My Mother’s Son

This is a eulogy for my mum Nilu, who passed away in September 2011 following a year-long battle against a mystery neurological condition. After the funeral, I put away these thoughts and didn’t look back. I was afraid to reopen old wounds. Part of survival is about learning to let go, but the more I speak about her, the more I realise that sharing is also a path to healing. That is how a spirit endures, because we carry it forward with us.

So it’s time to tell the world…

It’s difficult to grow up when you’re Nilu’s baby… A doting mum whose suckling and dependable nature led me to believe we’d never part. So there I have stayed. In life, cared for rather than the carer. In death, paralysed by grief instead of feeling gratitude for being her son. But as inconsolable as her departure has made me, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I’m going to take a few minutes to tell you why. I want you see mum through my eyes. So I am going to give you a truthful portrait of an extraordinary person, and to do that, there are inevitable lows that put the highs into context.

As mum lay on her bed in her final hours, resolute and dignified in her decision to conclude life on her terms, I said: "I’ve been dreading this moment my entire life,’ to which she looked away, forlorn; no doubt concerned for the welfare of her 32-year-old dugga (or ‘old man’ as she used to call me, in acknowledgment of each passing year).

And sure enough, as early as I can remember, this day of reckoning has haunted me. The deepest connection between a mother and son quickly developed into an attachment, which, in turn, became my reliance. Needing her unfathomable strength, her values-based grounding and faith, her dignity and courage, her words of encouragement, her indomitable spirit… And love. Unconditional love.

All these things she continued to provide through her most troubled and challenging times, specifically her 10-month battle for life, a battle she gave everything to win. It was an astonishing demonstration of resilience and the will to live. When her speech was cruelly taken from her on the eve of her planned homecoming back in March, she found other wonderful ways to communicate: the eyes grew bigger and brighter, the smiles that much broader, her touch even more tender, and those mannerisms – the wagging finger, tilted head, raised eyebrows and tapping little feet – joyful expressions of her very being. But not even our supermum could beat this one. I guess her time had come before her time.

I thought that this long gap between mum’s passing and today’s service, our last goodbye, would give me a chance to collect my thoughts and to remember countless special moments with her. In reality, it’s been a doubly painful ordeal… Why? Because I struggled to remember, at first. Confusion, pain, anger, disappointment were all that came to mind. I began to wonder: had I taken mum for granted all these years wrapped up in my own daily drama?

As a family of four we haven’t fared that well when it comes to making memories together. We toil and grind, We worry. We get by. We come together intermittently and then we disband, back into our own orbits. I know there are many families that are guilty of this, but that doesn’t make it right. The opportunity to try something new together (the holiday, the restaurant, the show) was often put off by mum and dad, whose first instinct would always be survival – battening down the hatches and sacrificing for their children. Meanwhile, their health suffered. ‘Oh maybe tomorrow,’ they would reply, before throwing themselves once more onto the treadmill. Well, as a family of four, there is no tomorrow.

Aside from a few time-outs – two reinvigorating breaks abroad for mum and dad, firstly with Amudada and Bafoi in Florida, and then with Chai mama and Auntie Katherine in South Africa – the full family holiday never came. So my despondency grew, as I, barely able to look at pictures of mum without a painful sense of loss, wallowed in daze of confusion, missed opportunities and deep regrets … and this eulogy began to largely take the form of a lament.

But then something miraculous happened…

Words, sounds and images began to appear in my mind. Reasons to look back with fondness and smile. And yes, there is much to celebrate. Sooner or later, we all come to realise that life isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the fleeting, spontaneous, seemingly inconsequential moments we share with our nearest and dearest.

