by Joe Perry
They gave us a short sound check, but when we asked the stage manager about a bass amp he said he couldn’t find one. In cold-blooded New York, no one was willing to give us a hand. We were forced to plug Tom’s bass into a guitar amp that turned his notes into farts. Two hours before showtime, we started to panic. Something had to be done.
Steven asked a friend to run up to Yonkers to find us an amp but didn’t know if he could get back in time. Frazzled, we really hadn’t given much thought to the show. We were also distracted by meeting all these famous cats. Rumors were flying that Johnny Winter himself, one of my guitar heroes, might be playing with his brother. Johnny had been off the scene for nearly a year and had just gotten out of “rehab,” a term I was hearing for the first time.
But where was our goddamn bass amp?
We kept looking at our watches until, minutes before we had to open the show in front of five thousand hard-core rock fans, the thing finally showed up.
We slammed into our first song, “Make It,” and got the crowd going. At one point we did a tune we called “Major Barbara,” for which Steven, on harp, and I, on lap steel, sat side by side. After our fifth number, our time was up. We got a polite hand from the fans and walked off into the wings.
“What the fuck were you guys doing sittin’ down in the middle of your set?” screamed Steve Paul. Before we could respond, he raged on, “Who do you think you are? No one knows your name. No one knows your songs. You only had fifteen goddamn minutes to get the house rocking. What the hell were you doing?” Before we could defend ourselves Paul was off to see about Edgar.
We were lucky enough to catch Edgar’s set when, right in the middle, his brother Johnny stepped out. The crowd exploded. Johnny ripped into “Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo” and we were in blues rock heaven.
By the end of the gig we’d won the respect of the crew and our fellow musicians. We got some nice compliments, even from Steve Paul.
“I got to admit,” he said, “you aren’t bad for a baby band. Call me in six months.”
We never did. By then we’d found a manager of our own, a character unlike anyone I’ve met before or since.
SHOT IN THE DARK
The Fenway Theatre, with its large stage, was one of those old refurbished theaters in the Back Bay on Massachusetts Avenue. It held about sixteen hundred people and was just the kind of venue we’d been lusting for. The place had seen better days, and because of that, someone said maybe we could rehearse there for free. We went over to the meet the manager.
“Nothing’s free around here,” said the man, whose name was John O’Toole. He was in his early thirties, a rough, broken-nosed Irishman who had recently been released from jail. “It’ll cost you fifty bucks a day.”
He might as well have said five hundred. We had started to leave when, just like that, O’Toole changed his mind. Maybe he saw the drive in our eyes.
“On second thought,” he said, “it wouldn’t hurt to give you a listen. Could be we could work something out. The theater’s gonna be dark next week, so let’s see what you got. But don’t expect us to turn on the heat. And you better come during the day, because at night we ain’t turning on the lights.”
We jumped at the chance. We needed the experience of playing in a real concert hall. We showed up the next day in our overcoats. I wore a pair of woolen gloves with no fingers. The place was fuckin’ freezing but we took advantage of all the time we could. They kept the curtains closed so the heat from the few illuminated stage lights made it bearable.
“You guys ain’t half-bad,” said O’Toole. “I’ll let you rehearse but you’re gonna have to open for some of the shows we’ll be putting on here. You get to rehearse for free but then you have to play for free.”
We took the deal. After a couple of days we got the idea that John was becoming a fan. He was hanging around while we rehearsed and nodding his head to the music. That weekend we were to open for Cactus, a band made up of former Vanilla Fudge members. When a hellacious snowstorm hit, Cactus canceled and a desperate O’Toole asked us to substitute and play a long set. We were ready.
The storm meant that the audience would be small. To play before a few hundred people in a sixteen-hundred-person venue is usually a drag. But to us it was a privilege. We played our asses off. O’Toole was moved. He thanked us again and said he wanted us to meet his boss, Frank Connelly.
