by Joe Perry
“For what?” I asked.
“This band is in trouble,” said Collins. “Your sobriety is in danger.”
“It is?” I asked. None of us had had a drink or a drug in years. I didn’t understand. “We’re sober,” I said. “We’re all sober.”
With support from the psychologist who would have one-on-one meetings with him before our meeting, a paradigm that Collins used with all the therapists, Collins went on to describe how the band had turned dysfunctional all over again. I didn’t buy it.
“How?” asked Brad.
“Not everyone is working their program to the best of their ability,” said Collins. “You’re all too dependent on your wives. You’re involved in unhealthy codependent relationships.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I asked.
Collins’s minion rattled off some psychobabble. We were mystified. No one was happy about this. No one could understand it.
“I still don’t see the point,” said Tom.
“The point is that I can’t manage a band that’s addicted to anything,” said Collins.
“And codependency,” the shrink chimed in, “is as big an addiction as alcohol. Codependency is as destructive as cocaine.”
I wanted to get up and say Fuck you. But I was also operating under the psychology that said, With the band surging, don’t rock the boat.
But I couldn’t buy this codependency business. I loved Billie. I valued her opinion. I was closer to her than I had been to anyone. But Billie didn’t tell me what music to play or how to conduct my professional life. She didn’t have anything to do with my songwriting or my performing except to encourage and support my progress as an artist. I had to break out the dictionary and read the definition of codependency: “Pertaining to a relationship in which one person is physically or psychologically addicted and the other person is psychologically dependent on the first in an unhealthy way.” The love I had for my wife had nothing to do with codependency. We had an unconventional lifestyle, we had children, and we were doing the best we could to keep our family together in the crazy world of rock and roll. And then there was the fact that my marriage was no one’s business but my own.
But the more the band argued with Collins and his shrink, the more blowback we got.
Why are you being so defensive?
Your defensiveness indicates how threatened you must feel.
Defensiveness and denial go hand in hand.
The platitudes were driving us crazy. “If we disagree, does that mean we’re being defensive?” I asked. “Maybe it just means we disagree.”
That’s when Collins laid out his trump card.
“Look, Joe,” he said. “I can’t manage a band that I feel is this unhealthy. I can’t manage a band about to fall off the wagon. In good conscience, I can’t go to Sony and say, ‘The band’s in fine shape. We’ll take your millions.’ No, I can’t say that when I know that the band is falling apart.”
Falling apart? Everyone in the room was stunned. The band had never been tighter or stronger.
But, in essence, and literally, Collins was saying, Go to Sierra Tucson or I’ll kill the Sony deal. And since Sony saw him as the Svengali who kept the band together, his threat carried weight. Needing time to examine our options, we decided to think over his threat.
I thought back to the beginning of our sobriety. That was when our weekly band meetings had begun. They included Tim and a therapist of his choice. All fine and good. We were all aware of the significance of our accomplishment: Getting one person sober is a miracle. Getting five rockers sober is impossible. Yet it had happened. These meetings were a good place to air our fears. We had feared that in our new state of sobriety we’d lose fans, that our playing would lose its fire, that our funky mojo would go missing—none of which proved true. But as these meetings continued, we learned that behind our backs Tim was coercing certain therapists. If they didn’t back him in whatever plans he had for the band—whether personal or professional—he’d threaten to get their licenses revoked. The thing got insidious.
The meetings had begun with the idea that we were all there to help one another. Everyone had a chance to express his concerns. Everyone spoke about the tensions in his life. When we had an issue with a fellow band member, we confronted him. When that member needed support, we supported him. The meetings were set up as a safe place to share.
But when it came time for Collins to share and tell us what was happening in his life, he skimmed over the question or shut down entirely. For example, one of his chief issues was rage. Any small matter could send him into a fit of crazed anger. For those who worked for him, he was an emotional tyrant. The staff feared his moods and would often complain to us. When we brought up the subject, Collins either claimed it had no relevance to the welfare of the band or, enraged, simply got up and left the room.
