by Joe Perry
We loved coming into the theater every afternoon, turning on the lights, and digging the look of the stage that was filled with our equipment. It was a moment of pride. Every dime we had was invested in this gear. So you can imagine what it felt like to arrive one day and, after switching on the circuit breaker, see nothing but a completely empty stage. It was a kick in the gut. We were wiped out. Every last piece of equipment—every mic, every one of Joey’s drums, every one of those precious Marshall amps—all gone. It was worse than someone stealing your girlfriend. Aerosmith without our equipment was like a race car driver without his car. Our whole identity was in the coolness of the gear we had assembled—the way it looked and the way it sounded. This was a devastating blow.
We never figured out how the thieves got in or out. We called the cops but the equipment never turned up. Frank fronted us the money to replace it. The new amps, though, sounded nothing like the old ones. We mourned the loss for months.
But we kept working our asses off and no doubt kept getting better. Knowing that we had a major promoter like Frank Connelly behind us motivated us even more. At the same time, the scene at 1325 got wilder. We had cultivated a small but loyal fan base. Those who knew us best knew that we liked to get high. They knew they’d be especially welcome if they arrived with pot or beer.
Casey, one of our favorite dealers, was a 1325 regular. He’d roll up in his tricked-out 1947 Ford (called the Blue Diamond because of the blue costume-jewelry diamond glued on the dashboard) or his 500-cc Kawasaki and deliver the goods. One time I jumped on the back of the Kawasaki and accompanied him on a run. We were zipping through the intersection of Memorial Drive and Longfellow Bridge in Cambridge when Casey realized that the two-pound brick of good stuff inside his jacket had slipped out and fallen on the street. No problem. He simply executed a quick U. I jumped off the bike and stopped traffic while he scooped up the pot.
Things didn’t always go that smoothly. After spending a couple of nights at Judy Nylon’s loft, I thought I’d better check in with the guys at 1325. Because it was a beautiful day, I walked halfway from downtown and took the train the rest of the way. But the bright day turned dark when I saw that the door to our apartment was off its hinges. The place had been turned upside down. It looked like a tornado had ripped through. I soon learned that the night before Brad and Tom had been sitting on the couch, peacefully passing a joint, when the cops broke the door down and tore up the place, expecting to find mountains of drugs. All they found was half a smoked joint. They hauled Brad off to jail. We posted bail and he was later released and the charges dropped. It turned out that the cops had been looking for me. One of our dealers had been busted and, dropping a dime on us, had given up our address as a drug house. Because my name was on the lease, I was the object of the police pursuit. Rather than take a chance, I figured I’d lie low. I sure as hell wasn’t going to give myself up for some bullshit charge. I spent the rest of the week in Cabozzi’s basement drinking beer and playing guitar. When I resurfaced I knew we had to tighten up our act at 1325. No more open-door policy. In the meantime, we had to pool our money for a new door.
There was also the ongoing transportation challenge. I had traded in my broken-down MGB for a Saab, a geeky but reliable ride that couldn’t go faster than sixty miles an hour. I hadn’t had it for two weeks when the engine blew up. Band transportation was equally challenging. Despite the diligent work of Gary Cabozzi, the red bus was always busted. The only way to heat it was to leave its oven door open. Frank came to the rescue when he bought us a used Delta 88 hardtop. The car was both a blessing and a curse. It was great to have a vehicle that actually worked, but because we took turns using it for private purposes it caused friction. We were always fighting over who got to use it next.
Frank Connelly impressed me not only with his faith in the band, but his drinking. As much as he knocked ’em back, I never saw him get sick. The closest he came was an evening when he drove us to a gig at a club out on Route 9. After the show we started pounding ’em down pretty good. Frank’s speech was slightly slurred, the only hint that the booze was taking effect. When it was time to leave, his usual elegant attire was still perfectly in place, although his walk was a little off-balance.
“Want me to drive?” I asked.
“I’m fine, Joe,” he said. “Never been better.”
We hit the highway, and after fifteen minutes, he finally admitted that he was tired.
