by Lonn Friend
“Well,” I sighed, summoning the deepest breath of the trip so far, “I do have a story about Chuck Berry, but it’s pretty gross.” Four pairs of eyebrows rose in unison.
“Chuck Berry?” Joe said, his eyebrows slewing ever so slightly.
“Yes, Chuck Berry,” I returned, my confidence suddenly boosted from the subtle yet positive reaction. Steven wiggled on the padded bench and shot me a reassuring glance.
I recounted the afternoon that two strange men with Southern accents walked into Larry Flynt Publications during my last editorial days at Hustler magazine. All the lunatics with scandalous wares to peddle for potential profit and publication were pointed directly to me. And so came the phone call to top them all.
The man on the line said he had tapes to show me allegedly depicting rock-’n’-roll legend Chuck Berry partaking in numerous questionable sex acts with various women. The footage, he claimed, was shot by Berry himself at Berry Park, the Missouri compound where he lived.
“How did you come to possess these tapes?” I asked.
“Well, let’s just say I found them,” he replied.
I didn’t press the matter. I was curious. I wanted to see the stuff. So did Hustler senior editor Allan MacDonnell, whom I called in to help me evaluate the situation.
Later that same day, these two men show up, the guy I spoke to on the phone and his attorney. “Now, get ready, fellas,” warns the man, popping the first of two VHS tapes into my office VCR. What followed knocked me and Allan off our asses. We’d both worked for Hustler for years and seen just about everything. We had never witnessed anything like this, though. It’s Chuck Berry—one of the most well-known figures in the history of rock, identified by his signature muttonchop sideburns and a paisley long-sleeved collared shirt—draining his lizard on the face of a young blonde female squatting on a bare bathroom floor. “Take it, baby, love it,” cries Johnny B. Bad. “You love the burn, don’t you? You love the burn!”
The man with the tapes then pops in number two, and Allan and I take in the images of Sir Charles spanking his ding-a-ling, as well as girls changing their tampons as captured by a hidden camera allegedly planted there by our hedonistic hero. The man stops the tape. “Okay, fellas, prepare for the grand finale,” he says. “You’re not going to believe this.”
The image shifts to another bathroom and another girl. It’s a close-up of Chuck’s face, his burns nearly filling the screen, but not quite. There is something else in the frame. A big, white rear end! “Oh, no!” Allan and I look at each other as Chuck Berry epoxies his gaping mouth to the poop shoot of our femme fatale, who commences to then drop her entire morning movement right down the gullet. Every last bran flake and peanut, gone, southbound down the throaty highway where once emanated the immortal chorus “Roll Over, Beethoven.”
As I drop this final nugget, the bus explodes with laughter! Tyler is wheezing frantically, Perry’s chuckling, Kalodner has an ear-to-ear grin, and Brian Goode’s feeling really good. But beyond all that, the loudest and most animated response of the bunch is coming from Jimmy Page, who is literally doubled over in absolute hysterics.
“That’s fucking fantastic!” he says. High fives and backslaps ensue. It took ten minutes for the laughter to completely dissipate and the bus to stop vibrating. As it turns out, Hustler never bought the videos, but a couple years later, they hit the black market. I saw them only once. That was enough.
A little while later we pulled into the massive backstage enclave at Donington and started to unload. Jimmy tapped me on the shoulder as I exited the bus and said, “Lonn, you wanna carry my guitar in? Chuck Berry! Fucking brilliant!” And there I was, toting the axe that birthed the modern rock riff in its vintage, beaten-up Hammer of the Gods leather case, two steps behind the man himself. When we hit the dressing room, Brian pulled me aside and said, “I’ve never seen Jimmy laugh like that, not ever. Well done, man.”
Page and ‘Smith shredded Donington that night. Jimmy and Joe’s guitar give-and-take elevated “Walk This Way” and “Train Kept a-Rollin’ ” to new heights. I watched from the side of the stage seated atop a road case, the absolute best seat in the world. You could hear the Les Pauls screaming all the way back in Piccadilly. Everyone was in incredible spirits at the London afterparty much later that night. Aerosmith, the sober pirates, did not attend, nor did Jimmy.