When it became obvious that our sobriety was holding, Tim faced a dilemma: how to keep us dependent on him. His method was to keep lighting ground fires while casting himself in the role as the only one capable of putting them out.
In short, this amazing and inspiring story of a crazy rock band embracing sobriety had somehow morphed into a twisted psychodrama. And at this point in the story, Collins, who saw himself as the playwright, was threatening to write us out of the plot.
The wheels to move to Sony were already in motion. We had already shaken hands with the big Sony boss. John Kalodner was moving over to Sony as our ongoing A&R guy. I’m a very pragmatic person. When it comes to shit like this, I’m bottom-line. My mind immediately imagined Collins walking into Sony and saying, “The band is falling apart again. The guys are using.”
If we retaliated by saying, “That’s a lie,” who would Sony believe—the rock-and-roll pirates with their infamous history of bad behavior? Or Collins and his staff of therapists backing up his every claim?
It wasn’t close.
We decided to go to rehab.
“That’s outrageous,” said Billie, then pregnant with our second son, Roman. “Collins is using rehab as a way exert his power over you guys.”
“I know,” I said. “But he has that power. Sony is listening to Collins. Not to us. Sony is going to do what our manager says.”
“But your manager is not simply managing the band, he wants to manage your entire life. So now he’s saying you have to go to rehab, when, in fact, there’s no palpable need.”
“If we don’t go,” I said, “he’ll scare off Sony.”
“No, he won’t,” Billie insisted. “He wants the commission.”
“Look, Bill, maybe we should just go.”
“I don’t like this, Joe.”
“I don’t either, baby, but I don’t want to risk it. I know what it’s like to be broke, and I don’t want to go through that again. I don’t even want to think about another financial meltdown. Collins is holding all the cards, and if going to rehab can resolve this crisis, I say we should go.”
On issues like this, I usually deferred to Billie’s judgment, relying on her uncanny clarity. But being the provider, and remembering how hard we had worked for our success in the seventies only to lose it all, I had to be cautious. I had to remind myself that this comeback, although spectacular, was tenuous. This comeback required constant maintenance. Like my other bandmates, I wasn’t about to risk throwing it away. Man, this was a tough one, especially with Billie eight months pregnant. I hated capitulating to Collins’s irrational demand, but I bit the bullet and went to rehab—kicking and screaming.
Karen Whitford, on the verge of giving birth, couldn’t fly. But a very pregnant Billie flew out for family week. My sister, Anne, and my mother also came to lend support. When the therapists met with Billie and me for a single session, their conclusion was that there weren’t any issues to address.
In fact, after a few days in the facility, all the therapists who worked with the band members said what we already knew: There was no reason for us to be there. Fearing that very thing—that there
was nothing wrong with us—Collins proudly announced he had met with the staff in advance to orchestrate “a custom program” for us.
When I explained to my therapist that I was not thrilled at having to spend my forty-first birthday in rehab, she said, “You could have just as well spent it at home. Even if there were a need for therapy, it easily could have been facilitated in outpatient mode back in Boston. I have no idea why you’re here.”
Well, I knew why. We’d been coerced. Collins had even coerced our producer, Bruce Fairbairn, to check into rehab with us. It was like a sick joke. Except I wasn’t fuckin’ laughing. The entire enterprise accomplished only one thing: Collins reestablished his control. That control, though, came at a heavy cost. Deep resentments were growing deeper.
By far the best thing that happened in 1991 was the birth, on October 20, of our son Roman. I loved this child, as I loved all my children, with heart and soul. Billie insisted on natural childbirth. Man, watching her go through that was the most incredible experience of my life. She knew it would be our last child and was determined. My respect and love for her reached a peak even I couldn’t have foreseen. Filled with gratitude for the arrival of new life, Billie and I recommitted ourselves to putting family first, although, given the demands of the Aerosmith family, that would never be easy.
