July 8, 1985 — Morning after the Dortmund show
Rory Callahan woke up still buzzing from the night before. Playing with Robert Plant in front of a roaring crowd wasn't something a twelve-year-old could just "sleep off." He could still hear the applause in his head, still feel the sticks in his hands, the sound of the drums pounding through the floor.
His parents were packing up their things for their next stop — London. It was supposed to be just another family trip, but for Rory, it felt like destiny tugging him toward something bigger.
Before they left the hotel in Dortmund, Rory asked the front desk for a piece of paper. He folded it carefully and tucked it into his jacket pocket. He had one more thing to do.
Robert Plant was in the lobby, talking to his manager Bill Curbishley. He looked tired but in good spirits, hair still wild, wearing a loose button-down shirt and that usual confident grin. When he spotted Rory walking over, he broke into a smile.
"Well, if it isn't the little thunder god," Plant said, chuckling. "You sleep at all, mate?"
Rory grinned. "Barely. That was… the best night of my life, sir."
Plant waved a hand. "Oh, stop with the 'sir' stuff. You're making me sound ancient. Robert's fine."
"Alright, Robert," Rory said. "Thank you again for letting me play. That meant everything."
Plant tilted his head, genuinely warm. "You earned it, lad. You've got something special — a real feel. Not many do."
Rory hesitated, then pulled the folded note from his pocket. "I, um… just wanted to give you this."
Plant took it, raising an eyebrow. "What's this then?"
"It's where we'll be staying in London," Rory said. "Holiday Inn, Wembley. We'll be there until after Live Aid. Just in case you ever need to find me or, you know… want to jam again."
Plant laughed softly. "You cheeky little devil. Leaving me your forwarding address now, are you?"
Rory shrugged, grinning. "Maybe."
Plant looked at the note again and smiled. "You're confident. I like that. Alright, Rory Callahan — you enjoy London. Who knows, maybe we'll cross paths again sooner than you think."
Rory beamed, shook his hand one last time, and ran back to his parents. Plant watched him go, the paper still in his hand. He didn't know why, but something about that kid stuck with him. That spark. That rhythm.
Later that day, back in England
Robert Plant sat in his manager's office, tapping his fingers on the desk when the phone rang. It was Bob Geldof, and the conversation was short and to the point. Geldof wanted Led Zeppelin to reunite for Live Aid.
Plant hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't love the idea — he missed Jimmy and Jonesy — but Zep's breakup in 1980 after John Bonham's death had left deep wounds. They hadn't really been Led Zeppelin since.
After the call, Plant leaned back in his chair. "Bloody hell, Bill. Geldof wants the band."
Bill Curbishley looked up from his notes. "The band-band?"
"Yeah. Jimmy, Jones, me… the whole bloody circus," Plant said with a dry laugh. "He wants us at Wembley."
Bill smirked. "You gonna do it?"
Plant sighed. "I don't know. We've all gone our own ways. Jimmy's off chasing his own ghosts, Jonesy's doing his thing… and I swore I wouldn't drag Zeppelin around again. But… maybe one night wouldn't hurt."
He paused, thinking. Then that thought turned into an idea. "You know that kid, Rory Callahan?"
Bill nodded. "The drummer from last night?"
"Yeah. There's something about him. He's not Bonham — no one ever will be — but the lad's got feel, heart, power. Reminded me of the old days, honestly."
Bill frowned. "You thinking what I think you're thinking?"
Plant smirked. "I'm thinking maybe the gods are sending me a message."
That night — Plant on the phone
Plant sat at home with a glass of wine, hair loose, phone pressed to his ear. "Jimmy, you there?"
After a moment, Jimmy Page's distinct drawl came through. "Robert… Christ, it's been ages. What's going on?"
"Just the usual chaos," Plant said. "Listen, Geldof called. He wants a Zeppelin reunion for Live Aid."
There was a pause. "You serious?"
"Dead serious. He's got half the bloody planet performing. Thought we might as well get dragged into it too."
Page chuckled softly, though there was a weariness in his voice. "I don't know, mate. We haven't played together since Knebworth. It's been five years. I'm rusty as hell."
"You're Jimmy Page," Plant said. "Rusty for you still means dangerous for everyone else."
Page laughed, then sighed. "Who's gonna play drums, then? You know we can't just toss anyone back there."
Plant leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Funny you mention that. I think I found someone."
"Oh?" Page said, curious now. "Who?"
"A kid," Plant replied. "Twelve years old. American. Name's Rory Callahan. Played with me last night in Dortmund."
"You're joking."
"I'm not," Plant said. "You should've heard him, Jimmy. Tight, powerful, full of soul. It wasn't Bonham — but it was damn close. I swear to you, the kid had that same kind of feel. Like he understood it."
Page paused again, this time more thoughtful. "A twelve-year-old drummer, huh? You really think he can handle Wembley?"
Plant chuckled. "You'll see. He's got something real. I'm not saying he's the future of rock, but… he might be a spark worth lighting."
Page exhaled, amused but intrigued. "Alright. Get Jonesy on board, then. If you're serious, I'll meet him tomorrow. Let's talk about this properly."
The next morning — Robert calls John Paul Jones
"Jonesy, it's me," Plant said.
"Robert. Been a while," John Paul Jones answered calmly. His tone was friendly but reserved — typical Jonesy. Always the quiet one, practical, thoughtful.
Plant grinned. "Yeah, it's been too long. You hear from Geldof yet?"
"I did. Wants the dinosaurs to rise again," Jones said dryly.
Plant laughed. "That's one way to put it. Listen, Jimmy and I are thinking about giving it a go — maybe just three or four songs. But we've got a situation with the drums."
Jones sighed. "That's always the hard part. No one can fill Bonzo's shoes."
"I know," Plant said softly. "But I think I found someone who could at least honor him. A kid I met in Germany. Name's Rory. Played with me on 'In the Mood' last night. Kid was incredible — had that Bonham swing, but with his own twist."
Jones chuckled. "You're telling me you want to bring a twelve-year-old on stage with Zeppelin?"
Plant smirked. "You make it sound mad when you say it like that."
"That's because it is mad," Jones said, amused. "But if you're serious, I'd like to meet him. If he can hold his own with us, maybe he deserves a shot."
"Good man," Plant said. "We'll get together in a couple of days. I'll have Bill bring him to London. You'll see what I mean."
Later that evening
Plant called Bill Curbishley again. "Bill, the others are in. Find that kid — the Callahan family. They're at the Holiday Inn in Wembley. Bring them to the studio on the tenth. Let's see what he's got."
Bill grinned. "You're serious about this."
Plant smiled faintly. "Yeah, I am. Maybe it's time the kid got a real stage."
He hung up, staring for a moment at a framed photo of himself and Bonham from the old days.
"Let's see if lightning strikes twice," he muttered to himself.