“I think I better get a room,” he said.
Given his erratic driving, we were relieved. He drove us all to a nice motel. The second he opened the car door and tried to get out, he fell to his knees. We helped him inside, where he never lost his presence of mind.
“Take out my wallet, boys,” he said, “and register me quickly. Get me the best room they have.”
The clerk looked at us suspiciously. We’d just played a gig. We were half-drunk ourselves, a pirate gang of sweaty rockers. The clerk probably thought we were ripping Frank off.
“Do not look askance at these gentlemen,” Frank told the clerk, sensing the vibe. “They are artists. They work for me. And now, in an unusual turn of events, I have placed myself in their care.”
We got the key, helped Frank to his room, and put him peacefully to sleep. The next day he called to express his appreciation.
“How are you, Frank?” I asked him.
“Never been better.”
Frank understood that our band needed tough-minded help. That’s why he made John O’Toole our road manager. This was fine with us. Raised in the rough section of Dorchester, John had emerged from his time in prison as a no-nonsense businessman with great loyalty to Frank. The only serious problem arose when, for the first time, John encountered Gary Cabozzi.
We were playing K-K-K-Katy’s, the big rock club in Boston’s Kenmore Square. Before the show, Cabozzi had taken his usual position: An imposing figure, he stood guard in front of our dressing room, his massive arms folded in front of him. No one could get past him. Gary was the bulldog who liked to scare people away.
Up came John O’Toole, who, ignoring the bulldog, reached for the door and started to walk into the dressing room.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” said Cabozzi.
“To see my band,” said O’Toole.
“Your band! Who the fuck are you kidding?”
O’Toole ignored him and kept going. At the very moment Cabozzi put his hand on O’Toole’s chest, I happened to be passing by. I saw what was happening. Blood was about to be spilled.
“It’s okay, Gary,” I said. “This guy’s cool. This is John O’Toole. He’s helping us out.”
Cabozzi backed off, but the tension between him and O’Toole only increased with time. Gary sensed that in the management regime headed by Frank Connelly, his role as our protector would be diminished—and he didn’t like it.
From the get-go, Frank said that we’d have to showcase in New York.
“I am not an immodest man,” he said, “and, as you already know, I am a presence to be reckoned with in the environs of greater Boston. I can help establish you boys as the biggest band in New England. But while that in and of itself is no mean feat, it is far from your goal. Your goal is world domination. Because I want to help you realize that goal, I must admit to my limitations. The powerful record executives are in New York. These are the deal makers. I know them by name and I’ve tangentially dealt with a few of these gentlemen, but I lack the clout that would bring them to a showcase, say, in Manhattan. On the other hand, I know managers with that clout and I’m recommending two of them—Steve Leber and David Krebs.”
“Do you trust them?” I asked.
“I know they left William Morris to go out on their own, and they’re smart and crafty.”
“But do you trust them?” I repeated.
“In this business, I trust no one. But I do trust their ambition. And I trust the fact that, among all the managers in New York, they were the first ones to spot and man
age the New York Dolls. You’ve heard of the Dolls, haven’t you?”
I had. Friends who’d seen them in New York described them as the edgiest rock band to emerge in years. They were being called the new Stones. Connelly introduced us to their management team, Leber-Krebs. They struck me as nothing more than two business guys looking to make a buck. They said the right things and had the right contacts, but there was no emotional connection. They seemed to have no affinity for music. But, according to Frank, most managers didn’t.
“They don’t have to understand you artistically,” Frank said. “They have to understand you commercially. These guys understand musical merchandise. They were involved in producing Jesus Christ Superstar before me and made a fuckin’ fortune. These guys can smell out money.”
