That's the Way

Bron Yr Aur

"Okay, so you wager dropping the last line of the first verse... and that's where this bit comes in?" Robert asked, barely following Jimmy's envisioned revisions.

"Well... not quite- essentially I wouldn't be replacing the line, I'd just- well I'll just go on and play for you what I'm thinking."

"Alright, alright.." muttered Robert, bored. His eyes followed Jimmy into the adjoining room their instruments idled in.

Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, after a hectic year, a handful of both American and European tours, and countless hours in various recording studios, had decided seeking refuge at Bron-Yr-Aur- in the cottage they'd both grown fond of- would be just what the two artists needed in order to prepare for the continued chaos that their third and upcoming studio album was bound to bring.

Solitude, accompanied with fresh ideas and fresh grass, was exactly what they'd hoped to find in the countryside, so they escaped all prior commitments and the pair made a hasty getaway.

It was their third day together in the old home, and instead of being rife with inspiration like they'd hoped, emptying six bottles of scotch was all they'd managed to do. And now they sat, toasting by the fireplace, arguing over the composition of their gentle acoustic ballad "That's the Way".

"I think it's about as grand as it'll ever be just as it is. I don't know why we've got to go changing it up," Robert called to Jimmy from where he lay, curled up in a blanket, watching the embers in front of him glow.

"Come here," said Jimmy.

"No," Robert stubbornly replied, "You come back here- I already know it's cold in there."

"Fine then," and there was a mellifluous scuttle of fingernails against strings and a soft whip of a strap in the air as Jimmy grabbed the neck of his guitar in a hurry to return to his friend.

A scurrilous crash two seconds later indicated that Jimmy had forgotten to unplug the acoustic instrument from its amplifier and that he'd faced the wrath of the chord's limited range once again.

As Robert witnessed this cacophony, he glanced at the wine bottle, hardly touched, in between himself and the imprint in the rug where Jimmy had been moments ago.

"Hold this a second," Jimmy was back on the rug, but only for a short time before he handed the guitar off to Robert so he could rummage around the small cottage for a scrap of paper and pen to collect his ideas on.

Robert sat, legs folded, cradling the guitar, as his fingers began exploring the fret board.

"I don't know how I'm gonna tell you..." he quietly sung, over and over again, as he sorted through the chords he knew and ruled out the ones that didn't match the key of his voice.

Robert was familiar with the guitar and all its basic sounds, but he still struggled to sing and keep a rhythm going simultaneously.

Jimmy was soon back at his mark on the rug again. He scribbled up a quick outline for the song and its tab then sat, pensively, tip of pen between his teeth, brows furrowed, eyes glossy and gazing over the paper.

"I don't know how- no... I don't know how I'm g- no, not that one either..." Robert sung the line again and again until he'd cycled through every chord he could think of. Exhausted of possibilities and clueless, he looked up at Jimmy.

The other man still stared, eyes locked on his poorly drawn-up tab. His hair was down to his shoulders now. It hung like a dark curtain hiding half his face, but obvious frustration still shone through.

Robert took notice of this and diverted his attention to the wine bottle between them. And after a few generous sips, he offered it to Jimmy, "Have some- it'll help you think clearly."

Much alcohol was often a key ingredient in these lengthy and intensive song-writing, music-making sessions. However, wine was their typical companion, for whiskey or scotch or vodka or anything of that ilk got them drunk too quickly and rendered their artistic attempts unproductive.

"Yess... thank you," Jimmy hummed gently into the air before stealing a notable amount from the bottle, his eyes still glued to the musical blueprints, then handed the bottle back.

Robert studied Jimmy between wine sips. He evaluated his outfit of bellbottom jeans- secured with a thick black belt- and a dark collared pinstriped shirt with buttons. He noted that it was slightly big on the skinny man's frame, but suited him nonetheless. A silver pendant hung closely to his neck for extra decoration. It dangled, swaying back and forth on its chain, and reflected the orange glow of the fire as Jimmy lurked over the paper.

Robert watched as Jimmy intercepted the drink again and took a couple small sips. The sloshing of the wine inside the bottle soothed the air and complimented the steady crackle of firewood.

Robert was able to appreciate every element of what made this moment warm and strangely intimate, and smiled.