Rocks: My Life in and Out of Aerosmith

by Joe Perry

  We went to the Wherehouse to start the process. The other guys came up with strong material. David Hull wrote two songs—“Dirty Little Things” and “Buzz Buzz.” Charlie Farren wrote “East Coast West Coast” and we reworked a shuffle of mine and called it “South Station Blues.” I was encouraged when Bruce Botnick came on board. He had produced L.A. Woman, the great Doors album, and before that had worked as their engineer. I loved the way the Doors records sounded.

  I decided to get the Record Plant to drive their truck up from New York and park it outside the old Boston Opera House on Washington Street in what was called the Combat Zone. We recorded on the same stage where Aida and Don Giovanni had been performed numerous times. The theater was like a gorgeous woman gone to seed. You could see and feel traces of her former glory, but the paint was peeling and the floors were cracked. I liked all that decay. The rooms were huge marble affairs harking back to a different era. The acoustics were naturally sublime.

  I called the album I’ve Got the Rock ’n Rolls Again because I did. Like the first Project record, this one was made without strife or procrastination. I was hoping that my promptness might convince Columbia not only that was I still taking my band seriously, but that my band was here to stay. When the reviews came with even more praise than had been lavished on Let the Music Do the Talking, I began hoping that the label might give it a hefty promotional push. They didn’t. I barely remember any promotion.

  When I’d left, David Krebs had said that he didn’t see me as critical to Aerosmith’s success. He figured that without the tension between Steven and me things would straighten out. But the very opposite had happened. It gave me no small pleasure when time and again I heard stories about Aerosmith gigs with fans screaming out, “Where’s Joe Fuckin’ Perry?” It became a mantra. The mantra didn’t make me want to return. But I did derive satisfaction when I read a Krebs quote saying that he had underestimated my value to the band. That’s when he had to completely reverse himself. Rather than applaud my departure, he spent years trying to get me back. Decades later, I happened to run into Krebs’s partner Steve Leber. When I asked about my suspicion that Leber-Krebs had tried to undermine my solo career so I would come back to the band, he came clean; he admitted they wanted me to fail.

  These were the same years—the late seventies and early eighties—when my marriage was on its last legs. Our son, Adrian, was born on January 25, 1981. I’d always wanted a son and was overjoyed. But when it came to Elyssa, aggravation had overwhelmed happiness. We had essentially become incompatible. Certainly my quirks, compulsions, and addictions were as powerful as hers—if not more so. The time had ended, though, when we could balance our twin insanities. Those insanities had long been moving in opposing directions. Emotionally, we were opposing one another. Even the birth of my first child couldn’t recommit me to my marriage. I didn’t want to stay home. I wanted to cut loose. And as a working musician, I had many opportunities to do just that. But I also kept coming back home because I wanted to be a father. This was the only way possible to keep contact with my son, the child that I had longed for years earlier in our relationship.

  So with one foot out the door and one foot in, my life continued. This was 1980, the year I turned thirty. The Project was working, but money was tight and my debts were high. The IRS was unrelenting. My road manager, Doc McGrath, kept telling me I needed help. What else was new? My last manager, Don Law, was a good guy, but what more could he do for me?

  “You need someone who will do more,” said Doc.

  “You know someone?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Doc. And for the first time in my life I heard the name of a person who would change my life and spin this story in a dozen different directions: Tim Collins.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “A booking agent who wants to be a manager,” said Doc. “And he’s really fuckin’ smart.”

  My first meeting with Collins was uneventful. It happened at the apartment of our lead singer, Charlie Farren, who lived in the Back Bay. Collins didn’t make a big impression. He was a young guy—overweight, nerdy eyeglasses, overgrown beard, disheveled, but with a pleasant personality. He said he had once played guitar in high school and now managed Jonathan Edwards. At first I got the idea he was a wannabe, but that notion was quickly dispelled when we got to talking. He was one smart motherfucker. He was also a fan who knew a lot about Aerosmith and had only praise for the Project. He told me that he had a partner, Steve Barrasso.

