Rocks: My Life in and Out of Aerosmith

by Joe Perry

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  CONTENTS

  Foreword by Johnny Depp

  Rocks

  PART 1: GESTATION

  THE WATER AND THE WOODS

  SOUNDS

  PREP

  POST-PREP

  PART 2: THE BIRTH

  THE COMMONWEALTH

  SHOT IN THE DARK

  TWINGES OF LOVE

  MAKE IT

  PART 3: THE CLASSIC ALBUMS

  TOYS

  MARRIAGE AT THE RITZ

  ROCKS

  ALL TOGETHER AND TOTALLY APART

  THE RUTS

  PART 4: THE PROJECT

  OUT

  FURTHER OUT

  PART 5: THE SECOND RISE AND FALL (AND RISE AGAIN)

  BACK

  JOHN KALODNER JOHN KALODNER

  VACATION IN VANCOUVER

  DINOSAURS EATING CARS

  CULT

  TRYING TO GET A GRIP

  HOW IT WORKED

  THE MELTDOWN

  BROTHERS

  PART 6: ROCKIN’ IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY

  PUSH

  9/11

  HONKIN’

  CONFUSION AND PAIN

  FALLING

  IDOL

  ANOTHER DIMENSION

  VERMONT IN THE SUMMER

  Photographs

  Acknowledgments

  About Joe Perry and David Ritz

  Appendix

  Selected Discography

  Photo Credits

  Index

  I would like to dedicate this book to Billie, my soul mate and wife, without whose help and support I never would have made it this far. And to our amazing boys whose understanding and support of this lifestyle has been a blessing. I love you all.

  In loving memory of Tony and Mary Perry

  FOREWORD

  by Johnny Depp

  As I sit here before a most cacophonous piece of blank onion skin, which I ever so delicately stuffed into my sturdy Olympia typewriter, and which surely deserves a more appreciative and well-balanced operator, but alas, such is its lamentable fate to be clubbed by my inept and clumsy digits, the paper screams for me to make the first move.

  My thoughts are charged with the challenge of writing a few words on a man. An artist. A significant, nay, eminent artist, not only for me but for many others. A guitarist extraordinaire. A hero whose immeasurable ability has sent him high onto every Greatest Guitar Player list going ever since he sliced through some of the most tasteful and raging notes to be unleashed on an unwitting world. A hero who I’ve been given the honor to call both friend and brother.

  Pondering him—the man, the mentor—the flood of imagery is astounding. I am swarmed by visions, swept away, almost, happily catapulted backward into fond memories of a fucked-up youth, with everything and nothing to look forward to. Did I delve into all those clichéd Things That I Shouldn’t Have as a kid? Indeed, I fucking did. With great passion, pure ignorance, and fucking gusto. For a good while there, life for me was an endless, rickety, and dangerous train wreck just waiting to happen. But no self-medication, no booze or chemical what-have-you, has ever done what a solitary sliver of music could do. Not even close.

  You see, this middle-aged fuck-up was once that fucked-up kid. Aged twelve, or thereabouts. Sitting in the backseat of my folks’ car. We were caught up in traffic outside the Publix supermarket and Eckerd drugstore, where there was some local to-do occurring in the parking lot. A band was playing. As we hit the stoplight, I watched the colors change around the musicians in silhouette with rapt attention. I was captivated. Wholly. And as the sound and vision imposed themselves upon the provincial, compact folds of that spun-out little brain, I knew. Suddenly, everything was in order. The song they were playing was “Dream On.” Never more had I needed that moment, that song, or that bat-shit realization, clarifying the very reason for my existence and what I needed to do in order to stay sane and alive: I needed a guitar . . . and quick!

  With hard green cash never having bothered my pocket before, I managed to wrangle twenty-five bucks from my mom to pick up a Decca electric. The first Aerosmith record and a Mel Bay chord book had to be stuffed down my trousers and jacket. (Desperate measures and all that.) I played that record and studied the chord book as if it were some holy language. Puberty went by almost unnoticed. I shut myself off from the world, holed up in my little room, practicing, practicing, and practicing again. . . . I had to be note perfect.

