I mean, look at him/it/this:
My husband, although The Song Remains the Same might as well play on an endless loop inside our home, thinks that I somehow am immune to the allure of 1973 Robert Plant due to two factors: 1) I do not pay attention to the television because it is very loud and explosion-y most of the time, and 2) Because it’s clearly not 1973 and we do not own a time machine.
He is wrong.
I am, in fact, in deep and abiding love with 1973 Robert Plant and his many blouses of fancy. It is not his strategically ripped jeans that make me love him; it’s not necessarily the way he parades around the stage like a peacock (although that might be a little of it); it’s…just…goddamn, THAT IS A WOMAN’S TOP YOU HAVE ON AND IT LOOKS UNBELIEVABLY AMAZING.
Don’t get me wrong. I am in full appreciation of Robert Plant’s incredible, soul-filled voice of passion and his impeccable timing – he is an improvisational wizard, a rock god, and possesses a stage presence that is second to none. But it’s the shirt, my friends. It comes down to that one small fashion choice he made before he went on stage at MSG. It makes me stop whatever I’m doing, stare all wide-eyed and goofy at the television every single time, rapt in His Glory. I can’t help it. The wearing of the blouse was, at that time, What Is and What Should Never Be. But it WAS. And it worked like a fucking charm.
I am fairly certain this particular article of clothing, with its dreamy ocean-blue fabric and white accents, has magical powers. Come forth, ye who owns this GirlShirt of Glory, this Blouse of Beckoning…I do believe it is my Precious. We wants it. Gives it to us.