by Joe Perry
My decision made for a happy Valentine’s Day, the same day that Aerosmith was playing the Orpheum in Boston.
“Steven called and invited us down,” I told Billie.
“What’d you say?” she asked.
“I said thanks but that I was busy. Then he said we should at least meet him and the guys after the show for some beers and oysters.”
“Are you going to?”
“I don’t think so.”
“How come?”
“Just don’t feel like it.”
“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to go by and say hi. After all, you played with these guys for all those years. If it gets weird or uncomfortable, we can always leave.”
I was conflicted. Part of me wanted to say hello to the band and introduce them to Billie, but another part of me wanted to avoid the whole scene. In the end, Billie and I went.
We showed up at the after-show hang at the Parker Hotel where Steven was seated at a long table with a few crew members and Joe Baptista, our road manager from the old days. I introduced everyone to Billie.
“Man, you look just like Linda Evans from Dynasty,” Steven told Billie. He was on his best behavior. After a beer or two, he invited us upstairs for a quick hello to his girlfriend Teresa, who had replaced Cyrinda as the love of his life.
The band had taken over an entire floor, and a couple of the doors were wide open. It was a typical Aerosmith party—lots of fat lines of coke decorating the tops of coffee tables, quart bottles of the best booze, and all the vintage wine you could drink. Pot smoke wafted from room to room. Everyone was indulging.
“Is it always like this?” Billie whispered in my ear.
“Pretty much,” I said.
I actually felt right at home. The guys were happy to meet Billie. After an hour or so, Billie was ready to leave. Although everyone seemed nice—Steven was charming and funny and she especially liked Terry and Tom Hamilton—she was a bit overwhelmed.
The next day I started some serious reflection about why I had left, what I had gone through during these Project years, and whether I could see myself going back. The answer was still no. The previous night’s get-together had been nice, but I sensed that the animosity hadn’t completely dissipated. Besides, Aerosmith was still being managed by Leber-Krebs, a situation I found intolerable. To extricate themselves from that situation would mean all sorts of legal complications. Just thinking about that gave me a headache. I was enjoying the freedom of being on my own and having a manager like Collins, who never pressured me to go back with Steven. Yet I couldn’t deny that it was good talking with Steven and the rest of the guys and enjoying the kind of rapport we’d had in the early seventies. But no, I was not going back—at least not now.
That was February 1984. In March something else came up—a chance to work with one of my favorite singers.
I’d been pressing Collins to find new opportunities for me. I knew I wasn’t working to my potential. The Project had been winding down for some time. I needed new sources of income and creativity. I really wanted to provide for Billie.
“What do you think about Alice Cooper?” asked Collins.
“I think he’s great.”
“I’ve been in touch with Shep Gordon, his manager. Alice is interested in working with you. What do you say?”
“I say yes.”
It sounded like just the thing.
I went to Shep’s fabulous brick mansion in upstate New York, a monster of a house out of The Addams Family and the perfect place for Alice to be lying low. The author of The Amityville Horror had recently stayed there. There were catacombs in the basement, huge walk-in fireplaces, and a ghost—said to be one Mr. Brown—who, according to Alice, wandered around at night. There were stories of objects moving on their own. And at one point a series of loud rumblings from downstairs had all of us running out of the house in the middle of the night.
When I first arrived, I was told that Alice was out playing golf. I walked around the estate for a few hours. When Alice showed up, he looked great. He’d given up drinking and said his only addiction was golf. We’d met a few times before and hit it off. This time was no different. Alice was a friendly and funny guy, but if he wanted to give you the look, even without wearing his makeup, he could scare the skeleton out of your skin. He was quick to say how the last owner had drowned in a pond right in front of the house. Alice loved telling horror tales that convinced me the house was haunted. After these stories, he suggested that we work after dinner. I was ready.
Our post-dinner session was short and pleasant. I riffed on guitar, he jotted down a few lyrics, and after an hour or so he said he was tired and called it a night.
