My favorite early Led Zeppelin albums are neither I nor II; they feel like the logical endpoint of the Yardbirds’ “white boys” blues era, a dazzling but borrowed fire. For me, the first truly astonishing Zeppelin records are III and IV—the moment when the imitation finally collapses and something darker, more self‑invented steps through. I prefer them when they stop trying to be the best blues band in London and start acting like the architects of their own mythos—why settle for a loud...
