Bradley Ernest Whitford was born on 23 February 1952 in Reading, Massachusetts, to Joyce and E. Russell Whitford, the middle child in a family of three sons. The brown-eyed, brown-haired boy began playing the trumpet at junior school before turning his sights on an electric guitar, an instrument about which he was sufficiently serious to seek tuition at a local music shop. In time-honoured tradition, however, he taught himself to play more by listening to records on the radio. Like Steven Tyler, the young Brad was an early aficionado of the British music scene. Newly a teenager, in summer 1965 Brad caught the Dave Clark Five live during their US tour. Synonymous with foot-stomping melodic pop songs such as ‘Bits and Pieces’ and ‘Glad All Over’, this five-piece outfit ignited in Whitford the spark to join a band. Starting younger than most, he played rhythm guitar in a succession of local groups including the Cymbals of Resistance, Teapot Dome, Earth Incorporated and Justin Tyme, cutting his teeth in often less than salubrious joints. As a long-haired, music-mad eighteen-year-old, Brad left high school in 1970 and enrolled to study at Boston’s Berklee College of Music when the clean-cut, suited Dave Clark Five was soon replaced in his affections by Britain’s hottest hard rock export, Led Zeppelin. On tour, smashing attendance records in a blaze of publicity, Led Zeppelin was everywhere, and like so many others Whitford was bowled over by the stage wizardry of lead guitarist Jimmy Page. Energised, Brad threw everything into developing his guitar skills, and it was the following summer that he played at Lake Sunapee in New Hampshire, coming into casual contact with Joe Perry and Tom Hamilton. Brad went to see an Aerosmith gig there and something clicked. Everything about Tyler, Perry and co seemed right to him. The blues rock music Aerosmith belted out dovetailed with his tastes. Days later, to his surprise, Brad received an offer to join the band. He said: ‘They were incredible, so there was not much to think about.’
Brad Whitford’s first appearance with Aerosmith was at the Savage Beast, a club in Brownsville, Vermont, in late summer 1971, and soon after that he entered the belly of the beast by moving in to 1325 Commonwealth Avenue in Boston, where he encountered a far harder drug scene than he had been used to. Several people came and went at this apartment, many of them drug dealers. Taking a rather romanticised view of things, Joe Perry saw these people as being like rock bands - pariahs in conventional society. Columbian pot and cocaine got smoked or snorted in this dingy den, which was such a potential target for America’s drug enforcement agency that even when a fire broke out there it had to be dealt with by the spaced-out occupants themselves; they dared not call in the fire service because of all the illegal drugs littering the place. Steven had stepped up from taking crystal meth to a higher class of drug, acquiring an appetite for cocaine, which in turn fuelled his rampant desire for sex - to Tyler, the combination of both was best. ‘Once you’ve tasted coke and got blown at the same time, it’s fuckin’ bliss!’ he declared. ‘When you’ve gone to a party and made love to three girls it really does not suck.’
The band, however, remained Tyler’s top priority. He now knew that the line-up was right and he was keen to progress. Not shy of putting in the roadwork, Aerosmith picked up a few hundred dollars per gig wherever they could over that perishing winter, travelling to venues courtesy of a converted, clapped-out red school bus that they had scraped up the money to buy. Staunch self-belief aside, the reality was that life continued to be a hard slog, and Steven still resorted to stealing food from shops to keep the wolf from the door. Maybe it was meant with tongue in cheek, but one Boston shopkeeper wanted to offer Tyler a job - it being cheaper to pay Steven a wage for working there than to stand him stealing from the premises! Despite Steven’s resilience, it was not difficult to imagine packing it all in. Even if only fleetingly, he must have questioned the sheer viability of the band being able to stay together, living on little more than burning ambition.
Just when they needed it, they landed a break. By now John O’Toole, the manager of Boston’s Fenway Theatre, was allowing the band to rehearse there free of charge when the theatre was dark. It was draughty and the heating was switched off, which meant practising muffled up to the eyeballs. Undaunted as the band played, Steven sang with his breath clouding the freezing air before him. He had recently moved lodgings to a place in Kent Street and the remaining occupants of 1325 Commonwealth Avenue had been served with an eviction notice, just as a white knight came to the rescue in the shape of a well-known Boston promoter, Frank Connelly, whom John O’Toole had tipped off about this diligent and ambitious band.
