Sometimes, feeling a bit sensitive, you might put on a Nick Drake record, clutch a flower, and gaze out the window. There are other times, however, when something with a bit more balls is required. This is where Led Zeppelin comes in. Though they were hardly adverse to a bit of folky noodling, it is the pile driving riffs that you really want. Will we ever see them live again? Will we balls. Luckily, for two nights at least, we have the next best thing – the collective known as Whole Lotta Zepp.

Every year this crew, featuring some of the finest musicians in the country, get together to celebrate one Led Zeppelin album. In the past they have essayed II, III, IV, and even the Ozymandian look-on-my-works-ye-might-and-despair brilliance of Physical Graffiti. This year, they turn to the good if patchy Houses Of The Holy, from 1973.

Hot Press joined the band for a drink in the green room beforehand. I would say a quiet drink, but it was far from it. One of the selling points of the act is that they feature three drummers, and three drum kits. Both Johnny Boyle (Picturehouse, The Frames, Elton Fucking John!) and Jay Oglesby (Sharon Corr, Keywest, The Artane Boys Band) are hard at it on the practice pads in preparation. Drummer no. 3, Simon Freedman, whose baby this whole shebang is, stands at the bar with a pint of Guinness, not bothering his arse. This will come back to haunt him later, when he can’t even clap in time during ‘Bron-Yr-Aur’. I’m joking, of course.

They begin with a couple of random Zep tunes before the business of the album is attended to. ‘Good Times Bad Times’ and ‘Celebration Day’ kick arse as they’re supposed to, Johnny Boyle beating the kit on the latter like it owes him a drink. ‘Dazed And Confused’ has always been a bit overblown for my tastes, but it’s a good excuse for a wig-out, if one were needed. Brian Palm, fine artist and even finer harmonica player, joins the fray for a raucous ‘Nobody’s Fault But Mine’; the man knows his way around a gob iron.

Everybody is working hard, but perhaps no one has a higher mountain to climb than singer Jim Chandler (The Usual Suspects). Trying to approximate Plant’s ball-tightening scream isn’t easy, but for the most part he manages it. He leads the band through ‘The Song Remains The Same’, ‘The Rain Song’, and ‘Over The Hills’, all delivered with aplomb, to roars of approval. It’s at this point, in my opinion, that the album dips a bit, so I use the opportunity to slip out for a breath of fresh air with Larry from the crew, and skip over the bad funk of ‘The Crunge’ and the ropey reggae of ‘D’yer Maker’, although the band attack them with more skill than they deserve.

Back in the room, suitably refreshed, Duncan Maitland’s trippy keyboards in ‘No Quarter’ hit me at just the right time, and then I’m woken back up by album closer ‘The Ocean’, which rages like a heard of elephants. Blues Queen Mary Stokes joins in for rockin’ readings of ‘Your Time Is Gonna Come’ and ‘Misty Mountain Hop’, her powerful vocals creating a fine counterpoint with Chandler’s. Kudos must also go to Darren Isaacson, who, I’m told after, is the man they all defer to when arguing arrangements. His bass playing is really something throughout, which is no wonder considering the length of his fingers. He shook hands with me before the show and I swear he was nearly touching my elbow. These are the hands Trump imagines he has, it’s like the man is carrying two bunches of rhubarb.

‘Ramble On’ sounds incredible, guitar players Dan O’ Connor (the handsome one out of Eighties celebrating juggernaut Spring Break), and Laura Mackey superbly recreating Page’s lines, as they do on a crowd levelling ‘Stairway To Heaven’. As expected, things are brought to a close with all three drummers pummelling though ‘Moby Dick’. Usually, the very mention of a drum solo would have me looking for the exit, but this was like getting a kicking off a gang of lads in docs, only in a sexy way.

I suspect tonight’s repeat performance is well sold out at this stage, but if you can get along, do yourself a favour, and get in.