Andy Richardson: King of rock stars will always be the one that got away

The great and the good of the Black Country and Birmingham have waltzed through Weekend Towers over the years.

Frank – Mr Skinner to you – dazzled us with stories of drink and a lifelong devotion to the world’s finest football team. Noddy told us that Dave lived in a world of his own and when we spoke to Dave we arrived at the same conclusion.

Ozzy, bless, got down on the floor in his own cigar room and proceeded to do ab-crunches for us. One, and two, and three, and four. By the time he got to 1,000 it all felt reasonably surreal.

Beverley, meanwhile, personified stardom. Fun, professional, charismatic and shimmering with some sort of otherworldly radiance, we lost our heart to the woman called Ms Knight.

There is one, however, who has got away. Planty. Mr Plant. Robert the Rock Star Plant. The man who hails from Kidderminster and has devoted himself to Dingle Wanderers, who was hailed by Rolling Stone readers as the greatest lead singer of all time and who ranks alongside Mick Jagger, Roger Daltry and Freddie Mercury in the pantheon of greats has always eluded us.

We’ve stood outside a pub in Bishop’s Castle – it’s in Shropshire, don’t worry, and no bishops live there – while he’s sung. We’ve contacted every local venue he’s ever played – and boy does he like to play local venues – to see if we can get a chat. We’ve tried his record label, his PR, his management, his PR… just about every professional link available. We’ve got the mobile numbers of people he’s played alongside, but have always observed rock star protocols by not attempting to go by the back door. The front, sadly, has been ever closed.

Until now. Doing the right thing means we’re not about to reveal our source, but let’s say a someone has offered an ‘in’ – I know, there’s no way anyone, including Mr Plant, will deduce an identity from that manifest vagueness.

We were going about our business, which involved spending time with someone. The conversation turned to ‘what do you do’ and while the person rattled off interesting and mildly salacious tales, we spoke about tapping QWERTY keyboards for a living and talking to Frank and Bev, Noddy and Dave, Jaspar and Ozzy.

“Have you ever interviewed Planty?” asked the person whose identity will not be revealed?

“Nope. He’s the one who’s got away.”

“I’ve got his number.” And, remarkably, he had. “I’d like to read that. He lives at – INTENTIONALLY DELETED, OBVIOUSLY – do you want to call him?”

And, bold as brass, the number that’s eluded this writer for 20-odd years was offered. The years chasing PRs and managers, venues and marketing officers – and all the while I simply had to leave the front door and speak to someone.

It took all of three nanoseconds to respond. “That’s great. Let me think about it,” I said, knowing full well that I’d never want the number and if the person passed it on I’d delete it from my phone. Because that’s no way to make a contact.

If our messages don’t reach the great Mr Plant – a man perfect in every way, except for his love of Dingle Wanderers – then we’ll wait until he does, or talk to someone who’s willing.

Our questions are prepped. We’ll ask about King Edward VI Grammar School for Boys, his admiration for Robert Johnson, his love of Elvis Presley and why he chose Wolves over the Baggies. Then there’s the early day job in Woolworth’s, his work in Band of Joy, the little matter of Led Zeppelin and his remarkable solo career – we still love Fate of Nations. There’s Page and Plant, Alison Krauss, Sensational Space Shifters and the remarkable Saving Grace.

And we’re sure when we go through the proper channels again, it’ll be a polite but firm no.

So it’s funny, isn’t it, that after two decades of chasing, the number that’s always been top of our wish list would have dropped into our lap – only for us to decide not to take it?