In February of 1993, I had the honor of interviewing Jimmy Page for the June RIP cover story on the Coverdale/Page project. Only Kalodner could have pulled that pairing off. He brought me into the loop, long before the other magazines, while Jimmy was tracking at Criterion Studios in Miami. I had two gifts for Jimmy that day. One was from a musical colleague and passionate admirer; the other was from me.
I had recently befriended singer-songwriter Tori Amos after composing an editorial exalting her debut solo LP, Little Earthquakes, for Hits magazine. We got together for tea after her 1992 Roxy performance, and she gave me a special promotional EP for the song “Winter” that contained three inventive covers: Mick and Keith’s “Angie,” Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” and Zeppelin’s “Thank You.” I told her that I knew Jimmy Page, and she asked that if I encountered him again, to give him the disc. “The first time I masturbated was to Led Zeppelin,” she told me. “Jimmy Page is my greatest musical inspiration.”
That afternoon in Miami, I passed on the love and admiration, explaining to Jimmy who this brave new female artist was. “I’ll give it a listen,” he said with a smile. “What else do you have there, Lonn?” I had found a copy of Chuck Berry’s Greatest Hits, given it to my art department, and had them strip onto the cover a balloon above Chuck’s head that read, “If these songs don’t rock you, I’ll eat shit!”
He apparently took some pleasure in the gift and returned the favor by sending me back the photo taken of us backstage at Donington with the inscription, “Lonn, Give my regards to Chuck! Jimmy Page.” Kalodner also gave me a present, an early copy of the Coverdale/Page record. Upon receiving it, I called Tori, who was in L.A., and invited her to dinner and a private listening of her hero’s latest work. After a sumptuous meal at the Palm, we headed back to my empty office, shared a couple shots of Wild Turkey (that was enough for two lightweights), and drifted away to riff land together.
The night of our formal interview for the RIP cover story at the Bel Age Hotel in West Hollywood, Jimmy bestowed on me a brand-new thirtieth-anniversary Gibson guitar signed, “Lonn … Rock On! Jimmy Page!” I was blown away and had to compose myself for the on-the-record exchange. I had courageously (or stupidly) prepared myself for my first question-and-answer session with the legend of legends by composing only one query. My gut told me that if I simply got the conversation off on a good note, everything would just flow from there. “So,” I began nervously, “when Bonzo died, did you know that it was over?”
He paused, took a breath, and launched into an exquisite response. “If anybody questioned the decision to break up Zeppelin after Bonzo’s death,” he reflected, “all they have to do is listen to The Song Remains the Same and the studio albums and compare any one track. They’ll hear how we were stretching the numbers and how we worked ourselves. We would just steer off at any given point, and everyone was together on it. I could just take it in a direction and John [Paul Jones] and Bonzo would click like that. We couldn’t envision bringing in another drummer to do that, because there just wasn’t anybody. There was never another Bonzo anyway—let’s face it.”
Later that year, I took part in the ceremony inducting Jimmy into the prestigious Hollywood RockWalk in front of the famed Guitar Center. With Eddie Van Halen, Steve Lukather, Dweezil Zappa, and other local axe prodigies looking on, DJ Jim Ladd introduced me to the podium, where I read a proclamation of love and respect to Jimmy written by Les Paul and then brought out the man himself. Forgive me, but the shit doesn’t get any better than that.
One of Jimmy’s proudest prodigies is Joe Perry. He and I finally bonded on the Pump tour during an u
plifting interview I conducted for the Hard N’ Heavy video magazine, the text of which I published in the October 1990 RIP under the head “Joe Perry: The Fine Art of Obsession.” When you’re an old fan of the artist you’re questioning, it’s fun to find out what was happening inside their heads when that good shit was being made. “Is it difficult for you to recall, with clarity that drugged-out period when so many of those classic Aerosmith tracks were born? For example, where did ‘Toys in the Attic’ come from?” I asked.
“It’s one of those flashes that I can remember the exact room I did it in,” he said. “It’s funny. We were doing preproduction for that LP with Jack Douglas, and I remember sitting on a Marshall cabinet. We wanted a fast song, and I just came up with the riff, like, really fast. Sometimes when I play, like, ‘Back in the Saddle,’ I close my eyes, and I’m right back where I was when I wrote it. I can smell the smells. ‘Sweet Emotion,’ I can remember the lead at the end of that song and every night I play it, I’m back at the Record Plant in New York City. I can tell you the color of the chairs in the studio and what I had to eat that day. Or the lead to ‘Walk This Way’ I remember doing that at four in the morning with Jack and Steven standing right there. That’s probably why I like playing those songs, because they take me back to a time that really made me feel good.”
