The final chord echoed like the last breath of an era, ringing through the July air over 50,000 silent souls. No pyrotechnics, no curtain call.
The final chord echoed like the last breath of an era, ringing through the July air over 50,000 silent souls. No pyrotechnics, no curtain call. Just Jimmy Page, bowed by time but still holding the weight of a thousand riffs, knelt slowly at center stage. He placed his guitar—*that* guitar—delicately on the worn wood, its…