For a song that appears to be dominated by the sexual histrionics of Robert Plant and the equally filthy guitar pump-thrusts of Page, this track is absolutely owned by John Paul Jones. While Page and Plant are flailing about, making a graphic, overblown spectacle of their cock-rock prowess, JPJ is leaning against a wall, smoking, probably eating a sandwich, while pumping away at you so hard that you can feel it in the back of your throat. He hits you sideways, flips you over, jams it in again, swirls it around like he’s mixing a goddamn martini; he intersects with you at irrational angles, then smacks you with it unexpectedly, leaving you there on the floor. He flashes that jagged, mangled British smile then moves on to the next one, while the rest of the band wonders why no one is fussing about them.

The opening sound of Page’s guitar screams that it wants to fuck you, with that brackish, distorted sludge that sounds like he’s submerged in the bilge of a sinking freighter – it’s truly nasty, a coital haze, like a fog of sweat and fluids. But it’s also too obvious, like the douchebag at the bar with the best lines; he’s good, a pro maybe, but that quiet one over there, the one with a ridge down the front of one jean leg almost to his knee – he’s the one that will leave you spent, ruined and gasping for air. I can’t even listen to this song anymore without focusing on the bass. (Thanks, B.)