“So somebody names it four. And that’s after the fact. These brilliant motherfuckers just hole themselves up in some old poorhouse called Headley Grange, stock it full of food and drugs and don’t come out until they’ve created a masterpiece. The single greatest rock album of all time. And then what do they do? I’ll tell you what they do, they say, Here, Mr. Fuckoff record company, here’s our fourth studio recording. And so record company Fuckoff has a listen, probably has no clue how miraculous it is, what he’s listening to, from first track to last, and finally says, Okay, boys, sounds good, so what are we gonna call it? And you can just see the look on that Fuckfoff’s face when one of them, probably Page, maybe Plant, but I’ll say it had to be Page, just sits there, all Merlined out and shit in some wizard’s suit, and he turns to the Fuckoff. He says, Page does, sitting back on some couch in the Fuckoff’s office, sticking his lizard skin boots up on the Fuckoff’s coffee table, Page says, Nothing. And that Fuckoff, you can be sure, doesn’t follow. Nothing? Fuckoff asks. Not anything, Page explains. I don’t think we want to call this one anything.”
An excerpt from a series of novels-in-progress, The Dead State Quartet.
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