You know when you reach that age where everyone and their mother won't shut up about their credit scores, yet it seems like no one really understands what's so special about those three random numbers? That's because credit scores are meaningless. Unless you have credit karma to show you how to use them, we use those three random numbers, plus your financial profile to help you find your next opportunity. Like a more rewarding credit card, a game plan that helps you pay down debt faster, or a person alone to help you save more on interest payments each month, cha-ching, download into it credit karma today to get started. Listen in Starbucks. It's a great day for coffee. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. Rock is lit. You're listening to rock is lit with Kristi Halberg, rock on Kristi. Rock is lit. Welcome to Season 4 of Rock is Lit, the first podcast devoted to rock novels, and also the 2024 American Writing Awards Podcast of the Year in the categories of music and arts. Rock is Lit is a proud member of the Pantheon Podcast Network. Hey, I'm John Stewart, and you're listening to the Pantheon Network. Rock is Lit is hosted, executive produced, and edited by me, Kristi Alexander Halberg, author of my own rock novel, Searching for Jimmy Page. Big shout out to this season's incredible team, social media intern Keely Clats, and our three production interns, Major Lagulin, Tyler Elcock, and The Air Lower. This season we're shaking things up with a fresh new format, instead of our usual author interviews. We'll be rolling out a weekly reading series, giving you a deeper dive into the world of rock novels through curated readings and literary explorations. To keep up with all things Rock is Lit, follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and YouTube @Christi Halberg, and @RockisLit podcast on Instagram. For more info, head to KristiAlexanderHalberg.com, got a rock novel you'd like to see featured? Drop me a line at KristiAlexanderHalberg@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you. If you're enjoying the show, please subscribe, leave a comment, and give us a five-star rating on your favorite podcast platform. Wyatt, the Rock is Lit mascot, and I thank you for your support. This is Kristi AlexanderHalberg, and you're listening to Rock is Lit. This episode is a celebration of the third birthday of my novel Searching for Jimmy Page, which was published in October 2021 by Livingston Press. So thank you, thank you, thank you Joe Taylor at Livingston Press for accepting the book and helping me bring it out into the world. It really was a labor of love and something that I'd wanted to do ever since I first fell in love with Led Zeppelin when I was about 15 years old. I've done two other episodes on Rock is Lit about this novel. There was one in season one, which was a celebration of the first birthday of the book, and that episode included my friend's marker at Bauer, Liza Wieland, and Randall Martosha interviewing me about the book, and then Danny Goldberg joined me in the last segment of that episode. Danny used to work for Led Zeppelin in the '70s. He was at first a PR person, and then he wound up becoming vice president of Zeppelin's record label, Swansan. The next episode was in season two, and that one was celebrating the release of the audio book, which talking book out of Asheville, North Carolina, where I live, produced, and the incredible Melissa Connell narrated it. Melissa joined me in that episode, and then in the last segment, Led Zeppelin's super fan and founder and editor of one of the oldest, if not the oldest Zeppelin fan magazine, "Type But Loose." Dave Lewis joined me and talked about how he got started doing "Type But Loose" and how he became such a big Zeppelin fan. Only I did a third Zeppelin-related episode of "Rock Is Lit" in season three, and that was with rock photographer extraordinaire, Neil Preston, who took a photo of Jimmy Page in 1973 when Jimmy was performing with Led Zeppelin at Keyes R. Stadium. I don't remember when I first saw that photo or how old I was, all I know is that it immediately captured my imagination, and it plays a central role in searching for Jimmy Page. The main character Luna's mother, Claudia, kept that picture above her bed in her bedroom. There's a reference to that photograph in chapter one that you'll pick up on now that you know the backstory. So the reading that I'm going to share with you in just a bit is chapter one and chapter two of "Searching for Jimmy Page," and rather than my reading it, I figured I would just include those two chapters from the audiobook because Melissa does such a phenomenal job of narrating. I don't want to repeat a lot of the information that I covered in those previous episodes I mentioned in the intro to this episode, so I'm going to leave links in the show notes if you're interested in finding out more background about searching for Jimmy Page and my nearly lifelong obsession, I don't have a problem using that word, obsession