At that point I hadn’t heard of Connelly, but Brad Whitford had. Brad still had his concert tickets from the sixties that said “Frank Connelly Presents Jimi Hendrix.” Connelly was also the owner of the Carousel, a big club in Framingham. He was the man who had brought the Beatles to Boston. At the time, Connelly was the biggest promoter in the area.
“Come back Monday afternoon,” said O’Toole, “and play a set like you played tonight. I’ll make sure Connelly is here.”
Monday came around and at the appointed time we were standing onstage behind the closed curtains, wondering what was going to happen next. Finally John showed and said, “When I give the word, the curtains will open. Just play like you did during the snowstorm. Play for a half hour.”
We were surprised that we still hadn’t met Connelly, but it was clear that he was sitting out there because we saw the glow of a huge cigar in the vast darkness. The thought of playing for a one-man audience—especially a man as powerful as Frank Connelly—put us on edge.
A voice rang out: “All right, open ’em up.”
The curtain parted, the stage lights went on—that added to the drama—and we hit it. We cut loose with all guns blazing. There was no stopping between songs, not a second of silence until the last number, after which the curtains closed and the only sound in the theater was the hum of our amps. Then we waited for the verdict.
It came a few minutes later when John bounded through the stage door. The smile on his face said it all.
“Frank liked you. He wants you to meet me here tomorrow.”
“What for?” we wanted to know.
“You’ll see tomorrow.”
We headed back to our fort to unwind, but that was impossible. The rent was due and we were flat broke. Panic set in, but at least we had tomorrow’s meeting. Maybe that meeting would lead to money.
After a night of tossing and turning, we showed up at the theater the following afternoon. John was waiting for us in the office with a stack of papers.
“This is your lucky day,” he said. “Frank has decided to manage you. I don’t have to tell you what this can mean. So all I will tell you is to sign these management contracts. They’re completely standard. Take ’em home, look ’em over, and bring ’em back to me tomorrow. Signed.”
“If we do,” I said, “can you help us out with some immediate cash?”
“No problem,” said John. “Just sign the contacts.”
Amazed and excited, we went back to 1325.
“Someone just pasted something on your door,” said one of our fellow tenants as we were climbing the stairs.
It was an eviction notice—not a warning but a third notice that said pay up or we’ll throw your shit out on the street.
The irony was not lost on me: In one hand I was holding an eviction notice and in the other I was holding management contracts. I knew that the smart move would be to call an attorney. We required good legal advice. But I also knew that we’d been living week to week. Gigs were hard to find. Our pockets were empty. Our stomachs were empty. Hunger trumped reason. We also knew that Connelly was the best bet we had of getting somewhere, and we didn’t want to piss him off.
So we signed, John gave us the cash to pay the rent, and we were all set to meet the man himself.
O’Toole told us come to Giro’s, an old-school steakhouse in the North End, where Frank Connelly held court at a round table in the back. Everyone knew him there, and most everyone looked connected. It was a wiseguy-friendly establishment. Frank was a big stocky Irishman in his early forties with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. He was dressed richly,
in a blue blazer with gold buttons, a silk ascot warming his neck. He spoke in a thick Boston accent. I don’t think he knew how to pronounce the letter r. He also spoke like a poet. He peppered his speech with hyperbole and metaphors. He told stories in great gusts of enthusiasm. He was the first genuine mogul I had ever met, a wholly original character whose Irish blarney carried enormous charm. He was quick to smile and quick to laugh. We couldn’t resist him, especially since his praise of our music was unrestrained.