I’m not sure what Leber-Krebs saw in the New York Dolls, but I was crazy about the band. So were the New York critics. In 1972, the year we did our showcases, the Dolls were the shit. I heard them as straight-out rock and roll, the essence of what I loved. They were also hilarious. They understood how to marry performance art and rock. They just did whatever the fuck they wanted to do. When they showed up at our sound check for our first showcase at Max’s Kansas City, I was excited to meet them. David Johansen, the lead singer, was wearing his spandex suit and spiked high heels. Johnny Thunders wore a black leather jacket and skintight red jeans. Coming from provincial Boston, we didn’t know if they were camp or gay or cross-dressing weirdos. We played a few songs and they watched us intently. Afterward, they complimented us generously. Quickly I saw that they were as straight as we were. David and Johnny knew their shit. Underneath the glitter, I saw them as street punks trying to make it. We had lots in common.
The Dolls’ big advantage over us, though, was that they lived in New York. Their fashion sense was steeped in kitsch. Arthur “Killer” Kane came out wearing a tutu and knee-high leopard boots. They also understood the fine art of attracting the media. The press adored their outrageous outfits. Following the English, Steven and I had begun wearing some makeup, but we weren’t prepared to take it as far as the Dolls. We were hardly the product of an underground glam scene, but we—or at least I—could dig that scene as funny and fun and gutsy. They pushed the boundaries of androgyny but were as macho as marines. When I got hold of that early stuff by the Dolls, I played it all the time. Steven, Tom, Brad, and Joey didn’t share my enthusiasm. They understood the crazy appeal of their stage packaging but thought the music was too crude. Yet the crudeness was what I found alluring. They didn’t care about musical nuance. They didn’t care about anything. They just wanted to kick ass.
We apparently had not kicked ass during our first appearance at Max’s, because we got no offers. Back in Boston, Frank was his usual reassuring self.
“One time means nothing, boys,” he said. “My belief in you is stronger than ever. In baseball, if you have a lifetime average of .333, meaning you fail two-thirds of the time, you go to the Hall of Fame. The average successful record executive is batting no better than .200. That means he’s wrong four out of five times. To be rejected by such a corporate animal—one ruled by caution, trepidation, and fear—is simply business as usual. I am certain that an enlightened executive will emerge who will, like me, possess the acumen to understand that Aerosmith is not merely a merry band of brilliant musicians, but the next mega-band that will light arenas and stadiums the world over. Trust me, boys, there is no cause for discouragement. It is more than a faint glow that you see at the end of the tunnel. It’s a spotlight a thousand watts strong. It’s triumph, it’s victory, it’s a vindication of everything you’ve been working so hard to achieve. That’s why I’m convinced the preparation for the next showcase should be supercharged. I’m booking you back in the Sheraton in Manchester for two solid weeks. Two solid weeks of woodshedding will do you nothing but good. To eliminate all distractions you might encounter at home, I’ve booked you at the hotel so it will be a time of nothing but music, music, music.”
We moved up to New Hampshire and did as Frank instructed. The Sheraton wasn’t terrible. Brad and I would start the day with a couple of double martinis, followed by a free lunch buffet, followed by a few hours of rehearsals. In the evenings we’d play the nightclub, where the crowd was older than we were used to. No matter. We got them dancing. I also managed a short-term fling with an especially hot waitress.
After the two-week live-in/warm-up at the Sheraton, we returned to New York with a vengeance. It was either the second or third trip to Max’s Kansas City—I can’t remember which—when Steven noticed a few limos lined up outside the club. He thought it meant the moguls had come out in force to see us. He also imagined that John Lennon or Mick Jagger or David Bowie would show up. Steven was always seeing stars. For my part, I was convinced that I needed some extra energy. We’d been up for hours preparing our set. We knew that this was going to be a make-it-or-break-it show. To give myself a little more fire, I took a couple of Crossroads, a diet pill form of speed that was popular in the early seventies. I’m not sure if the drug helped or hurt my performance. I was too busy playing to notice. But it did get me past the nervousness.
After our six- or seven-song set was over, I saw Steven huddling with Leber and Krebs and another man I didn’t know. Afterward Steven said, “That was Clive Davis.”
“Tell me who he is again,” I said. I’d heard his name but hadn’t connected the dots.
“He runs Columbia. He discovered Janis Joplin. He made her a star.”
“Wasn’t it her music that made her a star?” I asked.