with that band. Go back and listen to those episodes. Here's a little context of the novel before you listen to the chapters. "Searching for Jimmy Page" is set in the winter of 1988, and it follows 18-year-old Luna Kane as she travels from her family's farm in eastern North Carolina to England to solve a mystery that her free-spirited deceased mother, Claudia, said in motion when Luna was a child, and that is, "Could Led Zeppelin's enigmatic guitarist Jimmy Page possibly be her father?" So in that respect, it's a mystery. It's literary fiction/rock novel, but at the heart of all of that is the music and the mystery. And also what's deeply ingrained in the story is the Led Zeppelin song "For Sticks," which comes from their fourth album, and that's the album with "Stairway to Heaven" on it, but "For Sticks," of course, is not nearly as well known as that song. "For Sticks" is a song that Claudia would turn to whenever she had these sort of emotional breakdowns, and they happened fairly frequently before she actually committed suicide in front of Luna when Luna was nine years old. And after that happened, the family sort of removed Claudia from their lives. They didn't talk about her anymore. Luna was young enough and probably was suffering from PTSD and dissociative amnesia. She just blocked her totally out of her life. So when the book begins, it's 1988, Luna's 18, her great-grandfather is about to die. And he says something to her that jars a memory that she didn't know she had anymore. And that's what is the catalyst for this story. The grandfather's death, the mention of something that sparks a memory of the song "For Sticks," which can't help but open up memories of her mother, who absolutely worshipped Jimmy Page for various reasons. I used a lot of imagery that you hear in the song "For Sticks" in the novel. For example, in the very first chapter, you'll hear a mention of Al's crying. Al's crying in the night is something that comes up in the song. Also, there's the imagery of pines and rivers in that song, and that shows up in the story as well. Also in the first two chapters, there's a lot of mythology. You hear the story of how Luna got her name in the second chapter. You'll find that Claudia, and later Luna, create their own personal narratives based on mythology and family lore as a way of sort of self-protecting. One more word about Claudia. I see her as this sort of dreamy, hippie girl, one foot in reality, one foot some place else. When I was writing her, I was visualizing women like Michelle Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas, or Pamela Debar, super groupie from the 60s and 70s, and an author in her own right. I just was thinking of Claudia in this ethereal way. That's how I always picture Michelle Phillips and Pamela Debar, and you'll also see that Luna has idealized and even mythologized her mother, even as a child she did that. And at the same time, Claudia always saw herself as cursed, marked, and she feared that she was passing her demons on to her daughter. I hope you enjoy these two chapters from searching for Jimmy Page. If you're interested in reading the whole book, you can pick up a copy wherever you buy books, including Amazon, although I hope you will patronize your local indie bookstore. If you want to get it at the library and your library doesn't carry it, put in a request for them to get it. Did owe your local indie bookstore if they don't have it on the shelves. If you want to listen to the audiobook, you can get that on iTunes or Audible. If you want a signed copy of searching for Jimmy Page, go to my website at christialexandherhalberg.com where you can order one. Without further ado, here is Melissa Connell reading the first two chapters of searching for Jimmy Page. Part 1, 4 Sticks. Chapter 1 The night my great-grandfather died, frigid air, howled through the pines and swirled down the chimney of his shack, near our fallow tobacco fields in eastern North Carolina. My grandmother and I kept vigil at his bedside, a battery operated space heater oscillating at our feet, kerosene lamps lofting shadows on the walls. He'd refused to install electricity, and insisted the fireplace remain unlit at night. He claimed spirits talked to him through the flu at the witching hour. So did birds, especially owls. He said they were good omens, unless they flew inside your house. "Owl in the house means deaths coming," he'd say. I lulled my head against the wall, bare like all the others. No family portraits or prosaic artwork or thumbtacked greeting cards with snapshots of my great-grandfather's progeny tucked inside. The shack was cluttered with clothes and other debris from a fading life. But the walls were naked. He preferred it that way, no memories or illusions, except the ones that came to him at night. At the stroke of twelve, he wrapped his naughty fingers around my wrist and squeezed, "Can you hear it?" he asked, his voice like winter wind crackling through kindling, an icy shiver ran through me. He had not