July 10, 1985 — London rehearsal studio
The morning air in London was thick with a quiet kind of anticipation when Rory Callahan arrived with his parents at the rehearsal studio. Robert Plant and his manager, Bill Curbishley, were already inside, chatting casually near the mixing board. Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones had just arrived minutes earlier — Page with his ever-present cigarette and disheveled charm, Jones calm and polite as always, his tone measured but warm.
"Morning," Plant greeted them as the door opened. "So this must be our little drummer boy from Dortmund," he said with a grin, giving Rory a playful look.
Rory's father shook hands with everyone, while his mother smiled nervously in the corner. Rory, though only twelve, held himself with a surprising calm — a mix of excitement and confidence. He wasn't cocky, just steady.
Plant leaned on an amp, eyes glinting. "You sure you're ready for this, lad? These two old geezers can be tough company," he said, motioning toward Page and Jones.
Page smirked faintly. "Speak for yourself, Robert," he replied, his voice raspy but amused. "He looks calmer than you did before Earl's Court."
That got a laugh out of everyone, even Jones, who added in his dry tone, "At least he's sober, which puts him ahead of where we usually start."
Plant chuckled, waving them off. "Alright, alright. Let's have a bit of fun then. What d'you say we kick things off with 'Rock and Roll'?"
Rory's eyes lit up. "Yes, sir," he said eagerly, sliding onto the drum stool behind a slightly dusty kit that had been set up for him.
Page tuned his Les Paul while Jones adjusted his bass settings. Plant grabbed the mic and stretched his voice a bit with a half-sung, half-joking "lonely, lonely, lonely…" line.
Then, Plant looked back and said, "Alright, kid, whenever you're ready."
Rory clicked his sticks — one, two, three, four! — and launched straight into the opening drum roll of "Rock and Roll."
The sound hit the room like thunder. His timing was perfect — heavy but not forced, with that same rolling, natural flow Bonham had. The groove was alive, his fills sharp but unpretentious. Plant's eyebrows shot up instantly.
Page, who'd been watching skeptically at first, found himself grinning halfway through the first verse. "Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath, digging into his riff harder, feeding off the energy.
Jones felt it too — that pocket, that unmistakable pulse. He started locking in tighter with Rory, exchanging a glance with Page that said everything: this kid can actually play.
Plant belted the vocals like he hadn't in years — maybe since Zeppelin's heyday. He didn't even hold back on the screams. When the song ended, the final crash of Rory's cymbals rang through the studio.
A few seconds of silence followed before Page laughed, lighting another cigarette. "Christ, Robert," he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Where did you find him again? A bloody time machine?"
Plant threw an arm around Rory. "Told you, didn't I? Saw him in Dortmund — and I swear, Jimmy, it felt like Bonzo had sent him himself. He's got that thing, man."
Jones nodded, ever the understated one. "He's tight," he said simply, smiling. "Really tight. Feels the groove rather than forcing it."
Plant turned to Rory. "What d'you say, kid? Want to keep the train rolling? How about something a bit nastier — 'Whole Lotta Love'?"
Rory grinned. "Absolutely."
The three men exchanged glances again — part curiosity, part disbelief. Page plugged in and began coaxing that iconic, growling riff from his Les Paul. Jones matched it instantly, laying down the deep bass groove.
Rory came in like a hammer. His kick and snare hits were sharp, disciplined, perfectly timed — and when the breakdown hit, he followed Page's experimental twists instinctively, improvising fills that somehow fit.
Plant laughed mid-song, shaking his head in awe. "Oh, this is bloody ridiculous!" he shouted over the music.
When they wrapped, Page was pacing slowly, grinning, still processing what he'd just heard. "You know," he said, "I didn't think anyone could drive that riff again without sounding like they're just copying Bonzo. But he's not copying. He's… feeling it."
Jones nodded again. "He listens. That's rare," he said. "Most young drummers just hit things."
Plant beamed proudly, as if Rory were his discovery — which, in a way, he was. "Told you boys, didn't I? The lad's got that soul. He's not just keeping time; he's got it in him."
Page chuckled, looking at Rory with genuine respect. "You'd have to be mad to let that kind of fire go to waste."
Jones turned to Rory. "How old are you again?"
"Uh, twelve, sir," Rory said politely.
Page blinked. "Twelve?" he repeated, almost laughing. "Bloody hell, I was still trying to play 'Green Onions' when I was your age."
Plant laughed so hard he nearly dropped his mic. "See? He's already one step ahead of Jimmy Page! History's changing, boys!"
Everyone was in good spirits. It felt like the kind of session Zeppelin hadn't had in years — loose, alive, electric.
Then Plant clapped his hands. "Alright, one more! Let's see how deep we can go. How about 'Stairway to Heaven'?"
Before he could count them in, Rory looked up from his kit, his expression suddenly serious. "Actually," he said carefully, "can we do 'Achilles Last Stand' instead?"
The room froze for a beat.
Page raised an eyebrow, the cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Jones glanced at him, then at Plant.
Plant blinked. "You mean… that one?" he asked. "Bloody hell, kid, that's not exactly light work."
Rory nodded. "It's my favorite," he said simply. "And I've practiced it a lot."
Page's face softened into a smirk. "Well, Robert, looks like the kid wants to go straight for Mount Olympus."
Jones chuckled under his breath. "Ambitious. I like that."
Plant shook his head in amused disbelief, still grinning. "You're a brave one, Rory Callahan. That song nearly killed us and Bonzo when we tracked it."
But he turned to Page. "What do you say?"
Page smiled, flicking away his cigarette. "I say let's see what he's made of."
Plant leaned toward Rory, lowering his voice slightly. "Alright then, lad. Let's make Bonzo proud."
Rory took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the sticks. The room seemed to buzz with quiet energy as Page began the majestic opening riff, Jones sliding in right behind him, and Plant waiting for his cue.
For the first time since Led Zeppelin split in 1980, the three veterans felt alive again — and it was because of a twelve-year-old kid who somehow carried that old fire in his hands.