As for Steven, well, it wasn’t long before I was popping more videos in the mail, mostly for shits and giggles. This time they were addressed to Little Mountain Studios in Vancouver, Canada, where the Toxic Twins (the nickname for Tyler and Perry from the ‘70s drug days) had taken up residence to continue work on the next LP. Production had started months before in Los Angeles under the guidance of the late, great Bruce Fairbairn but was netting less-than-satisfactory results. Once back on Fairbairn’s familiar home turf, they would reclaim their balls-to-the-wall creative mojo, and the river of rock started flowing.
The guys broke media silence on September 26, 1992, when they made an on-air phone call to my Pirate Radio Saturday Night program.
“How’s the record coming?” I asked.
“Well,” fired Steven with a chuckle in his voice, “it’s a damn sight better than those videos you’ve been sending!”
Whereupon Joe chimes in, “How do you expect us to write and perform important music when … Jesus, Lonn!”
The atmosphere was light and lively and I dug right in. “So I really wanna know if it’s happening up there, if the vibe is cool, if you guys are angry,” I said.
“We’re pissed we spent so much money in L.A. and don’t have anything to show for it,” joked Joe.
“Yeah, angry!” laughed Steven.
“But the stuff is definitely feeling a lot different now,” continued Joe. “People are saying it has a Rocks vibe to it.”
As much as I was enjoying this, I only had a couple of minutes left. That’s when I popped the big question. “So are you guys gonna tell me the name of the record?”
“I dunno,” answered Joe. “We were debating that in the car this afternoon.”
More teasing. But I knew it, so I played along. “Listen, guys, we’re friends, right?” I asked. “We’ve shared a lot together, been in many intimate circumstances …”
“This is true,” they responded in unison.
“What if we called the album A Little to the Left?” joked Steven. “What comes to mind immediately? See if you can guess.”
Faux frustration settled in. “C’mon, fellas, who’s gonna know?” I pleaded.
“Get a grip, will ya, Lonn, you’re losing it!” said Steven.
“Get a grip?” I launched back. “Get a grip on what, Steven?”
“On your big ten-inch, Lonn!” he laughed.
“Whatever the record’s called, you’ll be the first to know,” added Joe.
“That’s right, because we come to play, baby,” mused Steven.
“And play to come!” I responded.
“All right, enough of that,” interrupted Joe.
We chitchatted for another few moments. Steven told me about a song called “Lizard Love” inspired by two tiny humping reptilians that entered the room while they were doing some tracking at Jeff Lynne’s Studio F in L.A.
“I really appreciate this, guys. I know how intense it is right now,” I said, wrapping up the conversation.
“Anything for you, Lonn,” replied Steven.
The relationship that had been budding over the past four years was now netting me unprecedented content opportunities and much more. I got my second chance at a cameo when I was asked to be in the opening odd-face montage for the “Eat the Rich” video. This time, the shot wasn’t left on the cutting-room floor. I was also invited down to the set to witness the filming of the black-and-white sequence for the LP’s first single/video, “Livin’ on the Edge.”
The decision to lead with this track was a fearless one. Gef-fen’s promotional machine was much more suited to working a straight-ahead sexy rocker or an in-the-pocket ballad than a six-minute anthem with deep sociopolitical overtones. But Steven wanted to make a statement with this new album that Aerosmith could stimulate more zones than the erogenous. Sure, the seductive love songs were there, and they would eventually blow the record through the roof, thanks in great part to director Marty Callner’s videos for “Cryin’,” “Crazy,” and “Amazing,” which introduced to the world teen heartthrob Alicia Silverstone. Regardless of the risk, however, Steven and Kalodner pushed and won for “Livin’ on the Edge,” and that leap of faith took Aerosmith to the next level, twenty years into their remarkable rock-’n’-roll journey.