spoken since that balmy summer night when I was nine years old, when the river ran dry and the pines began to cry. The night my mother committed suicide, an abomination, he'd call it, a sin against providence. He'd sat expressionless in his rocking chair while grandma delivered the news. His face bathed in candlelight, then hobbled into the woods and chanted my mother's name like an incantation, a prayer for deliverance. Then he'd spoken no more. I inched closer to him, close enough to smell the implacable stench of the dying. "Here what?" I asked himurously. "Ows," he said, "lack music." My body fluttered as if it were falling out of oblivion, slowly, unwittingly, the air prickly and thin. Long ago I'd heard a song about owls crying in the night. The singer's whale primeval, in sync with marauding guitar licks, the beat-like jungle drums. I felt them vibrating inside me just then, like a distant echo from another life. One that still included my mother. "Can you hear the music?" he persisted, struggling to raise his head. Grandma implored me with her eyes. "I can hear it," granddaddy. He gave a shuddering laugh. "Ain't in your head, girl." Where then? I waited, watching his chest rise and fall. His fitful breaths grow shallow, the sezora between life and death. "It's in your soul," he finally said. He nudged his bible beside him, giving voice to verse, Ecclesiastes 6-10, that which hath been is named already. He dropped my arm and exhaled, his face pallid and drawn. Grandma and I stood over him, bearing witness, sleep-helting the windows. But song about the owls, it's searing guitar haunting me. Like fragments of memory I'd buried with my childhood. Granny images of my mother in her yellow bedroom with her lavender incense and votive candles. Her black-and-white photograph of a rock star standing on a stage at Kizar Stadium in 1973. Dressed all in white, lips pursed, unruly dark hair framing a beautific face. Her straps over his shoulder, arms spread wide as if he were awaiting crucifixion. The two of them were intertwined in my mind's eye, like ashes wafting in a summer wind, waiting for water to receive them. I was born of water and moonlight and of her and of him. Grandma stopped the clock on the mantle to mark the moment of my great grandfather's passing, as if halting time held power, then, forever, now. She handed me a flashlight then draped her overcoat around me, the sense of Jurgen's lotion and talcum powder lingering in the fabric. "Go on home, honey," she said, "I shouldn't have brought you here." "You didn't," I said faintly. I'd followed her from our farmhouse at dusk, trudged the quarter-mile past the barn in hog-pan, through the woods, where the footpath ended, as if I'd heard my great grandfather's keening call. "Go home," grandma said, prodding me toward the door. "I'll be along directly." I wrenched away from her and stared at my great grandfather. The withered shell that remained, searching for some part of him that still looked vital. The outline of his body beneath the quilt, legs splayed as if the cat he used to own, were nestled between them, his arm dangling over the side of the bed. Grandma tucked it underneath the quilt her mother had made, tattered and yellowed with age, the same quilt that had covered her while she lay dying over a half a century before. Cancer ravaging her breast, flies swarming the window screens, attracted by the feeder of rotting flesh, all because her husband had believed he could heal her with ritual and prayer. I harbor a picture of that night in my mind's eye. My great-grandmother's bewildered stare, her mouth a perfect ole, a last word half-spoken, an oracle undelivered. Now he was dead, his jaw unhinged, spittle on his grizzled chin, his only child by his side. The daughter, whom he only recognized after she tell him her name, the name he'd given her seventy years ago. "Do like I say," Grandma said sternly. I stood there breathless, my great-grandfather's milky eyes, fixed and dilated, seeing nothing, seeing everything, boring into mine. I cupped my chin in her hand, "Don't look back," she said with urgency in her voice. I never had before. Not after my mother died. Like my great-grandfather, I had not spoken her name since. I had not heard her voice in a brooding summer rain, or felt her hand clasping mine in a sibiline dream, or seen her face in the shadow of a stealthy hunter's moon. I had erased her, and the sainted sinner who conjured music and magic from an electric guitar. His photograph in my mother's bedroom, her unfaithful talisman, I'd never looked back, never. Until that winter's night in February 1988, when I was eighteen years old, the past summoned like fire in my great-grandfather's shack, phantom owls crying in the night. It was inevitable, perhaps it was even providence, now, would return me to then. The tale demanded to be told. Chapter Two When I was nine, my mother gave me a leather-bound journal with gold-tipped pages and placed a pen in my hand. "Right," she said, her