Connelly came to the Fenway Theatre and watched and listened unobtrusively from the gloomy shadows. Liking what he found, he offered the five a management contract. Given the dire straits Aerosmith were in, it was a no-brainer anyway but, like the others, Steven was thrilled to sign the deal. Back at 1325 Commonwealth Avenue, with the threat of eviction hanging over their heads, it was brought home to them all just how close the band had come to falling apart.
Frank Connelly gave Aerosmith something more valuable than just money and terms. He breathed new impetus into the band at a desperately low point. He saw them as the rock world’s new sensation in the making, and his faith was invigorating. Said Brad Whitford: ‘Frank was the first guy who said we were on to something.’ Initially, Tyler was not keen on Connelly’s master plan to set Aerosmith to work playing the pub and club circuit, since he himself was well seasoned in that sphere but he was persuaded to see the need, now that the line-up was right, to knit the unit into its best ever shape. While sharpening its act, the band played some memorable nights - particularly when they opened for Johnny Winter and Humble Pie in December 1971 at the Academy of Music in New York City.
Missouri-born blues guitarist Jonny Winter was a top live attraction in the US. In the early 1970s, he succumbed to drug addiction, for which he received treatment before successfully returning to recording and touring. Hard-rocking headliners Humble Pie from Britain boasted ex-Small Faces frontman Steve Marriott, but amid a great deal of rancour the band had recently lost guitarist/vocalist Peter Frampton, who had decided to go solo. Steven recalled rushing to borrow some extra equipment for this support slot - by far Aerosmith’s biggest gig to date - and getting to New York in their beat-up old bus. ‘That night, Johnny had just come back from a rehabilitation centre,’ said Steven. ‘We did all original numbers and it went down quite good - well, no boos and just a couple of shouts.’
Away from the stage, rehearsals took place wherever Aerosmith could get a foot in the door. Although no one in the band hailed from Boston, they had already played so much in the region that they were viewed as a local band in many quarters, and Steven’s vibrant personality was making an indelible mark. Doors opened to them. Theatre bosses were content to let the hard-working band play their hearts out overnight to empty auditoriums, so long as they were gone in the morning before the cleaners arrived. During these practice sessions, as Tyler heard his strengthening voice echoing out, he had to imagine all the bums on seats that Aerosmith would eventually pull in.
Come early 1972, the raw winter had taken a worse grip, but even though getting to remote venues in a ramshackle bus was an arduous experience, they stuck it out tenaciously and did not let blizzard conditions thwart them. Very much the main motivator in the band, Tyler made certain that everyone stayed focused, while manager Frank Connelly ceaselessly attempted to interest the music industry’s movers and shakers in Aerosmith. Sometimes he persuaded record producers to come and listen to the band, but as yet the professional consensus was that Aerosmith was not quite up to scratch. This changed in summer when, realising that they needed more help than he alone could provide, Frank Connelly unselfishly brought the New York management team of Steve Leber and David Krebs into the picture.
Connelly invited Leber and Krebs to check out Aerosmith’s live performance at Max’s Kansas City, the Manhattan club that was then the watering hole for rock stars and the arty set. For hyped-up, over-eager hopefuls, showcase gigs are notorious for going pear
-shaped, but within one explosive set that night Aerosmith won over the two managers. Steve Leber later maintained that they were the closest band he had seen for some time to rival the Rolling Stones, whereas David Krebs absorbed from the jumping ecstatic audience around him just how potent Aerosmith was in live performance and he, too, was sold. In July 1972, Steve Leber and David Krebs officially became the band’s managers.
That month, Aerosmith was given the use of a back room at the Boston Garden to rehearse and it seemed inspiring that right then the Rolling Stones should come to perform at this venue. The Stones’ Exile on Main Street was nearing the end of a four-week run topping the US album charts when the controversial rockers courted yet more headlines en route from Rhode Island to Boston to play at the Garden. Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and one or two others were arrested after an altercation with a photographer, and it took the intervention of Boston’s then mayor, Kevin White, to have the stars released on bail to enable the Rolling Stones to play the scheduled gig.