  And thus my life began.

  Now, for me, as a shy, scruffy teen, the name Joe Perry would invoke a reverence for a species I had never known, especially in those early years when all teacher types, no matter how hard they tried, could not penetrate my brain enough to command any respect. Nothing in the world existed aside from the guitar and those who had mastered it as the ultimate form of expression . . . the perfect medium for a reclusive twelve-year-old to vent some serious spleen.

  Joe Perry was one of the very few names back then—aside from everyone’s ultimate music maestro, Keith Richards—who could inspire any sense of genuine awe into my adolescent mind, galvanizing body and spirit into actually giving a fuck. They were of an ilk never before encountered. The idea of meeting these untouchable heroes in real life was absurd—akin to ordering government-approved marijuana and having it delivered to your door personally by Mr. Obama. Unlikely . . .

  But every tinder needs its flint, after all, and in this case, the genius of Joe was able to fully bloom when fused with another musical genius, that of the profoundly fervent, nigh-evangelical showman Steven Tyler, who just so happened to harbor one of the finest, most soulful set of pipes ever to have existed, all accompanied and brought to the fore by the brilliant musicianship of Brad Whitford, Tom Hamilton, and Joey Kramer. One other, sometimes unspoken member of the band that I would like to salute is the legendary producer and all-around wonderful human being Jack Douglas, who sat at the helm for those early records, guiding them, directing them. No doubt his input proved to be beyond integral to their incredible success. Over the years, the band has suffered its ups and downs, as you will read much of here, but all in all they’ve outlasted the vast majority of their peers and are still going strong today, having survived and ultimately surpassed the many brief epochs and trends tended to far lesser entities than themselves.

  Cut to 2010. Hollywood, California. Swing House Recording Studios, just off Sunset Boulevard. Steven Tyler prowls about the room like a high-octane jungle cat. He had kindly invited a friend and me to watch the band record a few tracks for the new album. And there is Joe Perry. Right there, in the corner, just visible in the dark. He called me over and we sat there, he indulging me, discussing guitars and showing me the effects he was using for what would eventually become Music from Another Dimension! It was a huge moment for me, to sit there in a room full of idols, with this particular idol paying me any attention whatsoever, let alone confiding in me. And since then, that impossible afternoon, I’ve experienced the immeasurable pleasure of playing the Hollywood Bowl, among other stages, with Joe, Steven, and the boys. Although the night that holds the most special place in my heart was when that formerly toxic twosome came and played music with my son, Jack, for his birthday party a few years ago. He and I were like a couple of fans—in total awe! I was that little kid again, nearly the same age as my son.

  A poetic life was Joe’s fate. H
e was born with a style. He may have gleaned from the greats before him, as everyone must, but he transformed all that learning into his own signature sound. The way he uses musical notes is as personal and unique as any conversation you could ever have with the man. It’s how he communicates. He is a master of feel, and with guitar in hand, his muscular, rhythmic tones soar effortlessly, seizing all those in earshot, reflecting the inherent unpretentiousness of his ability. There is something primordial in the nature of his grooves that just flat-out fuckin’ rocks, inviting everyone to witness and experience. There’s no elitist guest list here. No VIPs. No backstage pass is needed.

  If you’re holding this book in your hands then, aside from the music itself, you have all that you will ever need. The heart and soul of the man himself, hurled faithfully at the page. The wise, silent one finally speaks! You’ll note the sagacious nature of a wholly sapient man. No bullshit. Devoid of it. Plain and simple. All the shyness, the honesty, the love, sweat, tears, and humility of this mysterious creature awaits you, friends, from his beginnings all the way to the here and now . . . and whatever might still be to come.

  This book is a gift. A sacred tome, even. A hitherto secret slice of life, beamed in directly from one of the greatest guitar gods to have ever walked the earth, or stepped on a stage, or raged inside the mind of a young soul searching for what the fuck it all means.