long blond hair ferrel in the dusty breeze. "Right? What?" I asked. She hiked up her tie-dye skirt and squatted next to me on the splintered wood floor of my grandmother's front porch. I sat Indian style. My bare legs splotched with mosquito bites. The heart my mother had scrawled in red magic marker around the stitches on my right calf, barely visible in the speckled sunlight. I tumbled into the hog pen while attempting to walk the top of the fence, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. My realization that I couldn't fly once airborne had been more shocking than the bloody gas I sustained when I hit the ground. "Come on," she said, "tell me a story." "Uh-uh," I said, "you tell me a story, the one about my name. You've heard that a million times. So, so, so suck your toe, all the way to Mexico," she sang in her butterscotch alto. I rolled my eyes, "you're stalling, Claudia." I'd always called my mother by her given name. She'd asked me to, not mama or mommy, like my schoolmates, who marveled at my idiosyncrasy. I couldn't understand why they referred to their mothers as designations rather than "distinctives." A gust of wind carried the pungent smell of tobacco from the field across the dirt road. It was harvest time. Uncle Jack had hired a crew of local high school boys to help, and I could hear them whistling as Claudia above the distant din of the tractor. She stretched her legs, then plopped into the cane bottom chair under the ceiling fan. I couldn't tell if she was oblivious to their flirtations or simply bored with them. Either way, she never engaged. Once upon a time, on a crisp autumn night, she began in a hammy voice. A fairy princess flew out of her bedroom window, and "where was she going?" I interjected, feigning ignorance to visit the wise old man who lived in a shack in the woods. How come she couldn't wait until morning? It was important. And stop interrupting, she growls, swatting my leg with her barefoot. When the fairy princess got to the wise old man shack, he was communing with the spirits who'd come calling. He was talking to the fireplace, I said petulently. Claudia groaned. He was talking to the spirits, she insisted. Then, the fairy princess gave him a slip of paper with a question on it. Mo is the question. She wanted to know what to name her soon-to-be child. You mean she wanted him to ask the fireplace? She gave an enigmatic grin, then rolled the sweating bottle of Pepsi across her forehead, unblemished and make up free, as always. "Anyway," she continued, "he read the question, then he wrote something on the paper and handed it back to the fairy princess. Then, she set off for home. When she got to the edge of the woods, the full moon, the hunter's moon, came out from behind the clouds and lit up the whole yard. It was like the sky had burst into white hot fire. She could see past the hog pen and barn and the clouds and stars all the way to the edge of the universe." She leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. As if she were gazing through the wood and shingles into a falch and false sky. "Then, the child's name came to her," she said dreamily. "Luna, Roman goddess of the moon, bright and beautiful and strong," she winked at me. "And you are. So are you, Claudia." I crawled over to her and wrapped my arms around her legs, damp with sweat. "You're not like anybody else," she sighed and handed me the bottle. I secretly preferred Mountain Dew, but since Claudia drank Pepsi, I'd forced myself to acquire a taste for it. I took a slug, then managed a hyperbolic belch and burst into giggles. "I don't need manners," I said smugly. "I'm a goddess, just like you said. I'm not like anybody else except you." I pointed to my suture calf. "See? I've got a red mark on me, just like you've got a red birthmark on your tummy. Now we're marked. I'm just like you." Her hazel eyes went stony. "Listen to me, Luna. You're not marked. Hear me?" Her tone held fear, dread. "You're not marked." "What's wrong, Claudia?" She jerked my chin up and glared at me. "Don't ever say that again. Understand? You're not like me." I pushed her hand away and scrambled on my hands and knees to the top of the steps. The taste of bile filled my mouth as if my innards had shuffled without warning. My heart was pounding in my belly, lungs throbbing in my throat. She patted toward me, her jingle bell anklet making a tinny sound. "Say it," I shook my head defiantly, "Say it, Luna." "I'm not like you," I whimpered. She knelt beside me and stroked my hair, both of us silent. Her touch felt tenitive, her hand cold, spiritless. I listened to her jingling inside the house, then upstairs to her bedroom and locking the door. The music came next. That song about owls crying in the night. The rainbow's end, river's running dry, running red. The song she would play whenever she'd disappear inside herself, alone in her room. Always that song. Over and over. You need to get her a doctor mama. I overheard Aunt Lorraine's hell grandma during one of