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The Monty Python witch trial skit is a satirical sketch from the British comedy show "Monty Python's Flying Circus". The sketch aired in 1970 and has since become one of the most famous and iconic sketches in comedy history. In the sketch, a group of medieval villagers accuse a woman named Mrs. Premise of being a witch. The villagers, led by a pompous prosecutor, hold a trial in which they present absurd and nonsensical evidence of Mrs. Premise's alleged witchcraft.

Jimmy Page took Led Zeppelin to superstardom in the Seventies with songs including Whole Lotta Love and Stairway To Heaven.

Once, when a hotel receptionist said it must feel great to throw a television through a window, the band s legendary manager, Peter Grant, took 200 out of his wallet and said, Here, be our guest. Unsurprisingly there s very little evidence that Page was in cahoots with Beelzebub, although he was a devoted follower of someone who may well have been renowned British occultist Aleister Crowley.

Premise's alleged witchcraft. This includes claims that she turned someone into a newt and that she weighs the same as a duck, hence proving that she is made of wood and therefore a witch. Throughout the trial, the villagers engage in illogical and farcical reasoning, demonstrating the uninformed and superstitious nature of their beliefs.

Jimmy Page on the true story behind ‘Stairway To Heaven’

Jimmy Page: the defining figure of a thousand heavy metal tropes, pioneer of stage and studio and the visionary who conjured rock’s greatest ever album sequence. What’s more, he’s been his own archivist since the day he first picked up a guitar. From the creation of Led Zeppelin’s modern mythology to the true story of ‘Stairway To Heaven’, here, in his own words, is the undisputed lord of the riffs

UNITED KINGDOM - MAY 17: EARLS COURT Photo of Jimmy PAGE and LED ZEPPELIN, Jimmy Page performing live onstage (Photo by Ian Dickson/Redferns) Ian Dickson

Led Zeppelin remain rock’s great colossus, the perennial soundtrack to mayhem and carnage, a band that have, over the years, been yoked to all manner of imaginary rampaging hordes. In their heyday – in the 1970s, when they were fully operational – they were the hard rock equivalent of the thunderous blitzkrieg, a gang of marauding Viking warriors, the template of pre-punk orthodoxy and the bar by which every other rock group was judged.

Few managed it, as Zeppelin’s high-concept, high-octane mix of light and shade, of push and pull and loud and quiet – all of it determined by the group’s leader, Jimmy Page – was nigh on impossible to top.

Of course, it couldn’t last. When punk rock consumed the music industry towards the end of the 1970s, Zeppelin were suddenly regarded as unnecessary behemoths, the veritable dinosaurs of rock. But in the last 30 years or so, there has been something of gradual volte-face, through which the band have been promoted back to the industry premiership, where they now reside as permanent fixtures – inviolate, immaculate and beyond reproach.

They remain an incubator of heroic fantasies and it is now impossible to listen to the likes of “Trampled Under Foot”, “Kashmir”, “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” or any of their other Wagnerian classics, complete with their wailing and their titanic rock riffs, without imagining yourself as the invading conqueror of something or other – even if you’re just overtaking someone on the M40.

Jimmy Page knows this, and he knew it at the time, when he was masterminding all of the band’s momentous records: their 1969 debut, Led Zeppelin, which invented the 1970s in the space of 44 minutes and 54 seconds, and at a cost of just £1,782 (one of Page’s original names for the group was the more prosaic Mad Dogs; they had only been together for two-and-a-half weeks before they recorded it); Led Zeppelin II, also from 1969, the heaviest rock album ever made; 1970’s Led Zeppelin III, in which the band showed their acoustic side; Led Zeppelin IV, from 1971, which contained “Stairway To Heaven” (unceasingly voted the greatest rock song ever recorded, for a while this became the most played track on US radio; it was so beloved by aspiring guitarists that it was actually banned from being played in some guitar shops); 1973’s relatively lacklustre Houses Of The Holy; 1975’s monumental double album Physical Graffiti, which continued their acknowledgement of what would soon become known as world music; their 1976 pre-punk showpiece Presence; and their 1979 swan song In Through The Out Door. Page produced each and every one of them, alone. The band were Page’s vision and he crafted them according to what he thought a modern rock band should be: explosive, dynamic, all-conquering, the last word in savagery.