There are those Nilu traits that many of us will love and cherish forever. Her infectious smile, that mischievous laugh and how immaculately turned out she would always be (this is “the IT Girl of Kampala” we’re talking about, after all). Her mastery and subtlety in the kitchen: who could forget her relentless quest to feed and fill family, friends and colleagues with kutchoris, dokara, potato powa, mugg, dahl, baath and shaks, all enriched with just the right measure of spices to warm your heart and lift your spirits. And let's not forget her hearty interpretations of classic fare such as sweet sausages with bacon & beans, latticed potato pie or turkey casserole at Wayland Ave, a best-kept secret of the privileged few and one of the finest eateries in Brighton, without a doubt.

And those cuddles – affectionate, incomparable, inescapable. In her embrace the world would always feel like a safer and better place. That silky soft skin: I’d often sooth my eyes with the back of one hand while mum used her other to pull my brother Hemal’s unusually large earlobes (a famous family trait), as if simultaneously playing with him and chastising him.

Through dreams and broken sleep patterns I plucked other magic moments in time. Those idiosyncratic, behind-closed-doors Mum-isms that I’ll always treasure:

·       Waking up to her singing along to a bhajan as it played in the room next door, accompanied by the humming chorus of a hairdryer

·       Coming home from prep school to find her hard at work in the shop. She’d beam with joy, wave with that sweet scrunched up expression and wait for me to ride in on my imaginary motorbike – right into her arms. Not sure why I chose a motorbike. Possibly the influence of 80’s TV show Streethawk and it’s hi-tech two-wheeler

·       Mum’s unassuming nature and ability to see the good in most people. This prompted her to trust a regular customer, but a stranger nonetheless, with the task of teaching her two young boys to swim. He promptly pushed us in the deep end. Lesson learnt

·       Moisturising her cracked, swollen legs with E45 and regularly giving her a pedicure, a girl’s job I moaned, and that too in full view of the customers. Often I’d hear the quip, “You’ve got this one well trained, haven’t you.” And she did, no question

·       Scribbled shopping lists, barely legible, that I’d have to decipher in Waitrose, Superdrug, Marks and Taj food store. How quickly I came to know my Rimmel from my Maybelline. My jeera from my dhana

·       Naughty missions to bring her the odd treat like a Baby Cham, a G & T or a Wimpy beanburger during or after a hard day's graft

·       Spelling tests after school as mum was finishing another 10-hour shift. We reminisced about this just before she passed away. In shock and scrambling for something, anything, positive to say, I thanked her and acknowledged how I’d become pretty good at this one. She tilted her head, smiled and said "very good"

·       How mum would stand in the doorway of the house, weeping profusely whenever Hemal or I would return to college or university. The ‘waterworks’ as we called them. She did miss us dearly when we left home for boarding school. But there was always the phone. My weekly, fortnightly, monthly chats with her were playful highlights, both while studying and travelling. I’d share my latest good news or, more often than not, unload my neurosis of the day. Then she’d take it all in with a ‘there there’ mother's manner before setting me straight, pleading with me not to drink too much and telling me to get on with making the family proud. You probably know the masterplan: get a good job, buy a home, find a wife – which she threatened to help with – and start a family

·       Mum the domestic goddess; how she’d take so much pride in homemaking; her flowers in the garden that she nurtured, while veiled and broken-backed, as if they were her own children. Her cutlery and tuppleware, cherished like precious jewels. Her spice tin and cabinet, an Aladdin’s cave of mysterious fragrances and taste sensations. Oh how we would talk on and on as we washed the dishes, cleaned the house, rearranged the cupboards… Priceless time, looking back

·       Wading through a mountain of saris to clean her dressing room and choking on the thick layers of talcum powder circulating in the air. Mum did always have a liberal hand…

·       Mum the gambler; how she’d itch her palms (a sign of imminent good fortune) and then clasp her Lucky Dip ticket, eagerly awaiting the National Lottery result every Saturday night. Though this belies the statistician in her who would also analyse numbers, always feeling optimistic about her pick of six, plucked from her carrier bag of used tickets and scrawled permutations. Her annual flutter, the big one, was the Grand National. One pound here, two pounds there, guided by a few customers and her copy of the Racing Post