  Before I leave you I have one final thought that I feel impelled to convey. While I was reading this tale I could not help but continually hear, as if on a loop, the last lines of William Saroyan’s brilliant preface to his play The Time of Your Life. Saroyan’s words beautifully sum up Joe the husband, the father, the man: “In the time of your life, live—so that in that wondrous time you shall not add to the misery and sorrow of the world, but shall smile to the infinite delight and mystery of it.”

  —Johnny Depp

  Boston, Massachusetts

  June 6, 2014

  ROCKS

  In July of 1959, a young mother is standing on the shore of Lake Sunapee in the mountainous terrain of New Hampshire. The sky is cloudless and almost blindingly blue. The day is peaceful but the woman is not. Her heart is beating like crazy. Her mouth is dry. With every passing second, she grows increasingly afraid. Her son has disappeared deep into the lake, and she fears he may be drowning. She’s afraid that this time she has let him go too far.

  Early that morning he had shown her his makeshift diving rig with a homemade mask, tubes, pulleys, ropes, and cement blocks that would anchor him to the bottom of the lake and allow him to explore the fish life he finds so fascinating. Because she is a gym teacher and swimming instructor, she encourages his physical activities. She knows that, given his shy nature, he is more comfortable under rather than above water. She knows that he is an ingenious child. She likes how he wants to explore. But now this venture has taken an alarming turn. She knows that her son could stay underwater for three to four minutes. But now it’s minute five. With her own swimming mask in hand, she takes action. Not about to let her kid drown, she’s going after him. She’s positioned to take the dive when suddenly he surfaces. He’s breathing heavily, but he’s breathing. She sees exhaustion in his eyes but a smile on his face.

  “It works great, Mom. I can stay down long enough that the fish come out of hiding. Soon as I catch my breath I’m going back down.”

  A lifetime later, I’m puzzled by that story of Mom and me. I wonder how that nine-year-old kid, whose burning passion in life was to become a marine biologist and whose idol was Jacques Cousteau, turned into a guitarist. I’m puzzled by how someone who grew up in the upper-middle-class New England suburbs—born into a family with virtually no interest in music or art—wound up riding the tidal wave of rock and roll. I’m also puzzled by how I survived that tidal wave and lived to tell the story.

  PART I

  GESTATION

  THE WATER AND THE WOODS

  In the essential dream of my childhood I’m in the water or the woods. I’m swimming through an ocean of startling clarity. I’m seeing a thousand varieties of fish; I’m feeling like a fish myself, aware that at any moment a bigger fish might swim my way—a shark or a barracuda. The thought is more exhilarating than frightening. I’m not scared of the possibility of danger. I almost welcome the encounter. I welcome surprise. Nature is nothing but surprise, a world of water whose vastness allows me to disappear into pure beauty.

  The lure of the woods is its primitive beauty. My dream life in the woods has me lost in a grove of ancient trees. If I keep walking long enough I’ll find my way out, but I’m not sure I want out. Being lost in the wilds has a certain comfort. There is no destination, no home. I don’t know what’s around the bend—a wolf, a wildcat, a venomous snake. I like not knowing. I like the dense undergrowth, the sharp smells of the forest, the songs of the birds, the ever-changing weather, the dark clouds, the quickening of my heartbeat as I suddenly realize that I and I alone am responsible for my survival. For the rest of my life I will stare into the unknown.

  In the water and the woods I face danger and discovery. In my real life, as a boy born on September 10, 1950, and raised in the small, quiet town of Hopedale, Massachusetts, I keep going back to the water and the woods. That’s where I seek anonymity. It’s where I can disappear into wordless, endless wonder.

  I’m not saying that I’m able to completely disappear from the emotional ups and downs that characterize every childhood. I’m saying that I want to. My earliest memories all involve being drawn deep into nature, where I welcome, rather than fear, getting lost. I welcome the mysteries that lurk at the bottom of the sea and live inside the dark forest of night.