“We’ll meet up in the morning,” he said.
But when morning came he was already at the golf course and gone all day. That left me lots of time to myself. Sometime that afternoon I decided to call Steven. At the time, he was staying at the Gorham Hotel in New York.
Every time we talked there was a certain amount of bullshit—him telling me how good he was doing; me telling him the same.
“I’m working all the time,” he said. “Things are great. What are you up to?”
“Out here working with Alice Cooper. Things couldn’t be better.”
“The Aerosmith shows have all been selling out. How ’bout you?”
“I got all sorts of offers for the Project.”
I knew that he knew I wasn’t happy. He knew that I knew he wasn’t happy either. And yet we kept up the charade. We were both basically down and out and too proud to admit it. Men playing a macho game.
For all the hype between us, talking to Steven was still like talking to a brother. I missed our camaraderie and kept hearing Billie’s voice echoing in my head. Are you really sure you don’t want to play with your old band?
At one point Steven said, “You coming to New York anytime soon?”
“Actually, Alice isn’t around this week, so I could come down to the city. I could also bring my manager, Tim Collins. I’d like you to meet him. What do you say?”
“Call me when you get here,” said Steven. “We’ll have dinner at my hotel.”
A few days later I went to the city. We were set to meet at the restaurant at the Gorham. Tim and I arrived first. When Steven walked in, Collins went to the bar. He thought Steven and I should first have some private time. After we talked for a while, I invited Tim over to the table. Immediately I sensed that Steven didn’t trust Tim. But I also knew that suspicion is part of Steven’s personality. At the same time, Steven responded to Collins’s sense of humor and his willingness to take on the world. He reacted positively when Tim said, “There are no problems. Only solutions.” The meeting went well. Collins split and I stayed around to have a few more beers with Steven. The reunion felt good.
I returned to Shep’s mansion to meet back up with Alice and Billie, who had come up from Boston. It was Easter vacation and her son, Aaron, was with his dad. Alice was leaving in a few days for Spain to shoot the movie Monster Dog. I still hadn’t done much work with him. Our abbreviated jams had not yielded any completed songs. Billie soon saw that the main entertainment lay in Alice’s gift as a raconteur. He loved telling ghost stories about the invisible Mr. Brown. Once he hid and jumped out of a corner brandishing an oversize cooking knife at Billie, à la Psycho. It scared her out of her wits. Everyone had a good laugh.
Alice flew off to Europe and, thanks to Shep’s hospitality, Billie and I stayed behind for a few days of relaxation. Strolling through the lush acreage that surrounded the mansion, we had time to talk. During our long walks in the woods she helped me assess my professional situation. I valued Billie’s perspective because she was neither emotional nor calculating. She asked the right questions. She came from the right place—the heart—in trying to get me to understand what I wanted and needed.
“I like Alice a lot,” she said. “Do you have a feeling that you and he can work on a permanent basis?”
“If we had more time
, I’m sure we’d come up with some great things. I’m sure I could work well with his band.”
“Has he asked you?”
“Not yet. But I know it’s an option. It’s also got me thinking about what it would mean to join another band or to put a supergroup together.”
“If you’re thinking about joining a band, why wouldn’t you just go back to Aerosmith?” asked Billie. “I know you like those guys, and it seems like whatever happened in the past is ancient history.”
“There’s more to it than that. In a perfect world, what you say makes sense. But in a perfect world I never would have left Aerosmith. The whole thing turned into an emotional mess.”
“No doubt. But you guys are older now—and more mature. On a musical level, it worked before. Are you sure it won’t again?”
“At this point I’m really not sure of anything.”