The week before Roman’s birth, Aerosmith performed for the MTV 10th Anniversary Special, taped at the Wang Center in Boston. I remember carrying a beeper with me in case Billie went into labor. With a huge orchestra behind us, Steven sang “Dream On.” This was the first time we’d done a live show in many months. The hometown fans, always amazingly loyal, showed up with lots of love. It was a great gig.
In the history of Aerosmith, we’ve been blessed with a countless number of great gigs. Our brand of rock is essentially upbeat. But after the shows were over and the fans went home, our happiness was never long lasting, especially during these bizarre years when the five of us were still struggling to break free of a cultlike mentality.
TRYING TO GET A GRIP
At the start of 1992 we went off to work on our fourth and final Geffen record. We loved Vancouver. Vacation and Pump were great records, Little Mountain Sound was a great facility, but enough was enough. Except for our first album, we had always left Boston to record elsewhere. The conventional thinking was that there was no world-class studio in Boston. Personally, I think great records can be made in the living room. But try telling that to four other band members and the band’s managers and label execs. In any event, we compromised. Rather than record in Vancouver, this time—as usual—we brought our families but went to L.A. We rented apartments in West Hollywood, where Sam Kinison, may he rest in peace, lived below us. It was a riot bumping into him.
During a six-month period, four baby boys joined the Aerosmith family. The Whitfords had Graham; we had Roman; Teresa and Steven had Taj; and the Hamiltons had Julian. It was a lot of fun watching the boys grow up as a group, both on and off the road. Eventually Aerosmith would have a multigenerational consortium of children totaling seventeen.
During our time in L.A. we worked in A&M’s famous Studio A with its huge glass Star Wars door that automatically opened as you approached. Because the door was usually on the blink, everyone wound up walking into the glass at least once, always reminding us of the Three Stooges. Down from Vancouver, Bruce Fairbairn was geared up to produce a classic Aerosmith record. Being in the heart of the L.A. music scene helped upgrade our sonics. Cats constantly dropped by the studio, offering old amps, new amps, and custom-made guitars. Shelly Yakus, an old friend from the Record Plant, opened the door to his astonishing collection of antique gear and said, “Help yourself.” We dug in and rocked out harder than ever, resulting in a batch of hot tracks.
When John Kalodner came to review the tracks, though, he reacted with the line no artist ever wants to hear, especially after having worked diligently for three months: “I don’t hear a single.”
Admittedly, there were some raunchy songs—“Black Cherry” and “Your Momma Wants to Do Me and Your Daddy Wants to Do Me In”—but I liked them and thought they fit into the Aerosmith aesthetic. Kalodner’s judgment pissed us off and we reacted in predictable ways: Steven went off the deep end and I smoldered. Steven called John every name in the book while I sank into silence.
After discussing the dilemma among ourselves, Steven and I decided to head up to Vancouver, where, working with Bruce on his home turf, maybe we could come up with a couple of singles. Although we would soon be on Sony, contractually we had no choice but to complete this last record for Geffen. We called it Get a Grip.
While we went to Canada, Billie took the kids to Florida and the Tyler family headed home. In Vancouver, Steven and I faced the double agony of finding a way to write new songs—plus the triple agony that came with getting lyrics out of Steven, who had transferred his animosity toward John Kalodner to Bruce Fairbairn.
Like Kalodner, Bruce wouldn’t mince words. “Go to Studio D,” he’d tell Steven, “and write your lyrics.”
“I’m listening to guitar parts in Studio A,” Steven shot back.
“You don’t need to listen to guitar parts,” Bruce retorted. “You need to write your goddamn lyrics.”
“I’m not a machine.”
“I don’t need you to be a machine. I need you to be a writer. Write!”