The Boston Garden held a resonance. In addition to staging rock concerts and sporting events, the fifteen-thousand-seater arena had also been used for political rallies, including one in November 1960 when John F. Kennedy had given a famously stirring speech. At the Boston Garden, Steven left Aerosmith’s back room rehearsal and wandered out on to the stage, which was set up for the Stones’ show. There, he stared out at the deserted venue. Playing to crowds of a few hundred was not what he yearned for - this was his dream and he soaked in the moment. Tyler would have to get by on his imagination for a bit longer yet, although events were moving fast.
Within weeks of signing to Leber and Krebs, Aerosmith played another showcase gig at Max’s Kansas City, this time to impress all the influential record label executives who could be enticed to attend. The upshot of the night was that, in early August, Aerosmith was signed by Clive Davis to Columbia Records for $125,000. Again, it took just one set to spark Davis. Blown away by their talent and enthusiasm, he also absorbed Steven Tyler’s personal force as a front man, his infectious impudence and marketable charisma that connected with every person in the place. Tyler will always remember Clive Davis delivering the hackneyed old line to him that night: ‘I’m gonna make you a star.’
The $125,000 advance sounded a lot of money, especially in 1972, but by the time it was carved up in all directions and when it became obvious exactly what this sum would be offset against, the truth was that Steven and the others were left far from flush in the pocket. Tom Hamilton has maintained that it was the mid-1970s before the band members received any more money from record royalties. Obtaining gigs remained a top priority for visibility and cash. Nonetheless, being signed to a major label and having a strong management team in place gave Steven a massive lift. Creativity was bursting to get out of him as a songwriter and as a magnetic performer. He was quickly cast in the role of a rock and roll gypsy because of his penchant for dressing in bright colours and containing his long hair with flowing head-bands. His use of dramatic make-up to accentuate his striking features, and in time his propensity to dangle a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from one hand on stage also ensured that he made an impact. But above all it was his full throttle delivery of punchy hard rock numbers which made people take heed of him and would earn him the nickname the Demon of Screamin’. It was hard for anyone to tear their eyes away from this explosive entity attacking the scarf-festooned microphone stand. That said, Tyler never forgot that he was part of a unit and as team leader he relentlessly geed up the troops. ‘I used to tell the guys all the time: “Next year, at this time, we’re gonna be on that radio!”’ Their work schedule over the entire state of Massachusetts was exhausting though, turning Tyler into a nocturnal being. He quipped: ‘Since this band started, I ain’t seen daylight!’
In summer 1972, most members of Aerosmith were pushing the boundaries in one sense or another. It was then that Joe Perry first tried heroin, and at 1325 Commonwealth Avenue a visit from the narcotics detectives was always just a door knock away. The apartment was still a hub for nefarious types to come and go. The cops did mount a surveillance operation outside and at one point charges were laid, but then dropped. It was a volatile time when Steven and Joe, both strong personalities, constantly clashed. It is not something that either man has ever denied or tried to dilute. They would have rip-roaring bawling matches backstage after gigs. There were times when tensions ran so high that they found it easier not to speak to each other for spells. A good old barney over something quickly came to be par for the course. Although both Steven and Joe have been frank about the incendiary nature of their creative partnership and friendship, the degree of volatility did create an extremely fraught environment that was further complicated when the lead guitarist became involved with a young woman named Elyssa Jerret.
Elyssa Jerret’s family owned a house at Lake Sunapee and initially she knew Steven only by seeing him around the resort. Frequenting the Anchorage, she had encountered Joe Perry when he worked in the kitchen there. She began spending time with the budding guitarist, but on a purely platonic basis. She grew to know Steven better by attending his gigs at The Barn, before leaving America in the late 1960s for London, where she became involved with a guitarist. Steven and Joe separately corresponded with Elyssa while she was living across the pond, mainly sharing news of their burgeoning band. Elyssa was beautiful and lively, and when she returned to America in summer 1972, just after Aerosmith had signed to Columbia Records, she had parted company from the musician in London and was a free agent. When she met up with the band soon after her return, she and Joe became romantically involved. The dynamics of the already spiky friendship between Tyler and Perry instantly became skewed.