“You know what I mean,” said Steven. “Anyway, he loves us. He said I’m gonna be a star.”
A few minutes later Leber and Krebs brought over the man to meet me. He was immaculately dressed and said all the right things.
“I like your band,” said Clive Davis. “I want to sign you to Columbia.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Thank you.”
There was more small talk, but within a few minutes Davis was gone.
It took us ten long years to learn that Clive actually signed Leber-Krebs to a production deal. We, in turn, were signed to Leber-Krebs as hired hands. At the time, we were certain that we were a Columbia act, not understanding that Leber-Krebs had the power to fire any one of us at any time.
Back at the Gramercy Park Hotel, I was still buzzing from the speed and grateful that New York television, unlike Boston television, was an all-night affair. The flickering images helped me process my jumbled thoughts.
Naturally I was a little dazed, but to be honest, I was also a little disappointed. I had hoped we’d sign to Atlantic or one of their subsidiaries, like Atco. Atlantic had the hard rock bands we liked—Cream, Zeppelin, the Stones. Atlantic also had a louder and richer sound than the other labels—the exact sound our music called for. On the other hand, I couldn’t complain about being on the same label as Bob Dylan. As dawn broke and I finally managed to drift off to sleep, I felt relieved and satisfied that we finally had a deal. Columbia was cool.
“Columbia is great,” said Frank when we got back to Boston. “Columbia is international. They’ve got the best distribution of any label. Leber-Krebs will know how to deal with Columbia. The signing advance will take care of you for a while, but not for long. You’ll make a great record, but even if it sells, royalties take forever to come your way. When you’re done recording you’re going to have to get on the road and stay on the road. Record sales are great, but you can’t count on them alone. The only thing you can count on is your ability to put on a killer show. Listen to me, boys, when I tell you that you can only count on yourselves. Remember our motto—‘We come to play.’ That motto’s the key to everything.”
Frank was right. One thing would never change: The five of us were going to live or die as a band based on our relationship with our fans. Our fans were everything, and our shows were the best way to get them to love our band.
As Frank gave us more personal counseling, he became less invo
lved in our actual business. Leber-Krebs were taking over. We heard that Frank had sold them a 50 percent interest in us but never knew the details. My view of Leber-Krebs came down to one word—skeptical. One of the first times I walked into Leber’s office I saw a framed check on the wall made out to his firm for $175,000. Nothing wrong with that, except the money was for services rendered for the Concert for Bangladesh. Wasn’t the purpose of that event to help starving people? Wasn’t everyone donating his services? I filed my reaction under watch out for these guys. (Now I realize that I may not have understood what the check represented but at the time I was already thinking the worst.) On the other hand, I couldn’t deny that it was Leber-Krebs who got Clive Davis to our showcase and cut our deal with Columbia. Soon they’d be booking us as an opening act for major artists. All this was great, but in my heart I wished it had been Frank, not Leber-Krebs.
Over the next several months it became clear why Frank could no longer pull those strings. He was growing physically weak. He looked frail. He avoided the topic of his health until it became too obvious to ignore.
“Boys,” he said, “I need to undergo treatment and won’t be able to attend your shows for a while.”
Then he said the word none of us wanted to hear—cancer. Because my dad had been battling cancer since the first year I moved to Boston, cancer was much on my mind. The news about Frank devastated me. The thought of losing these men—so important to my development as a human being—was overwhelming. I’m not sure how or where I stuffed my fear, but I did. I soldiered on.
Dad had been in and out of the hospital for some time. I didn’t know about the drama—Mom would tell me years later—but before my father had been diagnosed with cancer he and his secretary had been having an affair. He had actually left my mother and moved in with the woman, although he and my mother continued to date during this separation. It was only when he got sick that he returned home with the support and understanding of my mom. Emotionally and otherwise, he required my mother’s care. Yet his strong streak of independence had not diminished. He insisted on driving himself back and forth to his cancer treatments. After one such session, he got into a minor car accident. After that, my mother took over the driving. For a while it looked as though the cancer was in remission and that, once again, he had survived the dreaded disease and continued to live at home.