Clayton Richardson

Reading about Led Zeppelin, I remember my friend. I want to remember him. I want to write about him because I know no one else will. His name was Clayton. He was a dick, a douche, a prick, all the things people have said about me as well. Do I think he was misunderstood? I do. And would he have taken the time to put words to paper for me? Probably not. 

I think the love of Led Zeppelin united us in some strange bond. I remember him having these four huge framed pictures of each member hanging in his basement. Of course, there were other cool things down there, a pool table, and fancy, green-felted poker table, a ping pong table. But the shots of Bonham, Jones, Page, and Plant were by far coolest thing down there to me. 

I’ll never forget the first and only time anyone uttered this phrase: “You kind of look like Robert Plant with that hair, Eric.” That was probably one of the best compliments I had from a peer during my youth. And I suppose, looking back, in—between the drinking and the driving, the waking up in piles of puke and discarded panties, the card games, and the nightly displays of behavior that would have made the rock gods that stared down upon us proud, in-between all these things, there was a friendship, each of us knowing that anyone our age that like this band was somehow different than the others around us. 

I miss my friend.