There’s something oddly poetic about a rock legend like Robert Plant turning his gaze inward—to the industrial heartland of England where his roots lie—to document its chaos and charm. The new photo book Black Country Type II, with its cheeky nod to Led Zeppelin II, isn’t just a collection of images; it’s a cultural intervention. Tom Hicks’ lens captures a region often overlooked by outsiders, yet teeming with stories that scream to be told. Personally, I think this collaboration between Plant and Hicks is a masterstroke of regional storytelling, blending rock mythology with the grit of post-industrial Britain. What makes this particularly fascinating is how it reframes the Black Country not as a relic of decay, but as a living, breathing tapestry of contradictions. This isn’t just a photo book—it’s a manifesto for the unglamorous, the overlooked, and the defiantly uncool.
Let’s unpack this. The Black Country, a term that sounds like a heavy metal album title, is a patchwork of towns where smokestacks once ruled and now, in their absence, a strange kind of surrealism thrives. Hicks’ photos, taken on ‘freeform walks and cycle rides,’ suggest a deliberate rejection of curated tourism. He’s not here to sell postcards; he’s here to document the absurdity of a place where rusted gates coexist with neon-lit pubs and graffiti-covered walls. In my opinion, this approach is revolutionary. Too often, regional identity is flattened into stereotypes—‘industrial decay’ or ‘working-class grit’—but Hicks’ work invites viewers to see the Black Country as a character in its own right, with quirks, humor, and a stubborn refusal to be ignored.
Plant’s involvement isn’t just a PR move. His foreword, which calls the book a ‘startling study of our fractured, crazy place,’ reveals a deep well of affection for the area. What many people don’t realize is that Plant’s connection to the Black Country isn’t just geographical—it’s emotional. Growing up in this landscape, he’s witnessed its transformation from a hub of manufacturing to a patchwork of regeneration and neglect. His support for the arts here isn’t tokenism; it’s a lifeline. A detail that I find especially interesting is how he and Hicks bond over Wolverhampton Wanderers, a football club that, like the region itself, embodies resilience. This shared love isn’t just a conversation starter—it’s a cultural bridge between generations, between music and memory.
The exhibition at the Black Country Living Museum feels like a long-overdue celebration. If you take a step back and think about it, this isn’t just about art—it’s about reclamation. The Black Country has long been the shadowy cousin of London’s cultural prestige, but Hicks’ work and Plant’s endorsement are flipping that script. What this really suggests is a growing appetite for narratives that don’t fit the ‘global city’ mold. The photos in Black Country Type II aren’t just documenting a place; they’re challenging us to rethink what ‘magnificence’ looks like. A crumbling factory wall with a mural of a grinning robot? A street vendor selling sausages next to a mural of a dragon? These aren’t signs of decline—they’re symbols of a place that refuses to be erased.
And let’s not ignore the irony of Led Zeppelin’s legacy intersecting with this project. The band’s music was steeped in myth and mysticism, yet here’s Plant, the voice of that myth, championing a region that’s anything but mythical. It’s a reminder that rock ‘n’ roll isn’t just about rebellion—it’s about belonging. This raises a deeper question: Why do we so often romanticize places we’ve never been to, while dismissing the ones we know? The Black Country, with its mix of decay and vitality, is a perfect metaphor for our current moment. It’s a place where the past and future collide, where the old industries are buried but not forgotten, and where the people still find ways to laugh, create, and survive.
In the end, Black Country Type II is more than a photo book. It’s a provocation. It’s a call to look closer, to see the beauty in the broken, and to recognize that even the most ‘unremarkable’ places have stories worth telling. If this project succeeds, it won’t just be because of Plant’s name on the cover or Hicks’ lens—it’ll be because it dares to ask, ‘What if the real magic isn’t in the stars, but in the places we call home?’ That, to me, is the truest kind of rock ‘n’ roll.