·       A staunch Royalist and gossip queen, mum would never miss a TV wedding, a Hello exposé or snooty write-up in the Daily Mail. I still remember the day that Princess Diana died. Mum woke me up at the break of dawn, mourning the loss as if it were one of her own. I’m glad that, thanks to the kind souls in the HDU, she was able to see William and Kate tie the knot. A great day for this nation to celebrate collectively and a wonderful spectacle of Britain at its best. Mum never forgot her roots but she loved this country because it was her home, even going as far as supporting England against India in the cricket

·       The sports fanatic berating teams and managers alike. My funniest recollection being her random, almost irrational support of Newcastle United Football Club. A cult Geordie if there ever was one

·       The soap queen, getting caught up in the storylines and taking sides on Emmerdale, Eastenders and Coronation St. Or picking her favourites on shows such as X-Factor, Strictly and Deal or No Deal. She loved the TV and after her time as the most affable of shopkeepers came to an end – with a mixture of relief and sadness – it became her main connection to the outside world. Her prime entertainment. Her escapism

·       And how could I forget meal times in front of these shows? I can see her now, moistening her lips and softly tap-tapping on her tongue as she cooks, tastes and peeks through her steamed up, pink-framed oversize reading glasses (the chachma), which became very much part of her image. Her dinner call was an elongated, ascending scream of my name from the kitchen … the cue to emerge from my blockaded room, set the table and prepare to feast like never before. Is it any wonder I lived at home until I reached 27 and carried a belly for at least 14 of those?

·       A legendary ability to fall asleep any time, anywhere, mouth agape and making that satisfied growl of a “hmmm … hmmm". This would become louder and louder until dad, sitting in the lounge and stuggling to do paperwork or watch the TV, woke her up with a scolding and resounding “Niluuuu”. It was a gift that I greatly admired, although in hindsight it was a symptom of the troubles that lay ahead. Who knew?

·       Countless epic phone chats with my two mamis Jayshri and Bena (“the network” as Hemal and I liked to call it), as well as the immensely supportive Bhavna masi (RIP) and, more recently, Pratima auntie who became a good friend to mum, regularly popping in for a natter on her morning walks around Westdene

But it was at social gatherings that mum would truly come alive, lending an instant dose of sparkle and glamour to the occasion. Her long final chapter as a housewife made her even more appreciative of those Sunday afternoon excursions to the homes of her brothers Hemant, Rohit and Chai, not to mention countless weddings. She rarely needed a second invitation to pull out one of her many beautiful saris, or rather to ask me to pull one out – the shelf was too high – slip on her diamonds and, ultimately, steal the show.

To her family and friends, mum was a joy to be around. In fact, she was good at making friends with most people: her doctor, her gardener, her hairdresser, her nurse and her neighbour. She radiated warmth and sincerity, and had a contagious, vivacious personality. After a privileged upbringing in Uganda she spent much of her life serving the public as a radiographer and newsagent. I’m sure this instilled in her a strong work ethic and a deep respect for those on 'the frontline'.

She toiled for many years behind a counter next to a pub and opposite a day centre that often became a crucible for unsavoury and threatening types, yet she always stood firm, served with a smile and charmed customers into becoming regulars at Montpelier Stores in Brighton. It’s no surprise, then, that staff at the ICU and HDU at Royal Sussex County Hospital quickly fell for ‘the boss’ as she became known. Mum was a real lady, distinguished yet polite and deeply thankful and appreciative to those that looked after her.

And I’m equally thankful for everything she’s done for myself, Hemal and dad as well as the wider family of cousins. As we all know, mum had a big heart and enough love inside that cuddly miniscule frame to shower the world again and again. I only hope that living to see her two boys growing up (not grown up yet, I admit) has made this remarkably selfless woman feel rewarded and satisfied in her life’s work.

Losing mum has been my darkest hour. I feared that, rather than feeling a sense of joy each time I thought of her, I would have to forget her to function from day to day. I feared I’d lost my main motivation in life. But it’s still there, stronger than ever, and I’ll do what I promised her in our final moments together: to work hard each day and make her proud – the same pride that she felt when her eldest finally qualified as a doctor and her youngest sidestepped the law, to her dismay, and settled into an editor’s chair in the City.

