Last night sofaman and I went to see a LedZep tribute band, I shudder at the thought of admitting this, I never summoned enough energy or enthusiasm to see the originals why would I go to see a Fenland tribute band?. Yet there we stood in line with Mark, Tracy, Keith, Yvonne, Andy, Tim and Janice, though Janice sped off to the front to gaze at the fab four at close quarters. The first and most distracting thing to strike us was the remarkably well sculpted sock hoard rammed inventively into the lead singers red drainpipes, this and his mound of curly blond hair gave a passing impression of a Plant-esk presence, possibly less Robert more just ‘for Hire’ but enough to drag us into a timeslip for a bit of a misty mountain hop. Aswell as the band the ticket also included a curry, Thai or Indian or for the more cultured a platter of Chicken Supreme, an odd combination but the hall was full and once the drummer had crashed and banged his way through an infinitely long solo the joint began to sway and jiggle appreciatively. Worryingly for the band might be the fact that the crowd came for the Quorn Madras and not the death defying finger trickery of a lead guitarist, but any concerns were swiftly dispelled and the crowd drew together and edged forwards towards the light of the stage. For a while the drummer rested his weary arms and we chilled out to Going to California in a sitting on the ground, crossing your legs, closing your eyes and drifting back to your hippy youth moment. The singers voice was suited well to this less far reaching range of notes and for me it was the highlight of the evening. Crowd chilled we were lead into the opening bars of… yes… it had to be done… the finger picking loveliness of… the lady who knows, yes… the stairway which goes, to the place we all know… crickey!. So we gathered for a spot of line dancing 1970s style. Sofaman was by this point in the moment and at one with his youth, one or two beerly bottles too many and surrounded by equally loose limbed 40 somethings the post-punk leg flapping, neck twisting, moshing began. My best instincts held on to him fearing for the safety of him and the innocent by-standers, Mark, a good yard and three-quarters larger when beered up and in his best boots grappled with sofaman, and resolved to a kicking and a fighting in the mud and the blood and the beer… ‘they’ll ache in the morning’ said a passing woman. Bruised, sweating and buzzing fortunately the moshing eventually subsided without significant physical damage, more to do with loss of stamina rather than lack of enthusiasm, and I walked back to the car with a somewhat bedraggled companion, a little worse for wear but hopping happily on his bleary mountain.