The infuriating moment when a comment intended to be sarcastic is something you actually agree with… FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
So loving Meg and loving Bonzo is mutually exclusive then?
Everyone knows Bonzo, reams have already been dedicated to his genius. His beats are perfect for Led Zeppelin’s music - the gallop in Immigrant Song, the danceable swing in Rock n’ Roll, the sprawling epic of Moby Dick, the hammer of fucking Thor opening in When The Levee Breaks… He was a master with technical achievement and skill and groove and roll; absolutely fucking first class, no doubt.
And Meg is master in a different way. Hardly anyone seems to recognise that. She is perfect for The White Stripes’ music - the lurching swagger of Jimmy The Exploder, the slouching thrust of Little Bird, the garage thrash of Fell In Love With a Girl, the booming march of Seven Nation Army, the cavewoman stomp of My Doorbell, the savage drive of Little Cream Soda. She was brave enough to play with such primal crash-smashing in a manner that works for the band she was in; no one can play off Jack like she did - she didn’t worry about being fancy schmancy and just played with passion and laid down her beats, and Jack knew he saw a kindred soul for music making. He is one of the most recognised masters of music and guitar playing, and the thing that inspired him to do it like he did was her. Sure, he liked Led Zeppelin too, but it wasn’t until this girl in pigtails started banging away that his band fell into place. Think about that next time you’re about to say she doesn’t matter.
Sure, she can’t play like Bonzo. But Bonzo couldn’t play like her.
They are as similar as they are different. They know when to make noise and when to not make it - Bonzo is silent for most of Stairway to Heaven, letting the riff and singing speak for itself; and Meg knows when a shaker or tambourine or nothing at all will do, when Jack can weave a little spell by himself. They both play like they’re beating someone to death. He fights in his way, she in hers. He punches all over like the best heavyweight boxer, bruising the ribs and weakening the legs and hitting the kidneys and nerves before clocking the killer punch to the head. She swings haymakers like a street thug, blacking their eyes and knocking out teeth, getting them down in agony before kicking them in the gut and face and throat until they meet their maker under her boot. Either way, they kill the guy. Either way the job is fucking done and no one can do it like they can.
Rest in peace King Bonzo. Long live Queen Meg.