by Joe Perry
Despite Steven’s extroverted nature, in these early years he was reluctant to talk to the audience. I’m not sure why. Offstage, he couldn’t stop talking. Onstage, something else happened. Before the first record came out, he’d trimmed his name from Tallarico to Tyler, making it easier to remember. He wanted to be remembered. We all did. But facing an audience, he was deeply insecure about addressing them. Because he would whip the mic stand around, the crew would use strips of cloth to hold it together. As time went on, the cloth got longer. Steven added his scarves. That’s how the scarf thing began. Tying a bunch of colorful scarves to the mic stand gave him something to hide behind. Fiddling with the scarves during a guitar solo gave him something to do with his hands. He was still working out his stage schtick.
It was a strange paradox—chatty on the street, reticent onstage. A crowd wants to be acknowledged and engaged. If we were playing, say, in Detroit and the Tigers or the Lions had just won a big game, they want to hear “How ’bout those Tigers!” or “How ’bout those Lions!” They want to hear something from the lead singer. But Steven was reluctant to say a word. Once he opened his mouth to sing he was great. But when it came to ingratiating himself with a few simple words to the fans, he balked.
When I questioned him about it, he bristled. He said he didn’t want to mouth a bunch of clichés. I said it didn’t have to be clichéd. It was just a way of welcoming the crowd. If it was so important, he said, why didn’t I do it?
“Okay, Steven, I will.” That’s the last thing he wanted—me engaging the crowd. His ego couldn’t handle that. The argument continued . . .
“The mic is for singing, not talking,” he said.
“I’m not talking about a lot of talking. Just a little. Just enough for you to acknowledge the fans and loosen them up.”
“The music does that.”
“A little foreplay wouldn’t hurt.”
“I’m not into foreplay, I’m into fucking.”
Detroit is a gutsy city, a working-class blues roots and rock kind of place. Detroit is Motown. Detroit’s a hardworking metropolis, and Detroiters recognize a hardworking band. Before us, Boston’s J. Geils, one of the great live bands, owned Detroit. So when Detroit heard about a new up-and-coming band from Boston, their attitude was, “Okay, boys, let’s see what you got.” Knowing that Detroit liked balls-to-the-wall rock, we hit it especially hard. During our run at the Michigan Palace, we won over the city. From then on Detroit became an Aerosmith stronghold. Even during our worst slumps, we could count on Detroit. For that matter, all those struggling cities where the factories were closing and the suburbs had stolen their thunder—Cincy and Dayton, Cleveland and Toledo—responded to a struggling band. They needed our energy and we needed theirs.
We made it through the cold Midwestern winter of ’73 and went back to Boston, hoping to reconnect with the hometown crowd on something called Summerthing, a series of big outdoor concerts on the Common, right in the middle of the city, a perfect place to make a splash and remind the local fans that we had a record in the stores. J. Geils, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt, and Loudon Wainwright III were all considered, like us, Boston-based acts. They were all scheduled to perform. Wouldn’t we be the perfect addition?
“That’s precisely what I said,” said Frank. “I told the promoters they cannot possibly do this concert series without you. But unfortunately, boys, the promoters didn’t see it that way.”
“What did they see?” I asked.
“They see you as a band whose first album has failed.”
“We can’t even get an opening slot?”
“I’m afraid not, Joe. I’m afraid that once again we’re facing impresarios with limited vision. But be not discouraged. The vision will hold because the vision is true. Be brave, be strong, be not distracted, and you will not be defeated.”
During down times Frank was always there for us. Frank was there to take us out for big steak dinners in fancy restaurants with red leather booths and old-school bartenders. Frank brought the blarney. My fervent wish was that Frank, and not Leber-Krebs, could have been our frontline manager as we navigated the tricky waters of those early tours. But Frank was fading. Like my father’s, his struggles with cancer were intensifying.
