In Through The Out Door (1979)
1. In the Evening
2. Southbound Saurez
3. Fool in the Rain
4. Hot Dog
5. Carouselabmra
6. All My Love
7. I'm Gonna Crawl
By the time In Through the Out Door arrived in 1979, the world had changed—and so had Led Zeppelin. The hedonistic charge of the early '70s had curdled into personal chaos. Addictions were rife, relationships strained, and tragedy had stalked the band more than once. Somewhere amid the haze, someone must have realized that 1979 was not 1969, and to remain relevant—musically and culturally—something had to give. The resulting album is perhaps the most curious in the Zeppelin catalogue. It's part evolution, part experiment, and part elegy. No one knew it then, but it would be their final collection of new material. And despite its unevenness, it remains a fascinating study in what Zeppelin could have become, had fate allowed them the time.
The most striking change? John Paul Jones’s newfound love affair with the synthesizer. Unlike the garish, front-of-mix synths that would plague the early '80s, Zeppelin wield them with relative restraint. They color the music rather than drown it. The opening track, In the Evening, sets the tone. Synth noise bleeds in like a warning siren, followed by Plant’s commanding entrance and a full-band assault that lands somewhere between familiar territory and foreign soil. It’s the most “Zeppelin” moment on the record—but even here, you sense that the band is peering over the edge of a stylistic cliff.
South Bound Saurez is a jolt—a barrelhouse piano intro morphs into something resembling Caribbean pop, only to be reined in by Bonham’s muscular insistence on reminding us who’s behind the wheel. It shouldn’t work, and yet it does. The same is true of Fool in the Rain, Zeppelin’s flirtation with reggae shuffle. Again, Bonham is the saviour. His Latin-infused breakdown alone is reason enough to revisit the track, and his rhythmic authority keeps the whole affair from toppling into novelty.
These three tracks form the album’s strongest core. After that, the footing gets looser. Hot Dog is a playful, country-honk throwaway—charming in its own right, but the kind of thing most bands might tuck away as a B-side. That Zeppelin felt it warranted placement on their final LP speaks volumes about their creative state. Then comes Carouselambra, a ten-minute odyssey in three parts, none of which quite justify their collective runtime. The opening section is actually promising, but the middle sags under its own repetition, and the closing third is limp to the point of vanishing. It's a rare case where ambition outpaces execution.
All My Love offers an earnest, synth-drenched ballad written in memory of Plant’s late son. It’s heartfelt, certainly, but veers perilously close to adult contemporary. For many fans, it remains the most un-Zeppelin thing the band ever committed to tape. The closer, I’m Gonna Crawl, revisits the same emotional terrain but fares better—more raw, more ragged, and with a bit more soul. It may not end the album with a bang, but it does end it with sincerity.
In Through the Out Door sold extremely well on release, but that had more to do with pent-up anticipation than universal acclaim. For fans starved of new Zeppelin material, anything would have been welcomed. Reactions at the time were mixed, and for good reason. The album sounds like a band caught in the act of becoming something else—mid-transition, mid-decade, and unknowingly near the end. Bonham’s death the following year would seal the band’s fate, and they wisely chose not to continue without him.
In retrospect, In Through the Out Door has aged better than expected. It’s not the triumphant farewell they might have wanted—but it’s not a disgrace either. It’s strange, sometimes brilliant, occasionally baffling, and ultimately human. Which, for a band long thought to be gods, is perhaps the most fitting goodbye of all.
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