Elyssa was an independent spirit who fearlessly spoke her mind; sometimes, she has confessed, her mouth pre-empted her brain getting in gear; her unwillingness to be a delicate presence waiting patiently in the background until Joe was free to pay her attention suited Perry’s nature, too. The couple quickly became closer than two coats of paint, and the more Joe vanished with his new girlfriend, the more rejected Steven felt, breeding mounting jealousy. For all the fireworks in their friendship, Steven had waited all his life to have a buddy like Joe Perry. Suddenly, it felt as if Joe did not value that friendship any more. For a man who had taken such an interest in British bands, Steven must have noted that all too frequently women, or sometimes one particular woman, coming on the scene is a recipe for monumental disruption.
It was not only Tyler who was affected by this change in the wind. Tom Hamilton, who had been mates with Perry before Joe and Steven had met, now felt excluded. A bust-up one day, when Joe was leaving 1325 Commonwealth Avenue to move into the Kent Street apartment building where Steven lived, did some damage to their particular bond. Outside Aerosmith activity, Joe’s total absorption was with Elyssa, and this imbalance would not be a temporary blip. Tyler recalled: ‘I clearly saw that Joe was pulling away and it really bugged me!’
Although the Commonwealth Avenue apartment was shabby, it had been home for two years for most of Aerosmith, but with the lease expired each guy now went his own way into different lodgings. Steven headed for Lake Sunapee, where his mind turned to which songs they ought to put on the band’s debut album. Seven of the eight songs ultimately selected were Tyler compositions; songs he had been squirrelling away for some time. A particular favourite of Steven’s was ‘Mama Kin’, so much so that he had ‘Ma’ Kin’ (the song’s original title) tattooed on one arm. Perry’s initial reaction was that musically ‘Mama Kin’ was a little too simple. ‘Steven obviously loved that song,’ Joe recalled, ‘and inevitably the best ones are the easy ones.’ ‘Movin’ Out’, which Steven and Joe had co-written sitting on a bed at 1325 Commonwealth Avenue, was a cast-iron certainty for inclusion. Tyler felt this first songwriting collaboration between the friends had cemented their bond. Although Steven created ‘One Way Street’ alone at the piano in that crummy apartment, drummer Joey Kramer remembered working on it wit
h Tom Hamilton. He confessed: ‘We drove the old lady downstairs crazy - Tom on his bass and me on a kitchen chair using a pedal on a cardboard box.’
‘Write Me a Letter’ was the product of six months’ development, and Brad Whitford recalled how the musical arrangement had been thrashed out during rehearsals in the back room at the Boston Garden. As a lyricist, Steven reacts spontaneously to something he sees or hears; he has the knack of picking out the gems in the mud and creating songs around them, and he puts pen to paper anywhere. ‘Make It’ was written in a car on his way back from Lake Sunapee to Boston. For a long time, Aerosmith would use ‘Make It’ to open their shows. ‘It’s a great way to get things going,’ revealed Tom. Besides ‘Movin’ Out’, the only other co-composition was a song called ‘Somebody’, on which Steven had collaborated with Steve Emsback, a guy he had known in the pre-Aerosmith days. It was ‘Dream On’, however, that became the album’s standout track.
‘Dream On’ began life one late, dark night at Lake Sunapee when Steven, aged seventeen, was feeling very lonely and a little emotional now that summer was over. Drifting indoors at Trow-Rico Lodge in a preoccupied mood, he sat down at the upright piano and tried to translate his feelings into music. From nowhere a melody gradually emerged which he could not get out of his head. At the time he left it at that, with no specific notion of developing it into a song. At the Commonwealth Avenue flat he returned to the piano ballad in the key of F minor, as Tom Hamilton can vouch for. ‘When we were all living together, mine was the only room with a piano in it and I remember waking up hearing Steven playing this song over and over again,’ he said. ‘It pissed me off at the time but I’m sure glad he kept playing.’ Its heartfelt lyrics were about holding on to the hope of fulfilling aspirations and the grit needed to take life’s knocks. Tyler has been blunt: ‘This song sums up the shit you put up with when you’re in a new band.’ With its haunting quality and the way it builds to a crescendo, ‘Dream On’ made a lasting impression on Aerosmith fans and is classed as the prototype for today’s hard rock power ballad. ‘“Dream On” is one of my favourite songs to play live,’ stated Joe Perry.
Steven Tyler: The Biography Page 4