But this doesn’t mean living to work as her generation has had to do. Quite the opposite. She and I would talk at length about enjoyment. We’d exchange tales of amazing places we’d been to around the world – the sights, the smells, the people, the food. We shared the same passions, a sense of life’s romance and an appetite for its pleasures. But unfortunately, we didn’t have time to enjoy together the fruits of many decades of family labour.

The fragility of human existence – it is the most harrowing of wake-up calls.

It’s easy to reach for clichés on days like this. They can seem trite but they’re clichés for a good reason – they are true. The one I’ve pondered most came from a colleague and mother of two who lost her mum at the age of 14. She told me this: "your mum lives on through you and your brother."

I thought about that for a long time. One of the last things mum did was to take the hand of Hemal and I and place them together in front us in an act of inseparable union. “Two brothers should always be together. Don’t fight. Love and look after each other please,” were the words she mouthed, mustering her last few drops of energy. That was her mantra; well, one of them anyway. And she was right. At some point we stop looking at the things that separate us and we begin to embrace and nurture the things we have in common.

So to everyone I say this, and I’m sure mum would echo these sentiments: live each day like it’s your last but, more importantly, do it with your family. Because when your working days are done, your new best friends have moved on, relationships flounder and money doesn’t motivate like it used to, the love of your mother, father, sister or brother is all that really matters in this world. 

*****

A tribute to James Brown, one of my greatest heroes and a major influence, not least on my dancing. This was written on Christmas Day, in between basting the turkey and preparing the veg.

“'FUNKY' IS ABOUT THE INJUSTICES,
THE THINGS THAT GO WRONG, THE
HUNGRY KIDS GOING TO SCHOOL
TRYING TO LEARN. 'FUNKY' IS ABOUT
WHAT IT TAKES TO MAKE PEOPLE MOVE.”    

JAMES BROWN

James Brown’s death on 25 December 2006 was quite a shock. I thought he was one of those guys who would just go on and on. But what an exit. He may have been well his best but no one was going to steal the stage from him. Not even Jesus.

I still remember seeing/hearing him for the first time as a clueless, excited little seven year old settling down to watch Rocky IV and being blown away by this larger than life thunderball decked out in stars and stripes – no doubt a key influence on the braggadocio character Apollo Creed (alongside from the imperious Muhammed Ali) . Even through the jingoistic hokum Living in America you just couldn’t help but wonder at “The Godfather of Soul”, “The Hardest Working Man in Showbusiness”, “Mr Please Please”…or whatever else he saw fit to proclaim himself.

Sliding into the present day and I’ve had the privilege of learning more about the man in his own words, his career, his self-forged path, plus those infamous days with the revue so well documented by key player Fred Wesley in his autobiography. Here is a brief insight into the making of the man: 

“The world had taught James that if you wanted something you had to get it yourself. He had never had a mother or father or anyone to provide for him, to guide him, to make a way for him. Everything he had he had to fight for and he didn’t understand giving anything or even letting anyone earn anything from him in an easy way. He had had to overcome tremendous adversity just to live, let alone achieve greatness. He had to work ten times as hard as anyone else just to have food and shelter. You can’t expect mercy from a man who has fought himself up from the degradation to the pinnacle of the entertainment world. Although he did make my life a living hell sometimes, I’m a better man for it. I will always admire James Brown for being a man true to his principles, I certainly respect him for being an extraordinary man and for making himself the greatest entertainer who ever lived.”

