When you think of Jimmy Page, you think of the untouchable guitar god behind Led Zeppelin, a man who carved riffs into the DNA of rock itself. “Stairway to Heaven,” “Whole Lotta Love,” “Kashmir”—the list is endless, the legend undeniable. But before Zeppelin shook the world, Page was quietly grinding away in the shadows of the music industry, a session musician for hire, plugging in his guitar to play on other people’s records.
For years, Page’s fingerprints were scattered across dozens—some say hundreds—of pop, rock, and R&B hits in the early 1960s. He was the guy producers called when they needed reliability, skill, and speed. He worked with names as big as The Kinks, The Who, Donovan, Petula Clark, Joe Cocker, and even Shirley Bassey. But here’s the kicker: despite all that work, all those sessions, all those famous names… Jimmy Page himself admitted that he was only truly proud of two specific tracks.
Why? Because in his own words, those were the only ones that carried any “credibility.”
The Session Years: A Hidden Life
It’s hard to imagine now, but before he became a global icon, Jimmy Page was just another kid hustling for work in London. Barely out of his teens, he was already one of the most in-demand guitarists in Britain. Studio managers loved him: he was lightning-fast, could sight-read charts, and laid down takes with clockwork precision.
But Page quickly realized that most of the jobs weren’t about creativity—they were about filling space. Cheesy pop jingles, forgettable ballads, and disposable hit factory tracks made up most of his workload.
“I was playing on all these things, but you wouldn’t necessarily want to brag about them,” Page admitted years later. “A lot of it was just churn. I didn’t feel I was contributing anything with credibility.”
That word—credibility—haunted him.
The Two Tracks That Mattered
So what were the only tracks Page felt proud of during his session years?
Diamonds” – Jet Harris and Tony Meehan (1963)
This instrumental track became a number one single in the UK, and Page’s searing guitar lines drove it home. It wasn’t fluff—it was raw, it was bold, and it stood out from the sugar-coated pop dominating the charts at the time. For Page, it was a taste of what a guitar could really do in a track, beyond just backing vocals or filling out rhythm.
“Diamonds” gave him his first whiff of credibility—proof that a guitar could carry a record to the top of the charts.
Hurdy Gurdy Man” – Donovan (1968)
Recorded just before Led Zeppelin was born, this track felt like prophecy. Donovan may have been a folk-pop star, but “Hurdy Gurdy Man” was drenched in psychedelia and electric menace. Many historians credit Jimmy Page with playing the blistering guitar solo on the track (though there’s debate—some say it was Alan Parker).
For Page, whether in the spotlight or not, it represented the kind of experimental, dangerous music that excited him—worlds away from disposable session fluff.
“These were the moments I felt I was contributing to something with weight,” he later said. “Something that meant something, credibility-wise.”
What Page Refused to Brag About
Here’s the part that stings: Page played on a staggering catalog of tracks, but he rarely mentioned them with pride. Among his rumored (and sometimes disputed) credits are:
The Kinks’ “You Really Got Me” – though Dave Davies has always fiercely denied Page played the iconic riff.
The Who’s early singles – some claim he was on demos, though Pete Townshend bristled at the suggestion.
Petula Clark’s “Downtown.”
Shirley Bassey’s “Goldfinger.”
But for Page, these weren’t victories. They were paychecks.
“You couldn’t exactly go to a party and brag, ‘Oh yeah, I played guitar on that pop fluff you just heard on the radio,’” Page laughed in later interviews. “It wasn’t about artistry—it was about doing a job and going home.”
The credibility wasn’t there.
The Turning Point: From Sideman to Mastermind
By the late 1960s, Page had grown weary of being a hired gun. He wanted control. He wanted to stop filling in the edges of other people’s visions and start creating his own. That’s when fate intervened.
First came The Yardbirds, where Page finally stepped into the spotlight, pushing his guitar to its creative limits with distortion, feedback, and early experiments with violin bows. And when The Yardbirds collapsed? Out of the ashes, he formed Led Zeppelin.
In Zeppelin, he was no longer a faceless session player. He was the architect. The credibility he craved was finally his.
Why Credibility Mattered So Much
For Jimmy Page, credibility wasn’t about fame—it was about respect. The session world was filled with musicians who could play flawlessly but left no mark on the culture. Page didn’t want to be one of them. He wanted to shake the earth.
And he did. By the time Led Zeppelin released their debut in 1969, Page’s reputation had flipped from “that reliable kid in the studio” to “the most dangerous guitarist alive.”
The Ironic Legacy of the Session Years
Here’s the twist: the very session work Jimmy Page once dismissed as “lacking credibility” is now poured over by fans and historians. People hunt down his rumored appearances on 1960s pop records like buried treasure. Whole books have been written about his “secret years.”
The irony is rich: the work he once rolled his eyes at is now prized precisely because it shows the hidden roots of his journey. But for Page himself, it was always just a stepping stone. Only Diamonds and Hurdy Gurdy Man ever felt like they had any weight.
Everything else? A blur of forgettable jingles on the way to immortality.
The Final Word
Looking back, Jimmy Page’s honesty about his session years is refreshing. Most legends would embellish, exaggerate, or claim every note they ever played mattered. Page didn’t. He admitted the truth: most of it meant nothing.
But the two tracks he did value? They were signposts—hints of the storm that was coming.
Because once Page stopped worrying about credibility and started demanding it, rock and roll would never be the same again.
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