“That’s better”: the album John Bonham almost lost a leg over

Whenever I watch a live show, there’s always one person I want to be: the drummer. One foot in their own world, and the other with their bandmates keeping time, they always look like the ones having the most fun. There’s a physicality to it that I envy, something that embodies the primal spirit of old-fashioned rock and roll. And is there a drummer who typifies that better than John Bonham?

It’s no coincidence that the lineage of rock influence always traces back to him. Whether it’s Matt Helders, Dave Grohl, or Chad Smith, Bonham’s name is at the tip of every drummer’s tongue when asked who their musical idol is. He was relentlessly energetic and brought the thunder to Led Zeppelin with his pioneering techniques using off-beats, the bass drum, and triplets.

His musical reputation was all the more impressive when you took into account the sheer off-stage mayhem he would find himself in. A roaring 90-minute Led Zeppelin set seemingly wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits, and he would regularly involve himself in some form of late-night debauchery appropriate for the 1970s.

But while throwing television sets out the window and sniffing substances off of every surface within arms length was common procedure in that decade, it all spoke to a deeper sense of narcissism, a celebration of their fame that was completely unrelated to their enjoyment of music. For Bonham though, music was truly at the forefront of his mind and behavior and so, his mischief was largely tied into that.

While his drumming counterpart Keith Moon was smashing up hotels out of pure boredom, Bonham was doing it out of genuine frustration. And on one fateful night, listening to The Pretty Things’ album You Don’t Believe Me, Phil May saw how his famous kick-drumming right boot could inflict damage in a musically deprived fit of anger.

He recalled, “Any time we recorded a track, he insisted on getting a copy. We had the album when we were staying at the Hyatt House, and Bonzo was in the penthouse suite. And the Hyatt had a balcony that went all the way around the penthouse, with big, 20-foot sliding doors. When you pushed the doors, they’d hit this rubber buffer and come back, and after about three or four minutes, they’d close again.”

He continued, “So we’re listening to the album on the balcony and suddenly the doors closed; it was like someone had turned the record off. Bonham was furious. He just turned round and put his foot through the massive plate glass doors. They shattered and splintered everywhere. And he just calmly turned around and said: ‘That’s better. Now we can listen to the rest of the fucking album!’”

It was a dangerous game for a man whose feet were the engine of a relentless rock and roll machine, but perhaps the unflinching nature with which he booted down a glass door spoke to the powerful resilience harboured within them. But more pertinent than the power of his boot was the insistent desire to listen to music in its purest form, and it was those two attributes that made Bonham a god of the rhythm section.