Undisputed and well documented facts include James being the key catalyst and driving force behind popular R n’ B, funk and the looped syncopated rhythms of hip hop (Funky Drummer, Blow Your Head etc inspired everyone from Bomb Squad to Brand Nubian). Without James we’d have no Elvis, Prince, Michael Jackson, Fame-era Bowie, Fela Kuti, D’Angelo or Neptunes as we know them. Moreover, Miles Davis, a great admirer of Mr Dynamite’s rhythms, wouldn’t have moved so earnestly into the funk realm with 1972’s On The Corner, and beyond. He prototyped the complete musical entertainer and innovator without forgetting the showbusiness part (that theatrical robe routine borrowed from a famous 60’s wrestler comes to mind).

What isn’t fully appreciated is how the man rose from the bottom of Augusta, Georgia, with next to nothing – surviving and staying ahead of the pack with only his raw fighter’s instinct to guide him. That fearless determination would prove key to his survival on the streets, in prison, his thorough application to the platform of Bobby Byrd’s Avons/Flames, conquering the seldom lucrative and often life-threatening chitlin circuit, contravening the wishes of his label King Records to make one of the greatest and most successful live recordings in the history of music – Live at the Apollo – out of his own pocket and then using the proceeds to preserve the majestic legacy of the Apollo Theatre itself.

Who could forget that great story of James being scheduled to perform at Boston Garden the night following Dr Martin Luther King Jr’s assassination in 1968. By agreeing to let the concert be televised, Brown managed to ease discontent in the city and avert street anarchy.

Say It Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud speaks for itself: a defiant riposte in the bloody civil rights fight of the late 60s and a rousing soundtrack to the movement.

Then, who else would turn the misfortune of a band walkout in 1969 to his advantage by recruiting from the hot New Dapps such talented hip-to-it musicians as the Collins brothers and Jabo Starks to up the rhythmic ante?

Accepted, Brown was hardly whiter than white (heaven forbid!). There are those ridiculous demands made of his band (“Get me to the White House now or you’re fired!”), the bruises on then-partner Lyn Collins among others, and his frugal attitude to crediting his band for writing and production work (Fred and the Black Caesar soundtrack, for example). An unforgiving taskmaster and domineering personality, he was abrasive with many but inspiring in equal measure. Post-1965 he had unprecedented control over his music for a black artist, the James Brown revue was the tightest of all and he was a leading light in the black capitalist strategy incorporating radio, record company and other ventures.

He evolved from thoseearly Little Richard- and Fats Domino-styled days of Please Please Please and Try Me through the new bag of Papa…, Sex Machine, Mother Popcorn, There Was a Time (doubling up on the drums with Jabo Sparks and Clyde Stubblefield live) and Cold Sweat to the period of spontaneous, often ferocious, studio alchemy that gave us the likes of Funky Drummer, Papa Don't Take No Mess and Make It Funky between 1969 and 1974. Live, these already rough and ecstatic moments of provocative brilliance would reach even higher heights.

However, with James it’s not so much the influence or longevity of his career that makes him special. Here was a guy who burned with desire to be somebody and to make something of himself against the odds. He wasn’t musically trained or schooled in anything except the beat of the street and the jungle groove.

Charged by that combustible spirit, Brown was also blessed with an ecstasy-inducing voice plus two quicksilver feet. You can see it on countless live footage clips and you can definitely feel it when he pours over and strains for the meaning of every syllable in recordings of tracks like Mind Power, Don’t Tell It and I Can’t Stand It (’76).

Fred Wesley should be recognised for his vital interpretation, ordering and transcription of the Godfather’s often incoherent and discordant grunts, sounds and shrieks. Similarly, he had supreme talent around him to form his vision (Pee Wee, Maceo, Clyde, St Clair and Joe Farrell among others). But let’s get it straight. As a conductor – both musically and kinetically – and as a medium for the galvanising, empowering and uplifting potential of music (read scratchy guitar, dirty basslines, the double-hard break beats, sweet horns and organ, not forgetting those orgasmic screams of “baaaaaaaaby”) he shall remain unparalleled.

Things turned sour as the disco era dawned: creative drought, drugs, domestic dramas and so forth. This mustn’t detract from the fact that Brown continued to be a positive force, not least as a role model for kids to keep working hard at their passion (those 150-day a year minimum performance levels), to stay in school and to remember their roots.