  My parents were good and honorable people. They cared for their two children—my younger sister, Anne, and myself—with loving concern. My mother, Mary, was a graduate of Boston University with a master’s degree. She taught physical education in the public schools. Her mind was both curious and brilliant. She was always reading about everything from the earth’s chakras to the metaphysics of quantum theory to John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley. She wore her hair short and exuded great confidence. As a strong and proud working mom of the 1950s, she was a woman of the future—a liberated woman decades before the movement began.

  My father, Tony, was equally upstanding. He had gone to Kent State and graduated from Boston’s Northeastern University with a major in accounting. He had grown up in Lowell, Massachusetts, where his dad, a Portuguese immigrant from the island of Madeira off the coast of Morocco, worked in the factories and later owned a funky little grocery store. My dad was born in Lowell and when he was two the family moved back to Madeira where my dad spent his childhood before moving back to the States. After serving in the U.S. Army Air Forces at the end of World War II, Dad graduated from college and began working as an accountant, taking his first steps toward self-reinvention. The family name—Pereira—was shortened to Perry by his father. And rather than stay in Lowell, Dad moved to Hopedale, some thirty miles outside Boston, where the American dream had been set out in the form of suburban perfection. Hopedale was where my father entered the upper middle class.

  Founded in 1842, Hopedale was one of the country’s first utopian communities. It began as a picture-perfect Norman Rockwell village of industrious dreams. In the 1850s the Draper Corporation, manufacturer of power looms for the textile industry, took over the town. In the 1950s my dad went to work for Draper as a cost accountant. He and Mom bought a duplex in Bancroft Park and rented out the other side.

  Mom’s parents, the Ursillos, hailed from Naples, Italy, and would have loved to see their daughter enter a nunnery. She rejected most of their old-world notions about womanhood, but she accepted their Catholicism—at least to the point of attending Sunday mass and making sure that her husband and children did the same.

  In our household there were few if any remnants of my parents’ Italian and Portuguese backgrounds. Only English was spoken. No philosophy but American pragmatism was practiced.
Do what works. Adapt to reality. Improve your circumstances by applying yourself. I was raised inside the solid ethos of the Eisenhower 1950s. My mother’s child-raising bible was Dr. Spock’s Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care. The Perrys were all about common sense. Mom taught generations of children the benefits of exercise. Because of his common sense and sterling reputation, Dad was elected town treasurer. Mary and Tony were a well-respected couple. At home, they spoke to one another fondly. They were affectionate; they hugged; they kissed; they were girlfriend and boyfriend. Together, they comprised a formidable tennis doubles team.

  I see them in their whites, out on the court during a fine New England afternoon in May, whacking the ball with studied determination. I am not part of their game but, standing close by, I feel their confidence.

  I see them flying high in the cloudless sky in a seaplane that my father is piloting. I am not with them, but from the ground below, I feel their exhilaration as Dad buzzes the local baseball field to get a look at the score. The town officials chastise him for flying too low. He’s contrite but I know he doesn’t regret his joyride. Straitlaced accountants don’t break laws, even minor ones, but I’m glad to see that my dad, whose laces are always supertight, has some sense of rebellion.

  He was the first guy in Hopedale to buy a Volkswagen Bug. Later he bought a BMW before anyone had heard of BMWs. The color, I remember well, was bright orange.

  I also remember Dad talking about his buddies and World War II like it had just ended. He told stories about being a waist gunner on a B-17, the heavy-duty bomber, during the last months of the war. I pictured him standing at an open window on the side of a plane tearing through the sky at two hundred miles an hour, thirty-two thousand feet above the ground. The wind’s coming at an outside temperature of -32°. Dad’s face is covered by an oxygen mask and his chest protected only by a sheepskin jacket as he fires away at enemy aircraft. He realizes that such missions end with a 40 to 50 percent fatality rate. Yet he does what he has to do, a nineteen-year-old with balls of steel.