‘What we were selling was the music and nothing else. The record label didn’t understand that’

When you listen to Zeppelin you can imagine the four of them – bare-chested singer Robert Plant, bulldozer drummer John Bonham and the inevitably quiet bassist, John Paul Jones, all lending support to Page’s vision – standing tall, standing proud, putting their hands on their hips (perhaps under the mighty brow of a prophetic mountain) and surveying the skyline, almost as though their music was being made without them. In a sense that wouldn’t have been so surprising, because as Zeppelin’s extraordinary sound started to become so otherworldly – it was on Led Zeppelin II that the futuristic brutality of their noise began to take shape – it became easy to assume that this really was the music of the gods, with Page and co acting as mere conduits.

In their time, these conduits certainly attracted their own disciples, because in the first half of the 1970s most young men between the ages of 15 and 25 tried to look like Page or Plant: shoulder-length locks, billowing flares (covered perhaps in one of the band’s rune-like symbols), maybe a velvet jacket and a pair of platform boots. It was during the cooler months when their disciples could be mistaken for a real army, however, as they would wander around in old army great coats, the type with big fat belts, possibly holding a Zeppelin album under their arm, to show their allegiance. For some reason – probably because of its extremely recognisable cover, which was based on a photo of Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, and his “Flying Circus” Jagdstaffel 11 squadron during the First World War from 1917 – this was usually a copy of Led Zeppelin II. So not only did Jimmy Page’s band sound like nothing on earth, but they managed to co-opt an entire generation of decidedly earthbound devotees.

The band always felt that too much explanation of their work or the examination of its origins was unnecessary, yet at their heart they were a modern blues band, a heavy one at that. If you aspired to be a member of the rock fraternity in the early 1970s, you were judged on how “heavy” you were, how loud, how showy, how dynamic. If your power chords were riotous and barbarous and “authentic” enough (whatever that meant and, actually, no one ever really knew) then you were allowed into the fold. Zeppelin were universally considered to be the heaviest group of them all – Page’s riffs and power chords had monumental strength – and so consequently they were often deemed to be the coolest.

The band also became a byword for debauchery and excess, and everything they did was on a grand scale: comestible-covered groupies seemed to be readily available, Bonham could be seen riding motorcycles down hotel corridors, while rented rooms were regularly trashed and “redecorated”. Once, when a hotel receptionist said it must feel great to throw a television through a window, the band’s legendary manager, Peter Grant, took $200 out of his wallet and said, “Here, be our guest.” One story has Page being delivered to a waiting throng of girls on a room service trolley. Their sexual extravagance was mirrored in some of their songs: during “Communication Breakdown”, for instance, Robert Plant can be heard to scream, “Suck it,” just before Page delivers a ferocious guitar solo. While this seems unconscionable now, it was symptomatic of the age. More menacingly, Page had a fascination for the occult, especially the work of the author and magician Aleister Crowley. This allowed the increasingly copious number of Zeppelin fantasists to paint ever-more colourful narratives of the band’s so-called “deal with the devil”. Of course, none of it was true, but it was great for business.

The band always felt that too much explanation of their work or the examination of its origins was unnecessary, yet at their heart they were a modern blues band, a heavy one at that. If you aspired to be a member of the rock fraternity in the early 1970s, you were judged on how “heavy” you were, how loud, how showy, how dynamic. If your power chords were riotous and barbarous and “authentic” enough (whatever that meant and, actually, no one ever really knew) then you were allowed into the fold. Zeppelin were universally considered to be the heaviest group of them all – Page’s riffs and power chords had monumental strength – and so consequently they were often deemed to be the coolest.

The sketch uses humor to critique the irrationality of witch trials and the lack of critical thinking in society. The Monty Python witch trial skit is a prime example of the surreal and intellectual humor for which the comedy group is known. It lampoons historical events, such as the notorious Salem witch trials, and highlights the absurdity of such proceedings. The sketch has remained popular over the years due to its clever writing, witty wordplay, and memorable characters. It has been referenced and parodied in various forms of media, solidifying its place in pop culture. The Monty Python witch trial skit continues to be enjoyed by audiences around the world, reminding us of the power of comedy to make us question tradition and challenge societal norms..

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