After almost 50 years in the business and still resident of the South Carolina/GA area this seemingly immortal figure succumbed to pneumonia while conducting his Seven Decades of Funk World Tour. No other artist will ever be as synonymous with one genre of music while being able to claim a direct lineage to several others. Tap a kid on the shoulder in Ethiopia or a grandmother in The Andaman islands – they’ll know all about the ‘Minister Of Super Heavy Heavy Funk’.

I saw James in 2000 live in my hometown headlining the Brighton Festival; the pressure was on and I doubted if he could deliver. Papa didn’t take no mess that night. I was humbled and overjoyed. Black, white or outta sight, James Brown was the greatest of all time. He definitely did it to death. With immaculate hair and teeth. Respect.

Amar Patel
Straight No Chaser (2006)

*****

A dispatch from 2001, in the midst of one of the most horrific events in modern history. I was in Roanoke, Virginia, a “professional educational consultant” selling books door to door.

SHOOK
A first summer abroad should be a once-in-a-lifetime adventure for a university graduate. Unforgettable it was – for all the wrong reasons

Tuesday. 

Another day, another dollar in the sweltering South.

Pick a street. Look for clues. Ask questions. Beware the dog. 

Knock knock. The door opened. There I stood, side on, a few paces back from the entrance just as I had been taught. My smile, although false and contorted with a grimace of desperation, offered a glimmer of hope. "I am a professional educational consultant. I can do this," I thought.

In front of me stood a hulking figure, in ripped denim jeans, sleeveless check shirt, stubbled face and frayed trucker's hat, under which sat two piercing eyes; the kind that meant trouble. It was the look of a man with nothing to lose. Before I could get into my stride and explain why this charred, clipboard-carrying figure was standing on his porch, he reached to his side and pulled out a shotgun. Raising it slowly and pointing it at my midriff with real intent, he hissed these chilling words: "Boy, you got a lotta nerve showing up here right now. Get off my porch."

How had it come to this? Well earlier that year, impulsive and unsuspecting, I had signed up for a business programme selling educational handbooks to families door-to-door. On paper, it felt like a raw deal. I would have to raise all the money for flights, two weeks of training in Nashville, accommodation, food and 'office supplies'. Upon arrival in my designated area – Roanoke, Virginia, a sleepy, hilly expanse known as the "Star City of the South" – I would have to go from door to door asking if anyone had a spare room to let that summer. Once I strapped on my book bag and began wrestling with my map I would be working on 100 per cent commission – no guaranteed wage.

So why do it? The thrillseeker in me, perhaps. I had been seduced by the road, that rebellious sense of adventure that crackled on every page of Kerouac and Hunter S Thompson. I had to walk the path. But on that particular day several troubles were weighing me down: colleagues who had jumped ship, poor sales figures, the fallout from countless six-day weeks of fourteen-hour toil in 90 per cent humidity and brushes with death while peddling along the freeway through the pitch-black night.

The neighbourhood I was working in seemed quieter than usual: no toddlers playing with their house-bound 'moms', no nannies busying themselves around the garden, no traffic. Greetings at the door were more hostile than usual, accented by a different reaction. A traumatised stare. Confederate and stars and stripes flags were drooping half-mast.

On to the next house. An elderly lady – the church-going type – recoiled from the door. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she declared. I moped along, confused. Was I missing something here? A public holiday, a hard-line ban on peddlers, the colour of my skin perhaps?

"Keep going," I thought. I turned the corner, surveyed the street and singled out a beautiful white bungalow with a "welcome" mat in front of the door and all manner of flowers delightfully arranged around the garden. Surely I'd be safe from harm at this sanctuary? And thankfully I was right. A compassionate Irish lady ushered me in with worrying urgency. Inside, the television was on full blast. It sounded like an episode of NYPD Blue. “A plane has just crashed into the building.” She paused, gazed out at the garden for a moment and continued. "I think my son-in-law’s in there,” she muttered. “I’ll fetch some tea."

