooky keyboards, rubber-band reverb, leslie-moduated vocals, and what’s that? Is that? No, it can’t be? A guitar solo? No acid is this good, right? Yes, let’s all go out on the brown acid and lie to ourselves that Houses of the Holy was a good trip. No it was great trip as we swim in the ocean of pretentiousness.
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