Robert Plant and Jimmy Page giving a Whole Lotta Love. Photograph: Corbis
The monstrous egos, the faces contorted like gargoyles in a blast furnace, the bloated bastardisations of a faultless back catalogue - but hey, enough about the Police reunion.
Led Zeppelin are reforming for a one-off gig later this year in honour of Atlantic boss Ahmet Ertegun - according to a fan who bumped into Robert Plant in the street this week - and we should be truly thankful.
Back in Zep's day, rock stardom was simple. They would dress like Norse gods, cover their albums in runic scribble and patrol the planet in the Starship, their own private jet, whilst, as Tommy Saxondale would put it, entertaining strumpets with full use of the Peruvian nose-flute. Occasionally Plant - as he once did mid-interview in LA - would bellow "I am a golden god!" (as alluded to in the great rock flick Almost Famous) from the nearest hotel balcony.
Today, things are different. In this week's NME, cover star Kate Nash confesses she is addicted to Hula Hoops. Meanwhile Arctic Monkeys - the biggest band in England - tuck their shirts in their underpants like scruffy kids from Kes, sing about taxi ranks and treat interviewers as if they've just arrived from Sun Hill, despite having spent the summer playing to audiences even the Stones wouldn't sniff at. As for flying around the planet on a private jet? That's just irresponsible.
Already, today's pop illuminati are taking their places on either side of the punk rock barricades. The View have described the prospect of Led Zeppelin's reformation as "shit" (you suspect Jimmy Page might turn them into gnomes, but judging by the look of them someone's beaten him to it). Dirty Pretty Things' Carl Barat, meanwhile, has announced he wants a ticket even though he doesn't know anything about them.
Know the feeling. For anyone who saw the mid-1970s through the prism of punk -which is most of us, right? - Led Zeppelin seemed like dinosaurs even in 1977; more like gnarly, flare-wearing monsters from Doctor Who than creditable opposition for the Damned. And yet, and yet ...
Backstage, the virgins' blood will be replaced by cranberry juice; the search for the golden fleece a matter for the cloakroom staff, but anyone who doesn't want to hear these buspass-wielding grizzlies crank out the arcane pulse of Whole Lotta Love doesn't like rock.
But then, Led Zeppelin aren't rock. They're marble.