The date? 9/11.

*****

Led Zeppelin – How the West Was Won (2003)

Early adventures in album reviews. Knocked out after a one-day binge

Dudurr dudurr da/dada dada/dudurr dudurr da/dada dada… Goosebumps rising to the sound of Jimmy Page’s call to arms and it’s only track three of this behemoth three-disc live excursion. Culled from a handful of performances at the LA Forum and Long Beach Arena in their hotel-trashing heyday back in 1972, How the West Was Won surely cements Led Zeppelin's reputation and one of the greatest concert bands of all time. Four masterful artists, a band greater than the sum of its parts. Page, general and genius, remarks in the liner notes that he just happened to stumble upon these recordings – as you do. What they have clogging up their vault is effortlessly more breathtaking than the career sum of all those pretenders that followed in their wake.

The set list draws heavily from Led Zeppelin I – IV, while also building huge expectation for their next release, Houses of the Holy. CD 1 has all the earlier favourites including an extended 'remix' of Heartbreaker and a poignant rendition of Stairway to Heaven, which somehow betters the BBC Sessions version. The solo just goes on and on, raging to an ecstatic crescendo. Then skip a few tracks and your into an acoustic section, a sweet detour that plays right into the hearts of the flower power masses.

As the laser hits CD2, the musicianship of the band really shines through, particularly on a marathon 25-minute Dazed and Confused. The audience – and you – are in the palm of their hands. The funked up riff of The Crunge forms the most unlikely of interludes before making way for a little gizmatron and violin bow tinkering. This is Zeppelin in full flow – thumping, stretching and reconfiguring their material with remarkable ease. A juicy swagger is added to the mystical tones of What is and What Should Never Be, while Moby Dick is essentially an exercise in drum kit destruction (sticks not required) sandwiched between a characteristically heavy Page riff. This song more than any other illustrates why John “Bonzo” Bonham was the heartbeat of Led Zeppelin, the engine room. 

CD3 has yet another typically unbelievable version of the Delta blues rocker Whole Lotta Love, complete with a barn-storming medley that stoops off at John Lee Hooker’s Boogie Chillin' and Gene Pitney's happy clappy Hello Marylou. The interplay between Page and Plant is extraordinary. Plant still wants to be the backdoor man – persistent lad. For 23 minutes you are hooked and hanging on every note. It is still the declaration of libidinous intent and a tour de force for the monster rock riff, no matter what Top of the Pops tried to do to it. Just when you thought the band would let up, the Chuck Berry inspired drum-intro to Rock And Roll blasts out of the speakers, signalling for all to restart their engines for a victory lap. All that's left is for the boys to Bring It on Home with a little help from the blues shuffle of Willie Dixon. Page and Bonham duel while Plant oohs and aaaaghs to orgasmic proportions, feeding off a now frenzied audience.

How the West Was Won brings the yesteryear high of bootlegs to the masses, an epic collection of classics with an almighty twist. Although the demo-like BBC sessions feel even more special given the intimate confines in which they were recorded, these stadium versions reveal a punchier, more expansive and dynamic group  at work – closer to the legend. This collection is indeed not only how the west was won but also how the world fell too. Led Zeppelin changed the way I listen to rock music. Ah to have grown up with them… [ed: Thankfully, four years later I was privileged to be in the crowd at the O2 – where tickets were changing hands for thousands as three old men and one baby Bonham smashed the competition.]

Sonic innovators, heavy metal originators, boogie woogie bluesmen … the guise matters not. For a few hours you are squeezed into that stadium, 100,000 plus; girls with long wavy hair shake like willow trees while bushy-bearded men aim their hammer to the gods. The atmosphere is almost sacred, Rock & roll communion for dreamers and believers. There are whispers of new material, and rumours of strange rituals follow the band wherever they go. Everyone has a story and their anthem. "Wonder how long Dazed will last this time, man…”

Showtime.