However, there was one bright light that showed us our fan base in Boston was growing. We played a show at Suffolk Downs with Sha Na Na headlining. They had become national headliners but most of the band was from Boston. The show was sold out and it was obvious that a large part of the audience was there to see us. In fact, at the end of our set, they threw their empty beer cans in unison straight up in the air. It darkened the sky. It took us by surprise but it made us realize Boston was taking us to their hearts. Steven and I hitchhiked home from that show. Were we so excited and wanted to get home to celebrate.
On one of those rare occasions when I made the forty-five-minute drive from Boston to Hopedale to visit Dad in the hospital, he said he was better but his appearance told me that he was not out of the woods.
I brought him the first Columbia album we had just received. It represented the most success I had ever realized.
“Is it selling?” Dad asked. “Are they playing it on the radio?”
“It’s doing great.”
“Are you tired of touring?” he asked.
“No, touring’s fun.”
“I suppose,” said Dad, “that the idea is if you keep touring the records will start selling.”
“That’s the idea,” I said. “The music business is rough and we’re not making a lot, but we’re making progress. As a matter of fact the band and I finally saved enough to pay you back the money you loaned us for our bus.”
It felt great to hand my father a check. I could see that he was surprised and pleased. I waited for Dad to say words of approval. I wanted him to say, I’m proud of you. This is a real record from a real record company. You’ve come a long way since those days when you were begging us for an electric guitar. You’ve really stuck with something. I admire you, son. I’m proud of you, son. I love you, son.
I sensed he had those feelings but couldn’t express them. He couldn’t say anything. He was emotionally consumed by the fact that his cancer had returned.
“I gotta go,” I said. “I love you, Dad. See you soon,” and with a hug I left and headed back to Boston.
When we learned that Leber-Krebs were coming to Boston to get us to re-sign their management contract, I called a band meeting. I wanted us to hire a lawyer. The only person I felt connected with was Laura Kaufman, the publicist in Leber-Krebs’s office who was devoted to Aerosmith. She had a beautiful spirit and a huge heart and genuinely loved us. But I still had enormous trust issues with both Steve Leber and David Krebs. I knew we needed a lawyer.
“What for?” asked Steven.
“We have no way of knowing whether Leber-Krebs are screwing us.”
“Leber-Krebs are all we have.”
“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have some kind of checks and balance.”
“They don’t want us looking over their shoulders.”
“I don’t care what they want,” I said. “They need to be accountable. We need an outside counselor.”
My argument got nowhere. My bandmates were reluctant to challenge our management.
“Besides,” said Steven, “Columbia’s letting us do a second album. Leber-Krebs are close to Columbia. Now’s not the time to rock the boat.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I’m bringing my own lawyer.”
Elyssa’s cousin was not an entertainment lawyer, but he was a lawyer nonetheless, with a small practice in Somerville. When he accompanied me to the management meeting, the band was annoyed, and Leber and Krebs were somewhat shocked. Quickly realizing he had no experience with music contracts, Leber and Krebs took him into another room, where they reassured him they were presenting us with a standard management contract. The rest of the band signed with no questions. On the advice of my lawyer, I signed with lots of ques
tions, which basically were never answered.
We wanted back in the studio. I myself was eager to see if we could capture the sound that had eluded us the first time. Leber-Krebs definitely earned their keep by convincing Columbia to give us a second shot with another record, but it was Frank who kept us alive long enough to get those showcases at Max’s Kansas City. Frank was the true believer.
It was also Frank who told Leber-Krebs that if we were to cut a second record, the band better move back in together and concentrate on writing. The idea was to dislodge us from all distractions—like women and partying—and get us to focus. We got an apartment in Brookline and rehearsal space in the dungeon-like basement of a store called Drummer’s Image on Newbury Street.
Tiger, Joey’s Great Dane, who was big as a small pony, became the beloved band dog and joined us in our Beacon Street apartment. He had a frisky temperament and would jump on you the second you walked through the door. With his paws on your shoulders, he’d look down at you while giving you a face full of tongue.
Though girlfriends were prohibited, I made an exception for Elyssa, who was over practically every night. Soon all of the other guys followed suit and invited their women as well.