Inside my head, the arguments raged on: All bands have their problems. But in going back with Aerosmith, at least I’d know what the problems are. At least I’d know the nature of the beast. Isn’t that an advantage? Yes and no. Like Billie says, maybe age has made us wiser. Maybe after five years away I have a clearer idea of how to avoid those old conflicts. In the old Aerosmith I was with a woman who did all she could to create drama. This time around, I’m with a woman who seeks nothing but harmony. She sees the situation for what it is: a chance to rebuild on an artistic foundation that is already a proven winner. Steven can sing his ass off. Joey, Brad, and Tom can play their asses off. Together—no matter how crazy we got—we kicked serious ass. Couldn’t we, shouldn’t we, don’t we have to do it again?
The more I thought about it, the more I leaned toward getting back together with my old buddies. To do so, though, I knew I’d have to take it slowly. I’d need at least one more get-together—just Steven and me.
“Why don’t you and Teresa come up to Cambridge?” I asked Steven on the phone. “You’re both welcome to stay with us in Billie’s apartment.”
Steven accepted the invitation but decided to check into a nearby hotel. It was early May. A freak snowstorm hit the city. On the first night, Billie had them over for dinner, and Steven was wild for her homemade bean-and-ham soup. The freezing weather outside and the warm fire inside created a sense of intimacy. Billie and Teresa got along like sisters. While they were chatting, Steven and I started addressing the elephant in the room.
“If it’s gonna happen,” I said, “it can’t happen with Leber-Krebs.”
“So you want your man to manage us?” asked Steven.
“You should think about Collins. He’s driven and he’s not afraid to take on anything. He’ll get in the trenches with us. That’s what he did for me. I also like that he’s close to our age—and that he likes to party. But he’s seriously dedicated. Once he sets a goal, nothing stops him.”
“We have a management contract with Leber-Krebs.”
“We’ll find a way out of it. Collins can deal with that. I want to put the band back together with you, Steven, but it’s gotta be under new management. That’s the one point I can’t compromise.”
“Let me think about all this,” said Steven.
“Take all the time you need.”
We chatted a bit more before Billie and I drove Steven and Teresa back to their hotel. The snow was still falling and the vibe between all of us still felt good. Under a fresh blanket of snow, the city looked beautiful. I felt optimistic.
“What do you think?” asked Billie after we dropped them off.
“I think it’ll happen,” I said. “I think Steven wants it to happen. I need to talk to all of the guys together in one room. Then, if they’re into it, we all have to get together with Collins.”
It took only a week before Steven called and suggested that we all meet at Tom’s house. He wanted me to know that he still hadn’t resolved the management issue in his mind, but he wanted to air it out with the other guys. Was I willing?
I was. We got together. Handshakes and hugs all around. We were all understandably a little nervous. I was the one who broke the ice. “Look, guys,” I said, “I know there’s lots to talk about—what happened before we broke up, what happened after, what’s happening now. We all have feelings. But we don’t even need to get into the emotional stuff if we can’t get past one critical point—management. I can’t, I won’t go back to the old management. I say we let Tim Collins manage us. He’s smart, he’s driven like a motherfucker, and I think he’s honest. He saved my ass when it didn’t look like my ass was worth saving. He’s got a worldwide vision of what we can be. He can help make it happen.”
“So what you’re saying,” said Tyler, “is that if we don’t accept your man Collins as a manager, you’re not coming back.”
“I’m saying if you have someone better—someone who’s not Leber-Krebs—I’ll look at him.”
“We don’t have anyone else,” said Joey.
“Not that I know of,” echoed Brad.
Steven wasn’t happy. He had fallen into a routine with Krebs, who was paying his bills at the Gorham Hotel. Every day Steven would walk to the Leber-Krebs office, where he’d be given his dope money—twenty-five bucks. I think it was Krebs’s naive way of trying to help Steven control his habit. Leber saw Aerosmith as a cash cow. But it seemed as though Krebs had some genuine concern for the band, and especially for Steven. I knew that Steven would have a hard time leaving Krebs. As much as Krebs believed in the band, he was up against a wall. He didn’t have all the tools to deal with all the monsters in the house of Aerosmith that kept us apart. God knows he tried.
