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Chris and I stood up to it because we were creating humour from all sorts. Keith was drinking his way along. But Jeff …’

      Jeff Beck was becoming a specialist in crossing the United States in a bad mood: ‘The bus was supposed to have air-conditioning, but didn’t seem to. And all the American groups on the bus played their guitars non-stop, and were always singing. Could you imagine? Cooped up on a stuffy bus with everyone around you singing Beatles songs in an American accent?’

      His technique honed on the set of Blow-Up, Beck cut a destructive swathe through the tour’s initial dates: amps thrown out of windows, instruments smashed. ‘Jeff Beck had to be coaxed into smashing his guitar for the Blow-Up scene,’ said Napier-Bell. ‘And then he fell in love with doing it and with smashing his amp. I’m sure Jimmy Page was counting the nights, because then Jeff Beck left.’

      The frustration within the group began to mount, and, as Beck would admit in hindsight: ‘I was quite messed up. At 21 I was really on my last legs. I just couldn’t handle it.’

      ‘One time in the dressing room,’ recalled Page, ‘Beck had his guitar up over his head, about to bring it down on Keith Relf, but instead smashed it to the floor. Relf looked at him with total astonishment, and Beck said, “Why did you make me do that?”’

      In the middle of the tour, in Harlington, Texas, Beck caught a taxi to the airport and flew to Los Angeles – where, of course, Mary Hughes awaited him. Beck’s explanation for his departure? A return of his chronic tonsillitis. He was going to have treatment and would soon return, he said.

      The day after Beck disappeared, Napier-Bell was obliged to appear on a local television show to announce that the next Yardbirds concert had to be cancelled. Showing that they were perfectly adaptable under stress, Relf and Page scoured the area for a joke shop. When Napier-Bell took a lengthy pull on the cigar his pair of charges had presented to him, he had to jump back as it exploded in his mouth – in the middle of the live television broadcast. At the time there was a term for such behaviour among UK groups: looning. Page’s part in this moment clearly showed that he was not above indulging in this, although, given the complicated relationship he had with his manager, was there a subconscious maliciousness in the very notion of this deed?

      Once again, Page took over as the sole lead guitarist. ‘Jimmy was always a real pro,’ said Chris Dreja, ‘whereas Jeff was a man of emotion. I think Jeff always found it harder than Jimmy because he was prone to playing according to how he felt, whereas Jimmy’s idea was always, “We’re professional entertainers.”’

      ‘I didn’t like my territory being encroached upon, and I wanted to be it, to do all the guitar playing,’ admitted Beck. ‘And when it got to the point when I was exhausted, we then embarked on a six-week Dick Clark tour. Six hours in that thing was enough for me. To be faced with those kind of travel problems and emotional tear-ups, and you’d get to the end and play a toilet gig with music you didn’t feel comfortable with, was a recipe for disaster. Things just got on top of me and I cracked up, basically. I wanted to do something other than travelling … So it’s not important whether I was kicked out or I left – it just happened.’

      After a period of reflection in Los Angeles, Beck attempted to return to the Yardbirds. He realised that he had essentially been suffering from a minor nervous breakdown. But when word got back to the Yardbirds that their AWOL guitarist had been seen enjoying himself in LA nightclubs, they voted Beck out of the group.

      ‘That was the point at which I gave up on trying to manage the Yardbirds,’ said Napier-Bell. ‘I thought it was too difficult and the only person I really liked in the group – apart from Chris Dreja, who is a nice guy, a good person – was Jeff Beck. So I kept the management of Jeff Beck. I found Jimmy very difficult to deal with. Always narky.’

      Page, however, felt it was unsurprising he was considered awkward: ‘Bloody right. We did four weeks with the Rolling Stones and then an American tour and all we got was £112 each!’

      One aspect of Page that Napier-Bell had observed was the guitarist’s tendency to be tucked away in a corner reading yet another esoteric volume by Aleister Crowley. ‘People would ask him about it, and he would reply something along the lines of, “Oh, you wouldn’t understand it. You’re not intelligent enough.”’

      6

       ‘YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME FOR A THOUSAND DOLLARS?’

      If Aleister Crowley performed a role as a kind of absent metaphysical father figure to Jimmy Page, the fastidiously loyal Peter Grant would prove to be a very physical manifestation of one.

      Born into considerable poverty on 5 April 1935 in London’s South Norwood, Peter James Grant was the illegitimate son of a secretary. He never met his father, who was rumoured to have left his mother because she was Jewish – even though she was employed as a typist for the Church of England Pensions Board.

      Soon Grant and his mother moved to a tiny terraced house in down-at-heel Battersea, on the edge of the Thames. During the Second World War his school was evacuated, and he was sent to Godalming in Surrey, where he was educated at posh public school Charterhouse. Bullied by resentful incumbents, he developed an abiding loathing of the upper classes that would remain with him all his life. Emotionally distraught at being torn from his mother and home, meagre though it was, Grant began to put on the excessive weight that would characterise him.

      ‘This boy will never make anything of his life,’ read the final report by the headmaster of the south London school where Grant finished his education.

      The first few weeks of Peter Grant’s working life were spent labouring in a sheet-metal factory. At six feet, five inches tall and on his way to being just as wide, he certainly had the physique for physical work, but he quickly changed course, first becoming a messenger delivering photographs on Fleet Street for the Reuters news agency, and then a stagehand at the Croydon Empire Theatre.

      After National Service in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, where he attained the rank of corporal, he became doorman – bouncer, really – at the 2i’s Coffee Bar on Old Compton Street, the birthplace of British rock ’n’ roll and the venue from which sprang Cliff Richard, Tommy Steele and Adam Faith, among others. It was during this time that he met Mickie Most, who had recently returned to London after finding success as a pop star in his wife’s native South Africa.

      Through connections he made with Most, Grant was swept up into the newly popular world of televised professional wrestling, appearing as both Count Massimo and Count Bruno Alassio of Milan. From this springboard Grant secured bit parts in a number of films – among them A Night to Remember, The Guns of Navarone and the epic Cleopatra – and television shows – The Saint, Dixon of Dock Green and The Benny Hill Show, among others.

      Grant pulled together his 2i’s connections, bought a minibus and started a business transporting rock ’n’ roll musicians to their gigs. He started off with the Shadows, before he was approached by Don Arden, who gave Grant the task of road-managing American acts he brought over for tours – the Everly Brothers, Chuck Berry, Bo Diddley, Little Richard, Gene Vincent and Brian Hyland – a role he performed with alacrity, personally ensuring the artists were paid every penny owed, in cash.

      Arden had a very nasty reputation: he was rumoured to have held Steve Marriott, of the Small Faces, out of a third-floor office window by his ankles when the diminutive singer requested an accurate accounting of his earnings. Grant learned from such behaviour. ‘When he was with Led Zeppelin he was a batterer of people,’ said Napier-Bell. ‘Although that was probably because of the drugs. When he had cleaned up he became a very nice person.’

      But that was all yet to come. Grant also acted as road manager for the Animals and the New Vaudeville Band, and began sharing an office with Mickie Most at 155 Oxford Street, on the border of then sleazy Soho in London. When Most took over the management of the Yardbirds from Napier-Bell, Grant became their de facto manager and Most’s

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