The tour was as explosive as the record. Massive stage, state-of-the-art lights, a set list brimming with two dozen songs per night, ranging from the classics to roughly half of the new LP— it was the concert circus of the year, and I had another laminate with my picture on it.
On July 29, 1993, I spent my thirty-seventh birthday at the America West Arena with ‘Smith and Jackyl, another Kalodner signing. The Southern outfit’s lead singer, Jesse James Dupree, coaxed twenty thousand fans into singing me “Happy Birthday.” After the show, none other than Mr. Tyler honored me with a private performance of said song. When he was finished, he kissed me on the cheek and told me that he loved me. Wanna see a grown man cry? I’ve got the videotape.
Three months later, Joyce accompanied me to Brussels, Belgium, where I cohosted a Westwood One satellite broadcast of the band’s Halloween Night concert from Forest National Arena. Boston DJ Mark Parenteau did most of the on-air rap, but I chimed in frequently with personal thoughts about the guys and their music. We stayed at the Conrad Brussels Hotel and had dinner with guitarist Brad Whitford and his wife. That trip was the best rock-’n’-roll road trip Joyce and I ever had. Being around Steven and the energy of the road, having her in my element, was an elixir for our love life. There were no groupie distractions, and we didn’t need to purchase any pay-per-view porn.
These were the best of times for me personally and professionally. I was riding a synchronic wave of influence, creativity, and purpose with one of the greatest rock bands the world had ever seen, having fun, and making—as Jeff Spicoli would say— “righteous bucks.” In a few short months, however, I would make the career decision that would lead to my eventual undoing. And the man—the band—I’d come to call “friend” would disappear for almost six years.
The final leg of the long Nine Lives tour stopped at the Hollywood Bowl in the spring of 1999. I had not seen Aerosmith since Brussels. My once-shoulder-length hair was gone, as was the beard, the mask I’d worn during those rip-roaring RIP days. Kalodner walked me backstage for my reunion with the guys. They were on a tight schedule, so it was a quick hallway hello or nothing.
Bassist Tom Hamilton came out first and gave me a hug, and so did Brad Whitford. Joey flipped me a quick, acknowledging “Hey, man.” Then Joe Perry walked by. “Hi, Joe,” I said.
“Oh, hey,” and off he went. He didn’t recognize me.
“Joe, it’s Lonn!�
� I yelled.
He stopped and turned around. “Wow! Hey, man, I didn’t know that was you. Good to see ya.” And he was gone. I felt out of place. Then I saw him, about twenty feet away, surrounded, as usual, by a gaggle of onlookers praying for a touch of his hem or a kiss on the cheek.
He glanced up and politely completed the autograph he was signing before making his way toward the beardless former rock journalist. He embraced me, stared me down, and said, “Yeah, I can see it in your eyes. Grow your hair back. This isn’t you. We’ll meet again, my friend. I love you.”
Nine Lives was the first Aerosmith LP to boast mystical imagery, from lyrics to packaging. “Hole in My Soul,” “Fallen Angels,” “Kiss Your Past Goodbye,” these were pop psalms of awakened self-expression. The Mystic River does run through New England. Boston blood flows with immense heart and soul. The band was finally tapping into their rich, numinous heritage. Of course, “Falling in Love (Is Hard on the Knees)” was the obvious hit, vintage Aerosmith in groove and groin, designed to sell records, keep the train rollin’.
Serendipity brought me into a Detroit-suburb hotel on the evening of Bon Jovi’s back-to-back sold-out shows in July 2001. Aerosmith was on their way out of town as Bon Jovi was coming in. And there I was, arriving a day early, sitting in the lobby, when the entire band appeared.
It was a far warmer reunion than the hallway of the Bowl. Tom Hamilton and I walked around the neighborhood that evening, talking about music and where I’d been personally and professionally for the past few years. We sat in the bar and drank tea until 2 A.M. The next morning, drummer Joey Kramer and I had a most transcendent conversation. He spoke of his near-psychological-death experience and how faith in the Hindu avatar Sai Baba brought him back from the brink. Like Townshend, a rocker saved by a Baba. Brad Whitford had his entire family on the road with him, homeschooling the kids, renting a bus—what an adventure. Joe Perry was Joe Perry. Quiet, cool, polite, short on small talk, but utterly kind.