I could sympathize with Steven, who hated not being in the room when the tracks were cut. After all, he and I had nurtured these songs from nothing. But he would procrastinate until Bruce, backed up by the rest of us, drew the line. It seemed like the more success Steven achieved, the less he would focus on writing lyrics. One way or the other, though, he had to get the lyrics written. Sometimes I’d go to Studio D and repeatedly play my guitar over the parts he was working on. Sometimes I’d throw in a word or two, and sometimes I’d sit there just to keep him company.
He and Bruce had a series of brutal verbal fights. Steven made his usual vow regarding anyone who produced us—“I’ll never work with him again!” But as a pragmatist, I recognized the huge success we had enjoyed with Bruce, a producer who always got the best out of us. When he died some seven years after we recorded Grip, he was only forty-nine. I mourned his passing. He was a good man who helped us enormously.
During this two-week trip to Vancouver, though, nothing much helped. Nothing much was accomplished. It was summertime, and Steven and I figured we needed a break.
I took off for Florida and joined my family on vacation. Steven took off and joined up with his family. It felt so good to swim in the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico and not have to think about gigs or writing or recording or the business or Collins. It was a chance to get back in touch with the things that mattered.
That summer we continued work on Grip in the Boneyard, a full-blown studio in the basement of my house. The name had originally been ascribed to my gym, which stood in the space now occupied by the studio. No matter how hard I worked out, I was always going to be skin and bones—thus the Boneyard. At first I just wanted a place to lay down my ideas on equipment good enough to capture great guitar sounds. But with the help of Billie, who acted as general contractor and oversaw the construction, Michael Blackmer, who forged the sonic design, and Perry Margouleff, who put together the equipment, and brought in the world-famous sound engineer George Augsberger, the Boneyard became a world-class studio capable of hosting full-band recording sessions.
At this point, working with outside writers had become standard operating procedure. When Desmond Child worked on Permanent Vacation, he had helped complete songs that were already in progress. But after writing “Angel,” Steven saw the advantage of having someone help him with lyrics. I also came to like the stimulation of collaborating with a new writer who brought fresh ideas to the table, especially lyrics. But it also gave me an insight into Steven’s outlook on our so-called writing partnership. At this point it was just a glimpse, but I had a feeling things weren’t going to get better a
s far as my trusting him to be a true partner.
The process was simple: Steven and I would get the ball rolling before inviting someone in. We’d give each writer a couple of days, and if it felt like magic was in the air, we’d ask him to stay longer. In this period of Grip, we had the DeLeo brothers, Dean and Robert, from Stone Temple Pilots; Tommy Shaw from Styx; and Jack Blades from Night Ranger. We had a relaxed schedule, kicking off in the Boneyard in the afternoon, breaking for one of Billie’s incredible dinners, and then going back to work at night.
Lenny Kravitz made his way to the Boneyard. At the time, he was living in New York, didn’t like flying, and showed up in an RV. Lenny’s a great guy and a true artist. We came up with “Line Up,” a song that, in addition to appearing on Grip, was used in Jim Carrey’s Ace Ventura: Pet Detective.
Kalodner also suggested we meet with Mark Hudson, a unique character who became close to Steven. Mark had gotten his start on a Saturday morning TV show, The Hudson Brothers Razzle Dazzle Show, and later worked as Joan Rivers’s musical director. He went on to become a freelance songwriter and producer.
Slowly, the record came together. Jim Vallance helped us complete the title song and “Eat the Rich”; Desmond Child helped with “Flesh” and “Crazy”; I wrote one song alone—“Walk on Down”; and Mark Hudson helped out on one of the two tunes that Steven and I had started—“Gotta Love It”—and brought “Livin’ on the Edge,” my favorite song that he put on the table. Jack Blades and Tommy Shaw contributed to “Shut Up and Dance.”
With Bruce Fairbairn back in the producer’s chair, we returned to Vancouver and laid down the tracks and vocals with few problems. At this point, I thought the drama was behind us.
But when John Kalodner came up to hear the mixes, he wasn’t happy.
“Something’s wrong,” he said. “It’s not the songs. It’s the sound.”