70,000 fans awaiting the start of the show. (credit: Original Source unknown)
Changes fill my time, baby, that’s alright with me
In the midst I think of you, and how it used to be—Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, “Ten Years Gone”
This is the mystery of the quotient, quotient
Upon us all, upon us all a little rain must fall—Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, “The Rain Song”
As we exited the air-conditioned comfort of my mother’s 1960-something New Yorker sedan, the humid, 95-degree heat in the parking lot of Tampa Stadium hit us like a ton of bricks. We hardly noticed, though, because we had something far more immediate on our mind. To wit: a band called Led Zeppelin, which was scheduled to play in a few hours for me, my four companions, and 70,000 other rabid fans who shelled out that evening’s $ 10 ticket fee.
When the show started just a little before dark, about four hours later, there was no opening act. There was no announcement, either, just Jimmy Page’s 12-string guitar ringing out the opening chord from “The Song Remains the Same,” as a laser projected an undulating figure-eight above the stage. The crowd erupted in the most electric celebrations I’ve ever experienced. It was June 3, 1977. I was just 12 years old, this was my first rock concert, and it was about to change my life forever.
Alas, despite the words “Rain or Shine” printed on the Willie Wonka-style tickets, the concert was quickly interrupted by a thunderstorm considered torrential even for Tampa—a place which rightly or wrongly had long been dubbed the lightening capital of the world. Singer Robert Plant first promised to return in 15 minutes. Later, came an announcement that the show was being postponed. In the confusion, a small riot broke out. Fortunately, my friends and I managed to get out before the bottle throwing and clubbing happened. We only learned of the violence hours later listening to the radio. A few days later, Tampa Mayor William Poe vowed Led Zeppelin would never play the city again.
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