Steven and I fell into a writing routine. Sometimes we’d work at home, where we set up a drum kit for Steven and an amp for me. That’s where we wrote “Same Old Song and Dance” and I came up with the riff to “SOS,” a song for which Steven already had lyrics.
The Perry/Tyler team was not a fully formed unit. But then again, it never would be. For the most part, we were playing our club set. “Train Kept a-Rollin’,” for example, recorded by Tiny Bradshaw during the swing era, Johnny Burnette in the fifties, and revised by the Yardbirds and Led Zeppelin in the sixties, had long been part of our show and thus became part of our second record.
Back at the Drummer’s Image, the whole band worked as a unit to hone material for the new album. We’d jam for five or six hours at a time, stopping to run back to the apartment to catch reruns of The Three Stooges. The TV was in Brad’s room, where all five of us religiously watched the episodes, no matter how many times we had seen them before. The Marx Brothers may be wittier, and Chaplin and Keaton are geniuses, but my heart is with the Stooges—then, now, and forever.
On one of those afternoons when we arrived back at the Beacon Street apartment, we opened the door expecting to be pounced on by Tiger. Instead we found the dog spread out on the floor. We panicked and were about to rush him to the vet when we realized that Tiger had gotten to the plate of pot brownies left atop the fridge. Clearly he had scarfed them down. That night he was the only one partying.
Columbia said they wanted us to cut the record in a “real studio,” which in their mind meant a place in New York. They also insisted that Bob Ezrin, who had worked with Alice Cooper, produce the album. We were impressed by his credentials but weren’t all that happy to learn that, before agreeing to work with us, he’d have to come to Boston to hear us play. Couldn’t he just listen to our first album and figure out whether we met his criteria? No matter—he came, he liked us, and he signed on. We drove down to New York, checked into the Ramada Inn on Forty-Eighth Street, and headed over to the Record Plant, a famous facility most recently used by Little Feat. Back in the sixties it was where Hendrix had cut Electric Ladyland. This was our first time recording in a state-of-the-art studio.
When we arrived, Ezrin introduced us to Jack Douglas, his engineer. For all practical purposes, Jack became our producer. Ezrin might have shown up three or four times, but only to make suggestions, like that of bringing in additional musicians to augment our sound. We were okay with using top-flight horn men like trumpeter Randy Brecker and his brother Michael on tenor. We had, after all, already set the precedent for horns on the first album. Moreover, our policy was “Let’s try anything.”
At times I was easy to work with. And then there were times when I wasn’t. These were the days when I was building up a definite arrogance. During one session, for example, we were sitting out in the studio wearing headphones when the feedback blasted my years. I reacted impulsively, without thinking.
“What the hell is wrong with you motherfuckers?” I barked. “Can’t you get anything right?”
Jack got up from the board, left the control room, and came over to my chair.
“Look, Joe, if you have a complaint, I’m happy to hear it. But if you talk that way again to us, I’m coming out and busting you in the fuckin’ mouth.”
I saw his point and apologized. From that moment on, Jack and I became friends. Within a year or two he would become our main producer and a man critically important to the rise of our band. At this point, I saw Jack as a no-nonsense New Yorker with a tough attitude, deep knowledge of the studio, and a great East Coast sense of humor.
An example: One night after we’d gone home, Jack and Jay, our engineer, brought in a bunch of live crabs and affixed them to the ceiling of the studio with superglue and fishing line. Fortunately, we weren’t the first people to arrive the next morning. The first guy in was a hippie who worked in the office. He had to make his way in total darkness through the studio to find the light switch. The fact that he was tripping on acid didn’t help his ability to adjust to the dangling crabs. His freak-out lasted for days.
I’ve never freaked in the studio. I see the studio as a sanctuary, a place—like the ocean floor—to explore. The exploration of sound is endlessly fascinating to me. In this early phase I faced great frustration. I wanted to know more than I knew. I wanted to play more than I was capable of playing. And I wanted to realize a sound that eluded me. Jack Douglas helped enormously. He became a great teacher. But Jack could only work with what we gave him. And I wanted to give him more.