  There was no follow-up to that meeting, though, because we were touring. It didn’t help that my singer didn’t like him.

  “That guy gives me the creeps,” said Charlie. “I can’t see him managing you.”

  I dropped the idea for a short while. Then I picked it up again when I realized that I couldn’t make heads or tails out of my money mess. Don Law wasn’t willing to bail me out. Who was? I thought back to Collins. I remembered him telling me that if there was anything he could do to help, just ask. So I did.

  When he came over the first time, Elyssa didn’t want to let him in. I’m not sure what her antagonism was about, but she finally relented and agreed to listen to him. I was in bad shape. I was on the verge of losing my house. I was fucked up from drinking. I thought I was at the bottom, but every day that bottom kept getting deeper and darker.

  The meeting at my house was brief. He brought along some cocaine that we snorted together. Due to my lack of funds, this was a time when I rarely saw coke. Collins was upbeat. His favorite saying was “There are no problems, only solutions”—and he spoke like he meant it. Tim was also eager and extremely bright. I liked all his metaphors. He talked about rolling up his sleeves and helping me find some answers to my financial dilemma. He talked about getting in the trenches and figuring out how to maximize the money I was making on the road. His mantra was simple and clear: You need help. I can help. Let me help.

  I tested him out by opening up this big drawer where I threw all my mail. I never bothered to look at most of it. It was an unruly pile of bills, including IRS claims and foreclosure notices. There were even uncashed royalty checks for thousands of dollars. When Tim pointed them out, I said, “Hey, I’m not a businessman.”

  After he examined the pile of papers for a couple of minutes, I asked, “You willing to go through the stuff and make sense of it?”

  “I am,” he answered. With that, I emptied the contents of the drawer into a grocery bag and handed it to Collins. A week later he told me that he was willing to pay off a big portion of my debts.

  “What are the conditions?” I asked.

  “There aren’t any,” he said. “I figure that I need to do this to win your trust. I believe in your talent. I believe your best years are ahead of you. I want to manage you.”

  I didn’t see what choice I had. I called Don Law and told him that Collins was taking over. I told Elyssa the same thing. No one could argue with me, because no one else was willing to put his money on the line. Collins was, and that was all I needed to know.

  The Project always found work. Beyond opening for Heart, we played on bills with ZZ Top and the J. Geils Band, who were steamrolling and having great success with this new thing called videos for MTV. “Love Stinks” is still one of my favorites.

  On the personal side, Elyssa kept living like I was still in Aerosmith. I kept touring, taking every gig I could get. I was living the dream of an independent artist. Though we traveled in a van and stayed in Holiday Inns, I still loved it. Anything I earned went back to pay off my heavy debts.

  I could live with the idea of no longer being in a band that could headline at huge venues all over the world. I knew if I stuck to my guns I’d work my way out of the financial mess, but the impossibility of conveying that idea to Elyssa made me realize that the relationship was over. The vicious cycle had gone on for so long that I couldn’t even remember what life without marital combat was like. We had gone through years of high drama and high conflict, with no resolution. We had endu
red years of staying high—which was what let us cover up the problems. I needed relief. I needed to leave. And that’s just what I did: Like a thief in the night, I slid behind the wheel of my black Porsche and took off. I finally got the fuck out.

  FURTHER OUT

  When we legally separated, Elyssa and I had been married for six and a half years. It would take another three years for our divorce to become final. The breakup was an ugly one. Enraged, Elyssa did all she could to keep me from seeing Adrian, who had just turned one. Almost every visit required me to get family services to intervene. On the financial front, things were bleak. Elyssa and Adrian moved into an apartment in a luxury high-rise in Chestnut Hill, within walking distance of one of the most expensive malls in Boston. Elyssa, who still didn’t have a driver’s license and refused to look for a job, kept spending money that we didn’t have, digging holes that I’d eventually have to climb out of. I was sending her what I could.

