Geoff Nicholson - Gravity’s Volkswagen

“This isn’t right,” I said, and I got up, pulled on my clothes and stormed away.

“Hey, don’t go,” Leezza said.

I ignored her, walked on and she came trotting after me. That was something but not much, and it explained nothing.

“What’s going on here?” I said. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” she said. “At least nothing bad.”

“You once accused me of being cruel,” I said. “How does it compare with this?”

“I’m not being cruel.”

“I think you are.”

“Then I’m being cruel to be kind.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about. I kept walking. She kept coming after me.

“That makes no sense,” I said.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“That’s because you haven’t told me the other half.”

By now we had gone some distance from the car, from the scene of the crime. We stood there in the dark arguing for a while longer, and then, from behind us, we heard the sound of the engine starting in Leezza’s Beetle. You couldn’t mistake it. My first absurd thought was that it must be Barry. Some miracle must have occurred. He’d transformed himself. He’d got out of his car. He was free, he could walk, he could drive, and his first action was to steal Leezza’s car.

Once I’d dismissed that notion, the reality became all too obvious. The car thief was Josh Martin. He’d been hiding like a predator, lurking amid the cars and scrap metal, waiting for his chance. We’d given it to him. And now he drove right by us, not all that quickly, headlights ablaze, smiling, waving, naked at the wheel of the unfamiliar car, still covered in oil, still conspicuously drunk. The car disappeared loudly into the darkness.

“Oh Jesus,” I said.

Leezza took it very calmly.

“That poor sad fuck,” she said. “He really doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for.”

The Led Beetle

In March 1938, Bruno Schweizer organised an expedition to Iceland, searching for ancient shrines dedicated to the Norse gods Odin and Thor. Some say he was looking for the Holy Grail.

The trip was organised by a German Nazi group, established by Himmler, known as the Ahnenerbe, or more fully Studiengesellschaft fur Geistesurge-schichte, Deutsches Ahnenerbe; in English, the Study Society for Primordial Intellectual Science, German Ancestral Heritage; an organisation engaged in occult research worldwide.

Iceland was a special location for Himmler since he believed it was the birthplace of the Aryan race, with a continuing connection to Thule, the mystical, mythical German homeland. Having not been much invaded over the centuries, Iceland was evidently a place where racial purity could persist.

There’s certainly some fun to be had in imagining Nazi occultists thrashing around Iceland in Volkswagen Beetles, perhaps in the military version, the Kubelwagen, or the amphibious Schwimmwagen, which was occasionally converted into a snow vehicle, known as the Schwimmwagen walzen, but as far as I know Schweizer didn’t have this luxury. In fact he didn’t have much of anything: German currency restrictions hampered, then led to the abandonment, of his expedition.

♦

In June 1970, at the early height of their powers, Led Zeppelin’s touring schedule took them to Iceland. According to their tour manager, Richard Cole, they were there ‘at the request of the British government’, as part of a cultural festival.

It would be idle to accuse Led Zeppelin of being Nazis, despite Robert Plant’s golden-god status, and Jimmy Page’s unapologetic wearing of SS regalia, both in private and public. And it would be equally idle to listen to their music in expectation of hearing joined-up thoughts.

Nevertheless, while on that Icelandic trip they were inspired to write ‘The Immigrant Song’. The lyrics, which for sound copyright reasons I shall paraphrase, speak of a ‘we’ who come from a land of ice and snow to conquer new lands, fill the fields with gore, and become overlords of the world while singing, “Valhalla, I am coming.” If this isn’t pernicious Aryan claptrap then it will certainly do until the real thing comes along.

Unlike the members of the Ahnenerbe, however, Led Zeppelin’s Icelandic expedition was well funded and certain members did have a Volkswagen Beetle experience.

♦

The notion that a Volkswagen Beetle will float on water may well come from the war years, when Allied forces first encountered the Schwimmwagen. But ordinary Beetles do indeed float, and can be made quite seaworthy. I’ve seen modified Beetles at car shows that have chugged quite happily across open water, and a man called Malcolm Buchanan once crossed part of the Irish Sea from the Isle of Man to the coast of Cumbria in a Beetle.

And Volkswagen themselves, or at least their advertising agency, have exploited the myth. A print ad from the 1960 sshows a Beetle floating in a tank of water with the caption, ‘Volkswagen’s unique construction keeps dampness out’. A man in a television ad proclaims, “It’s so well put together it’s practically airtight,” and then drives it into water, where it does indeed float, at least for a while.

Having a bad-boy, hell-raising image to live up to, certain members of Led Zeppelin — John Bonham and John Paul Jones, along with tour manager Cole and a roadie — rented two Beetles, one green, one white, and after a certain amount of alcohol and boredom had set in, they decided to see whether there was truth in this advertising.

They found a river and Bonham, with Jones as his co-pilot, powered the white Beetle off the bank, through the air and on to the water. To their considerable surprise the car really did float and remain watertight, for about two minutes, and then water started to seep in around the bottom of the doors. In fairness, the ad never said how long a Beetle would float for.

It couldn’t have been very dramatic, and Bonham found the experience rather enjoyable. Jones however was furious. As he explained when he got back on dry land, a fan had given him some grass the previous night and he was keeping it in his sock. The water ruined his stash. What a complete tool. What an unconvincing story.

We came out of the east, driving into the sun, a horde if ever I saw one, not that I’d ever really seen one, and only if a horde can consist of about thirty people in about a dozen Volkswagen Beetles. We were a ragged, miscellaneous band in their equally ragged, miscellaneous rides. We had all the cars that had been built for the movie, plus the ones from the automotive freak show that Motorhead Phil’s crew had been able to patch up and get running in quick order.

We looked scary. That was the idea. The people from the freak show could look effortlessly scary at any time, and the actors had decked themselves out in their survivalist drag from the movie. There were also some angry crew members to whom Josh Martin owed money. In their way they were the scariest of the lot.

We looked dangerous, too, and that was at least partly because some of the Beetles were so barely roadworthy that they seemed likely to lose a panel or a wheel or a transmission at any moment. We looked like trouble. We looked like something you’d want to avoid.

Even I looked somewhat scary. I’d been supplied with an outfit: a sheepskin waistcoat, worn bare-chested, and a flying helmet and goggles. I felt like a fool and a fraud, but I also thought I looked pretty cool. The effect was undercut, however, because I was riding in Barry’s Beetle along with Barry, an unhappy pairing after the night of Beetle sex, voyeurism and tears, but there wasn’t much either of us could do about it.