“The Beatles have their place,” he told us as he ordered a second or third round of double whiskeys before dinner. When it came to drinking good bourbon, Frank showed us the way. “The Stones have their place as well. Jimi Hendrix was an innovator and I would say the same was true of Janis Joplin. When I booked Simon and Garfunkel to open for the Lovin’ Spoonful at my Carousel Theater, I realized that Paul and Art had distinct voices and distinct talents. I was delighted to help promote their fledgling career. But lean in and listen to me closely, boys, when I tell you that these names, as grand as they may be, need not intimidate you. Your very art defies intimidation. Your art, your musical genius, will stand on its own. You will, in short, create your place. It won’t be long—I’m talking about a few years, not decades—before Aerosmith is viewed as a cultural phenomenon. I realize that so many of your heroes, those musicians who appear so intimidating, are Englishmen cloaked in the modish fashions of the day and celebrated for their incomparable artistry. But you know better than I that these clever Brits have simply rerouted music born in America and none too subtly resculpted the sound. The sound is our native sound and you boys are our native sons. When I hear you, I hear that sound expressed in a form whose direct passion outstrips any band out there on the world stage today. Note that I say ‘world,’ because the world is your market. They will love you as passionately in Paris as they will in New York. London will embrace you, just as they embraced Hendrix. When the curtains opened and I heard you for the first time, all I could think of was a huge tribe of Indians chasing me over a hill. You gave me more excitement than I can handle. Now I want to share that excitement with the rest of the world. In the meantime, you will learn to drink as gentlemen. Where’s our lovely waitress? Our glasses are empty and the night is young.”
While he was talking, I was thinking, This man is great. This man is paying our rent and buying us dinner plus all the drinks we want. Most of all, he’s got vision and faith in us. This man is the answer to our prayers.
Naturally, we hung on Frank Connelly’s every word. In short order, he became not only our manager but our surrogate parent. We took to calling him Father Frank. In turn, he rechristened each of us. Steven was “LM” (for loudmouth), Tom “Low Gear,” Brad “Light Horse,” Joey “Soitanly” (after Curley of the Three Stooges’ pronunciation of the word certainly), and I was “Flash.” Since Frank had no idea that one of my first bands had been called Flash, I chalked this up to his uncanny insight.
Frank came to many of our gigs and, before we went onstage, he loved to say, “Remember why we’re here. We come to play!”
Connelly saw us as a band but also as individuals. He spent private time with each of us. Because we were young, hungry, and impressionable, we were convinced that he was our savior, our key to fortune and fame, the man who would take us from our lowly status as a struggling baby band to big-time success. After our first meeting, not a day passed before he called to say that he had something lined up. Could we be at his office the next morning?
We were there, ready to rock.
“Where are we headed?”
“Just out to the parking lot. O’Toole will tell you what to do.”
It turned that O’Toole needed us follow him to a warehouse, where we were to unload a truck. The truck was filled with a theatrical set that been used for a one-man play in which E. G. Marshall had portrayed H. L. Mencken. Frank, who was also bringing Jesus Christ Superstar to Boston, had produced the Mencken play. He paid us each ten bucks to dismantle the scenery and schlep it into storage.
I found most everything about Frank intriguing. One day he might use us as moving men, but a week later he’d have us to dinner at his home, where he’d regale us with stories.
“Did I tell you about the unfortunate incident involving my driver and Brian Epstein?” he asked.
“Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager?” I asked.
“The same. A charming chap. He flew into Boston a month before the Beatles were to arrive to work out the final details for the concert I was promoting. I had my driver meet him at the airport and bring him to my office. I don’t know how the subject came up, but during the ride my driver made known his views on homosexuality. I believed he used the unfortunate term ‘faggot’ more than once. He did not know that Mr. Epstein was gay. Incensed, Epstein forced the driver out of the car. At the time, they were in the tunnel beneath Boston Harbor. The next thing I knew, Epstein was calling me from his hotel, saying that he had no intention of doing business with heathens. Naturally, I offered my deepest apologies and assured him that my driver’s attitudes did not reflect mine. That evening over cocktails I tried my best to remedy the situation. I painted Boston as a most liberal and open-minded metropolis. I salvaged the date, and the Beatles came, but they were here and gone within twelve hours. Epstein, ever the erudite Englishman, still believed that we Bostonians are heathens.”
Another time I was riding with Father Frank in his oversize Olds Delta 88 when the car broke down in the middle of Copley Square. I got out and saw pieces of engine hanging from below the car. Taxis and buses and cars were blasting their horns at us. We’d caused a major traffic jam.
“How’s it look?” asked Frank.