Claudia's previous episodes. Or it might be sent her somewhere for a little while, let somebody who knows about this kind of thing get her straightened out once and for all. I was hiding behind the drapes in the living room, eavesdropping while they talked in hushed tones in the kitchen. Uncle Jack was upstairs trying to coax Claudia out of her room. I could hear him talking to her through the door in his husky voice. Uncle Jack was a burly man, her sign and course. When I was a child, he reminded me of grizzly atoms. "Send her wire," grandma said sharply, "some asylum with padded walls and a bunch of crazy people roaming around drooling and moaning. You really think that's the place for your sister?" She just gets a little depressed, is all. "What in the world has she got to be depressed about? She's 28 years old, living at home, rent free, never worked a day in her life, except whatever piddly job she does on the farm, I should be so lucky." Aunt Lorraine set at the Formica table pushing pie crumbs around her plate with her fork. She lit a cigarette and inhaled languidly. She was 13 years older than Claudia, the cliched homely elder's sister with a purposeful gait as if she were marching off to battle, a cigarette perpetually dangling between her fingers. Nail polish in perfect three-part harmony with her lipstick and shoes. Tightly-permed cropped brown hair died, a shade too dark for her pasty complexion. She resembled an aging Morticia Adams, sands come hither eyes and sleek figure. Claudia was the golden child, and Aunt Lorraine knew it. She flicked her ashes in her plate. "You think it's good for Luna to see her mama like this?" she said primly. It was one thing when she was little, but she's not a baby anymore, it's bad enough the child doesn't know her daddy from a field hand, which is probably what he was. "Don't start that again, Lorraine. Don't tell me you haven't thought of it. Mark my words. She'll start asking questions about both of them soon enough." She clucked her tongue. "Sometimes I think she'd be better off away from all this. You mean better off with you." Grandma wet a dishcloth and wiped down the table contentiously, as if she were scrubbing scuff marks off the floor. These spells don't happen often anymore. You're overreacting. "I think you're underreacting." Aunt Lorraine sipped her iced tea, then traced the rim of the glass with her fingertip, emitting an eerie trill that sent a shiver through me. Maybe it was hormones at first after she got pregnant, then postpartum depression, she said. Maybe if she'd seen a doctor, then she'd be fine now. Dr. Hollis said there's nothing wrong with her, a little rest and patience won't take care of. "Dr. Hollis is a quack. You need to find her a specialist. Soon as she started acting funny, that winter you should have taken her to Duke. I don't care what, Daddy," said God rest his soul. The music stopped and I heard Claudia's upstairs door creak open. I leaned into the silence, upstairs and down. The gathering sway of momentary stillness when possibility and certainty collide. "Feeling better now," I could hear Uncle Jack ask, "in the conciliatory tone he reserved for children and injured animals. Your mama says, 'You've been in there since yesterday. What in the world you've been doing?' I pictured her tipping her head and peering up at him coquettishly, the way she did whenever he would tease her. "Nothing," she said whimsically, "just wishing on a star," he chuckled, "well, come on down and get something to eat." Not yet, she said. Her voice was distant again, inscrutable, as if she were slipping back into that haunted place no one could enter. Not even me. Uncle Jack cleared his throat, then said in a whisper barely loud enough for me to hear. "We're not staying, Claude. I'll get her out of here in a minute. Then I'll come down—in a minute." He hesitated. All right, then. He clumped into the kitchen in his brogens and sat down heavily across from Antleraine. "All's whale upstairs, I reckon, except that incense could choke a horse. I told you not to go up there," she said icily. "Take it easy, Lorraine. I got her to come out, didn't I?" Her mouth twitched as if she were struggling to contain her contempt. "Wasn't your place?" she said. "Well, why didn't you give it a try?" he said, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. She stubs out her cigarette and glared at him, "Because I don't coddle her the way you do." "No, it's tough love all the way for you where your little sister's concerned. You might take another tack. This one is about as useful as a urinal in a convent." He pushed his chair back, the legs screeching across the floor, and plucked his car keys from his pocket. "Thanks for dinner, Margaret," he said to Grandma. "I'll be in the car, Lorraine." Grandma waited for the mudroom door to slam and then said, "One day you're going to push that man too far." Antleraine gave a grave smile. "He's never been close enough for me to push him anywhere." "That's ridiculous, Lorraine," Grandma