  An old band friend whom we’d met in Detroit back in the seventies had an apartment in the same high-rise as Elyssa. When we first met him he was just another cat with a few grams of coke here and there. But he got involved in selling large quantities and was found dead hanging from a pipe by his wrists. It was rumored that he’d gotten on the wrong side of some other heavyweight dealer and been strangled. I wasn’t happy that Elyssa had our son in such an environment, but my own environment was hardly Disneyland. Eventually she and Adrian changed locales. Ironically, they moved into a complex where she and I had first shared an apartment. I could never figure why, of all the buildings in Boston, she chose that one.

  The only steady force in my life was Tim Collins, who kept saying just what I wanted to hear: “You’ve got to keep playing on the road, and you’ve got to make another record.” I spent lots of nights on Collins’s couch. Mark Parenteau, a WBCN DJ who had long championed Aerosmith, was also a loyal friend. Between Tim and Mark, who were always generous with their drugs, I found shelter and support.

  Because Collins, unlike Leber-Krebs, wasn’t a suit—a corporate guy with corporate connections—I trusted him. I desperately needed someone to trust. I desperately needed someone to keep me on the road and in the studio. To his credit, Collins got me out of my deal with Columbia. He got MCA interested in doing the next Project album and was able to secure a small advance. That gave me something to work for besides just touring. A new record meant new songs. Even during this time of intense debauchery, I responded to the call of the studio. My love of writing and playing never died.

  Because I had to cut back salaries, I lost the original cats and changed the Project personnel. Enter Cowboy Mach Bell, another madman lead singer. I felt connected to him, not only through our common rock-and-roll madness, but because he came from Holliston, Massachusetts, the town next to Hopedale.

  Out on tour, Cowboy and I were in L.A., lost in time. We had a vague notion of a gig at the Golden Bear in Huntington Beach, some thirty-five miles down the coast in Orange County. Due to our heavy drinking, we’d lost track of the other cats in the band—at that point, Danny Hargrove was on bass and Joe Pet on drums—and decided to hitchhike to the club. Given the fact that we hadn’t changed clothes or showered in a couple of days, we had a tough time getting a ride. On our extremely slow-going walk, we stopped every few miles to fortify ourselves at neighborhood taverns. At the rate we were going, we wouldn’t have made Huntington Beach for six months. An especially good-natured waitress took a liking to me. She may or may not have recognized me. But she believed me when I said we were working musicians on our way to a gig. Back out on the road, just when the trek was getting the best of us, the friendly waitress pulled up in an old Ford Fairlane and offered to drive us the rest of the way. Her companionship was extended from the club to my motel room.

  On another tour I met a cute chick at the Keystone rock club in San Francisco. There was room in the van and she came along as we crisscrossed the country. She was young and a free spirit—no commitments, no responsibilities. When we got back to Boston, a friend of Collins sublet us an apartment in the North End, a heavily Italian section of the city near the Bay. For several months we lived on cannolis from Mike’s Pastry. Eventually the thrill wore off for both of us and I sent her back to California.

  It’s strange, but this was the only period of my life when sexual escapades became part of my routine. It lasted for a little more than a year and it’s telling that I’ve never been less satisfied. Maybe I felt obligated to taste the fruits of freedom. It was amusing but not the kind of life I wanted to live. I found myself with an assorted group of waitresses, strippers, stewardesses, salesgirls, and Playboy bunnies. I quickly learned I hadn’t been missing anything. The one-night stands did not prove satisfying on any level. I felt that I was using and abusing these women’s emotions as well as my own. One-night affairs left me lonely. As Cowboy ran the hallways stark naked, as I sought solace in the arms of women whose names I did not know and whose faces I would immediately forget, I couldn’t deny that the sadness in my soul came from being far away from my son, Adrian.