“This car is screwed up,” I said. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Yes we are,” he said. “We’re going to have a drink.”
Unperturbed, he left the car where it sat and led me to a wood-paneled bar in a swanky hotel nearby. It was the middle of the afternoon, but not too early to enjoy the best bourbon in the house. Frank called the bartender by his first name and acted as though this had been our intended destination all along. When I asked what he was going to do about his car, he said he’d instructed the bartender to make a call. No worries. It was a good chance for us to get to know each other better. Frank always began our conversations by asking about my family. He had fine manners. From there the talk usually moved on to women. He wanted to know if I understood the nature of romance?
I confessed that my experiences were limited. I briefly mentioned the episode on Block Island. The story amused Frank, but, if I didn’t mind, he wanted to offer me some paternal advice. I didn’t mind at all.
“Women are delicate creatures,” he said, “whose aesthetic sensitivities are far greater than ours—far more artistic, far more subtle, far more romantic. When you encounter a young woman who is drawn to you—and I have no doubt, dear Joe, that many are passionately so drawn—I would suggest not merely a date to a theater, a concert, or a movie, but rather a weekend.”
“A weekend?” I asked.
“Precisely. A weekend that begins with a long train ride from Boston to Montreal. Ideally, the trip takes place in winter, when the landscape is covered in a freshly fallen snow. You go first class, of course, and enjoy a fabulous four-course meal in the dining car. Upon arrival, the awaiting limousine takes you to a quaint bed-and-breakfast where the proprietor speaks only French. You don’t want to go to a large convention hotel, such as this one. A small and intimate lodging is far more conducive to the kind of mood you wish to establish. You’ll request the attic room with the exposed-beam ceiling and wood-burning fireplace, the coziest of all their accommodations. That night, with the flames roaring and the logs crackling, she will surrender to your every desire. The next day you will devote to shopping—shopping for her, not for you. You’ll survey the small boutiques in the old quarter of the city. In one such charming shop you’ll help her select a pair of thigh-high fur-lined boots fashioned in Ru
ssia. You’ll tell her how the rich bronze hue of the leather brings out the radiance in her skin. Then, after a quiet dinner of paté, roasted quail, and French champagne, it’s back to your attic paradise and even deeper erotic pleasures. In the morning, you’ll take the train back to Boston, her head resting on your shoulder as you gaze out the window, your heart filled with wonder and gratitude. You’ll know that you’ve made a memory that will never fade.”
By the end of this story, Frank and I had polished off a fifth of bourbon. He was roaring drunk. I was silently drunk. When he went to the bathroom, I could see he was having a little trouble walking. But no matter how much he drank he was able to carry it off with aplomb. He never lost control. When we did manage to get up and make it through the lobby and out the door, a brand-new Olds 88 was waiting at the curb, along with a driver.
“After you, dear boy,” said Frank, motioning me into the car. “Just tell my man where you need to be dropped off.”
I wanted to ask how all this had been so quickly arranged, but I didn’t. My mind was reeling with thoughts of midnight train rides to Montreal.
“It’s all a beautiful mystery, isn’t it?” asked Frank as he surveyed the busy streets of the Back Bay.
I didn’t know what he was referring to, but it didn’t matter. I repeated his words. “Yes,” I said, “it’s all a beautiful mystery.”
It’s no mystery how we upgraded our rehearsal situation. Through Frank’s theatrical connections, he hooked us up with the Charles Playhouse in downtown Boston. On the weekends we’d play clubs and high schools, and during the week we’d rehearse all night at the Charles. They gave us the key to the theater so we could come and go as we pleased. We loved it because we didn’t have to break down our gear after each rehearsal. When we arrived, we turned on the stage lights and marveled at how great our equipment was starting to look. Brad and I had managed to get some mid-sixties vintage Marshall amps that had the kind of sharp, gutsy sound we’d been searching for. At the end of our session, our only responsibility was to cut off the main circuit breaker, leave our stuff onstage, and split. We were certain our equipment was safe.