said, "If anything, it's the opposite." Antleraine rinsed her dishes, then placed them in the drying rack. "I think you should let us take Luna," she said artlessly, her back to Grandma. "We've been thinking of moving to Morgantan to take over Jack's daddy's farm, and now that his health is failing. We can give her a new start, she'll forget all this in time." I heard the floorboards creak upstairs, Claudia was standing on the landing, listening to her sister betray her. Waiting to see if her mother would follow suit, my eyes started back to the kitchen. I was waiting too. At least consider it, Antleraine pressed. Grandma said her jaw and bustled about fixing a plate of food for Claudia, her silence response enough. "Well then," Antleraine said, her tone hard, "Tail Luna, I'll say goodbye." She collected her purse, then stalked out. Claudia breezed downstairs and stopped abruptly in front of the curtain, tapping her sandaled foot on the hardwood floor. "I think I see the moon behind a cloud," she said in a sing-song voice that reassured me the spell had once again been broken. I was terrified that one day she would dissipate with the lavender scented air inside her room and never return. "What a strange cloud it is," she said, long and wrinkled, like it fell from the sky one day and somehow made a tent of it. I forced a laugh. It wasn't a tent. It was Dorothy's house after the cyclone blew it to munchkin land and it fell on the wicked witch of the east. And now is it a cloud again? Nope, now it's a curtain. She whipped open the drapes and scooped me into her arms, swinging me around until we collapsed in a dizzy heap on the floor. "Why not a cloud," she said, "or a house or a rainbow, anything but a boring old curtain," my throat tightened. "Will you live with me over the rainbow?" She kissed my cheeks one at a time, like posh British people do, she told me. I swallowed hard. "Will you, Claudia?" "Oh, Luna Bell," she said, sweeping her arms across the room. "I already do." I climbed onto her lap and buried my face in her hair, tears stinging my eyes. I wanted to tell her. I wanted her to know what I've always believed, what I believed until believing anything seemed a moot point. She was a goddess, an angel, mythical and infinite. To me, she was. "Hey, lady, you got to love on me. Baby, more than enough. Oh, darling, darling, darling, walk around with me. Oh, you got so much, so much, so much. Oh, you got so much, so much." Thanks for tuning in, Lit listeners. If you enjoyed the show, please subscribe and leave a rating and comment on Good Pods and Apple Podcast, links in the show notes. Wyatt, the Rock Is Lit mascot, and I really appreciate your support. Until next time, keep rockin' and readin' and gettin' lit. Rock Is Lit. the Rock Is Lit. (upbeat music) [BLANK_AUDIO]
In this episode of the Rock is Lit Season 4 Reading Series, host Christy Alexander Hallberg celebrates the third birthday of her novel, ‘Searching for Jimmy Page’. She delves into the evocative imagery and central characters that drive the novel, while reflecting on the three previous Rock is Lit episodes centered on Led Zeppelin and ‘Searching for Jimmy Page’. Join Christy as she revisits the poignant journey of Luna Kane, an 18-year-old on a quest to uncover her deceased mother’s secrets.
Set in the winter of 1988, ‘Searching for Jimmy Page’ follows Luna from her family’s farm in eastern North Carolina to England to search for the enigmatic guitarist of Led Zeppelin, the man her mother, Claudia, hinted may be her father.
Tune in for an immersive experience as Christy shares the first two chapters of the audiobook, brought to life by the talented narrator Melissa Connell.
MUSIC IN THE EPISODE IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE:
Rock is Lit theme music
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
“Thank You” by Led Zeppelin
“Four Sticks” by Led Zeppelin
“Over the Hills and Far Away”
[Guitar Instrumental Beat] Sad Rock [Free Use Music] Punch Deck—“I Can’t Stop”
Rock is Lit theme music
LINKS:
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Goodpods: https://goodpods.com/podcasts/rock-is-lit-212451
Leave a rating and comment for Rock is Lit on Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/rock-is-lit/id1642987350
Rock is Lit Season 1 EP on ‘Searching for Jimmy Page’: https://www.christyalexanderhallberg.com/rockislitpodcast/christyalexanderhallberg/margaretbauer/randallmartoccia/lizawieland/dannygoldberg
Rock is Lit Season 2 EP on ‘Searching for Jimmy Page’: https://www.christyalexanderhallberg.com/rockislitpodcast/searchingforjimmypageaudiobook
Rock is Lit Season 3 EP featuring photographer Neal Preston: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvNwNXH8jTE&t=10s
Christy Alexander Hallberg’s website: https://www.christyalexanderhallberg.com/rockislit
Christy Alexander Hallberg on Instagram, Twitter, YouTube: @ChristyHallberg
Rock is Lit on Instagram: @rockislitpodcast
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