  At the same time, being on the road playing hard rock and roll and living like a gypsy provided a powerful energy. All I had to my name were a few guitars, a pile of amps, and a couple of suitcases of clothes. We lived hand-to-mouth. My bibles were On the Road and Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I was up for anything and everything.

  In the Southwest I befriended a fan who was a full-blooded American Indian. He came in the van and traveled with us for a few weeks, regaling the band with Native American folklore. We played in towns and clubs I never knew existed. We ran wild for days, slept for days, and then started the cycle all over again. Despite all this excitement, I wished there was some way to see Adrian on a regular basis. When I made it back to Boston, though, Elyssa wouldn’t hear of it.

  Nearly four years had passed since I’d left the band. When we happened to be in the same city and I went to see the new Aerosmith, Steven, Tom, and Joey were friendly. There seemed to be no hard feelings. No harsh words were spoken. I was introduced to Jimmy Crespo and Rick Dufay, the guitarists who had replaced me and Brad. It was all very civil, but it was also very strange. The awkwardness got to me, and I didn’t stay long. I also didn’t go to their show. Why stick around and listen to the band? If they were great, that wouldn’t make me happy. If they sucked, I’d be even unhappier. I just split.

  After that, I’d occasionally call Steven, or he’d call me.

  “Hey, man, how are you?” he’d ask.

  “I’m all right.”

  “How’re things going?”

  “Great,” I’d lie. “How about with you?”

  “Great,” he’d lie. “Band’s sounding great. You gigging?”

  “All the time.”

  “Yeah, man, we’re working everywhere.”

  The bullshit flew thick and fast. I knew he was playing smaller and smaller venues; I knew he was having trouble getting through a show. And he knew I was playing clubs. I was opening for bands who, only a year or two earlier, had opened for Aerosmith. But what Steven didn’t understand was that the variety of gigs we were playing, no matter the size, was giving me that rock-and-roll jolt that had been missing during those last years of Aerosmith.

  “Well,” he’d say after a few seconds, “just wanted to say hi.”

  “Glad you called.”

  A few months later, he showed up at the Project’s show at the Bottom Line in New York. He came to my dressing room and asked, “Is that fat guy I just met your new manager?”

  “Yeah. That’s Tim Collins.”

  “You like him?”

  “So far.”

  “He getting you work?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “And you got a new album deal?”

  “On MCA.”

  “That’s great. We’re about to finish our record down in Miami.”

  “You’ve been working on it awhile,” I said.

  “You know me,” said Steven. “It takes a whil
e.”

  I nodded. “You gonna stick around for the show?”

  “You bet your ass. Like everyone else waiting out there, I came to see Joe Fuckin’ Perry, and I’m not leaving till I hear him play his guitar.”

  It was several months later—sometime in 1983—when I happened to be in Boston for one of my rare stays. I heard that Aerosmith was playing at the Worcester Centrum and decided to go to the show.

  Steven was happy to see me. Just the two of us hung out in his dressing room. We were yukking it up and having a few shots when the assistant came in to say, “Show in ten minutes.”

  “Hang around,” said Steven. “Cyrinda’s on her way. She’ll be arriving with a nice surprise.”

  Just about showtime, Cyrinda did arrive and, not surprisingly, the surprise was heroin. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had any and was more than willing to indulge. Steven downed two tumblers of gin before laying out the lines. After we snorted it up, he went out to perform, fifteen or twenty minutes late. I stayed behind because I wasn’t sure I could stand—that’s how strong the shit was. As I was reeling and trying to keep it together, I heard a couple of Aerosmith songs—and then nothing. The thunderous music went dead. The next thing I knew, they were carrying in Steven, who had passed out onstage. Tom came running in afterward, flipping out.

  “It’s just like the old days, Joe—you’re no good for this band. Look what you did! Why don’t you just stay the fuck away from us?”

  I tried to explain to Tom what had happened. But all his frustrations with the band’s tenuous situation came pouring out. There was nothing I could do but leave—so I did.