We all did. We all put in endless hours, fueled by whatever substances were available. When we finally ran out of gas, we reluctantly left the studio. As the first light of dawn was turning night to day, we walked down the middle of Eighth Avenue to our hotel. We were carrying our guitars and didn’t want to get mugged. In those days the center of Manhattan was a seedy place. You could smell its decay. We probably didn’t smell much better. After fourteen or fifteen hours of playing, we didn’t have a lot to say to each other.
On one hand, it was satisfying to say that we were in New York City cutting a second album, but on the other hand, I knew that the album, in spite of a few bright spots, still didn’t capture the power of the band. We were better than the record we were making. And yet I didn’t know how to get there. I didn’t know how to get from good to great.
My frustration intensified after someone stole my black Stratocaster from the studio. Losing a guitar is like losing a friend. That fucked me up for months.
We pressed on. We cut “Seasons of Wither,” another ballad. I still didn’t love ballads, out of general principle, but this one had a haunting feeling that I dug. It turned out that, with all our work, we were still one song short. That’s when we took a riff and lyrics left over from one of Steven’s earlier bands and, with the five of us in one room, fashioned a new song. In an all-night lock-up session in Studio C, we knocked out “Lord of the Thighs”—a nod to the novel Lord of the Flies that reflected the seedy side of New York we kept seeing on our walks up Eighth Avenue.
All this happened in the fall of 1973. Meanwhile, Columbia rereleased “Dream On”—the ballad from our first album—as a single. To make it more commercial, they put an orchestra over the original track without our involvement or approval. I had mixed feelings because I didn’t see the song as emblematic of the band. It was soft and we were hard. Yet the song hit the pop charts and started moving up. Give credit to Maxanne Sartori at WBCN in Boston. Maxanne played the hell out of it. As one of the first female DJs, she was a pioneer and one of our greatest champions. At a time when our critics were calling us too derivative, Maxanne called us originals and never wavered in her support.
Even though “Dream On” eventually became a classic, for years Steven was outraged
at the A&R people for messing with it without his consultation. I understood his rage. That’s like an art dealer taking a painting by, say, Picasso and adding a few lines here and there to make it sell quicker. I don’t mean to imply that we were Picasso, but we were damn serious about our music. We should have at least been consulted. We couldn’t complain, however, about the results.
I would have been happier if our first hit had been hard-core rock and roll, but a hit is a hit. A hit meant we’d have a better shot at survival. With our second album coming out, “Dream On” pushed our debut album onto the charts, although it didn’t get very high. But that was okay. We were on our way.
As “Dream On” was building, we were headlining small clubs. The more “Dream On” airplay, the bigger the crowds. When we got back to Boston, it was like a light switch had been turned on, and we saw something we had never seen before. It happened at a high school auditorium in Shrewsbury. Frank had booked the gig. The place was packed with twenty-five hundred fans. There was an excitement that was entirely new. The fans knew all our lyrics. They wouldn’t let us off the stage until we played three, four, five encores. They were out of their minds for our music.
After that night, Frank spoke to us in the dressing room.
“You know, boys,” he said, “Sinatra had his day at the Paramount back in the forties. Elvis had his day in Memphis in the fifties, and the Beatles had their day on Ed Sullivan in the sixties. Well, today is such a day for you. And if you have any doubts, here’s the proof.”
From his briefcase he pulled out the fattest wad of money I had ever seen.
“This represents only a part of tonight’s receipts,” he said. “From now on, gentlemen, you can put your money problems behind you. Your future is not only rosy, it is as green as the greenest Irish pasture.”
I knew we still had a long way to go, but gone were the days when we spent hours phoning our friends, pleading with them to come to the club so we could show the owner that we actually had a few fans. This was a moment I’d never forget, and certainly one of the most exciting in the history of our band. The thrill hasn’t been matched by anything since.