There was also something about Tim that Steven didn’t like. There was something in Tim’s approach to handling people that set off an alarm in him. That alarm proved to be right, but it would take me—and the rest of the band—years to see it. The reason it took so long was because part of my perception of Collins proved to be accurate. He did have an enormous ambition and intelligence. He was driven to rebuild our brand. And he was confident. He’d be the first one to tell you that what Brian Epstein did for the Beatles, he would do for Aerosmith. But unlike Epstein, who took a local band and helped turn them into an international phenomenon, Collins had set himself the goal of taking a dead band—a burnt-out band, a band of drunks and druggies led by the notorious Toxic Twins—and somehow making them viable again.
“I won’t bring you back to where you were,” Collins liked to say. “I’ll make you twice as big as you ever were.”
Steven was skeptical. I could see that Tom was also skeptical. I was cautious but convinced that without Collins we didn’t stand a chance. Joey saw my conviction and went along with it. Brad’s attitude was honest and right to the point: “Guarantee me a hundred thousand a year and I’m in.” The democratic framework of the band, as fragile as it might have been, remained in place. The majority ruled. Collins was in.
When Tom and I started out in the Jam Band, we were teenagers. When Aerosmith first got off the ground, we had just turned twenty. Now we were in our thirties and facing some daunting questions—could we rekindle the fire? Could we put the old hurts and complaints behind us? Could we get the energy back? Did our fans give a shit about us, or had they switched loyalties to a younger generation of bands?
Another big question: Since Aerosmith was still legally tied to Leber-Krebs, what would it take to break those ties? We knew that nasty legal storms were brewing and had to wonder how long they’d last and whether we could survive them.
Our economic survival was also of paramount concern. I wasn’t the only one drowning in red ink. Everyone but Tom was dead broke and in debt. To start the band again would require cash. We all knew that we needed to start making money right away—and that meant touring.
The band and I went to Collins’s office to meet with him and his partner, Steve Barrasso. There were many issues on the table:
On the business side, Aerosmith had just fired Leber-Krebs. Columbia wanted to drop the band. That meant we’d have to pay them to get
out of the contract.
On the creative—and most important—side, could the five of us regenerate the magic? The only way to find out was to get together, start rehearsing, and tour. Over the past five years, Aerosmith had burned a lot of bridges. We needed to show the world we could still deliver the goods. By touring, we could provide Collins with the money to plot a way through the morass of legal problems. Tim had been a master chess player in college, and his greatest talent had been strategy. We were counting on his genius for maneuvering to get us back on our feet.
We were eager to tour. I’ve always thought of Aerosmith as primarily a live band who took the music to the people. The studio was often agony. Live was usually a rush. If Aerosmith was to go through a rebirth, it would be a live rebirth. The record could come later. We just had to get back out there and go to work.
Rehearsals were held at a country club out in Millis, Massachusetts. Walking in that first day wasn’t easy. I’d recently played with Brad and Joey, who helped fulfill my last Project obligations, but it had been years since I’d made music with Tom and Steven. Tentatively, we started playing without any set agenda. We fell back into our pattern of hitting this riff and that riff. The initial song we fooled with was “Movin’ Out,” the first Steven-Joe composition from our earliest Commonwealth days. Steven smiled when he heard those first notes. He didn’t forget a single lyric. It felt good to play the song.
Good feelings were returning. It felt good to play “Mama Kin.” It felt good to play “Walk This Way.” It felt good to play songs that had taken us to the top. It also felt strange when we couldn’t remember all the songs. We needed a refresher course.
That’s how we wound up at the house of Mark Parenteau, the former DJ and great friend of the band whose dream was always to see us back together. Mark had the complete Aerosmith collection, including every bootleg known to man. It was one hell of a moment when he put on “You See Me Crying,” a cut from Toys in the Attic.
“That’s outta sight,” said Tyler. “We should cover that tune. Whose original is this?”
