by Joe Perry
“Look,” I said, “if you want to write songs alone with Marti, you can’t do it on the band’s dime. And if you guys are going to be working on Aerosmith songs, I should be there.”
Marti and Steven stayed in a house where they set up a small Pro Tools system. I stayed down the street in a hotel with Billie and the kids. We’d work on music from early afternoon through early evening till friends of Steven’s would start showing up, people I didn’t know. As the focus turned from the recording rig to the hot tub, I took it as my cue to leave.
Nonetheless, we came up with a few cool riffs and pulled together a song or two. Marti and Steven became enamored of something called “Girls of Summer.” I put guitar on it. But a few overdubs don’t really change the guts of a song. I thought it was a waste of time and wrong for an Aerosmith record. I suggested that Steven save it for a solo album. The rest of the band agreed. But Steven prevailed and the song was recorded. Tom, Brad, Joey, and I thought so little of it that we refused to be in the video. Both the song and video faded fast.
Some of that tension dissipated when Steven and I went on a dive off the coast of Maui. It was a good way to let off steam. It was the first shipwreck dive that either of us had participated in. It also showed we were able to put our musical differences aside, still get along like brothers, and have a good time together.
Back on the mainland, the Just Push Play tour gained new momentum when Kid Rock and Run-DMC opened for us.
We’d met Kid Rock when he inducted us into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and invited us to his party, which took up an entire floor at the Plaza hotel in New York. Another time when we played Detroit, Kid came to see us and threw another party, this one in his home studio. After the show, he and his then girlfriend, Pamela Anderson, got on our bus and rode to his house—me and Rock jamming on guitars. More jamming in his studio with his band while Pamela planted herself on the lap of our son Tony, then fourteen. She began feeding him pizza bite by bite. We were a little taken aback but didn’t have the heart to interrupt a teenage fantasy come true.
When the tour rolled into Massachusetts, we returned the favor and invited Kid Rock and Pamela to our house for lunch and a tour of the Boneyard. Later that day we all rode on my bus to the show in Mansfield.
The road led to Louisiana, where, being on the bus, I could go out beyond the levees into the backwoods. Aerosmith had been playing New Orleans off and on for thirty years. I always loved the city and was fascinated not only by its complex cultural and musical history but by the voodoo mystique.
Just to do something different with the kids, we—along with Brad and his family—met a “white witch” who gave us a legal midnight tour of some of the city’s most historic sights. Beneath a full moon, we used flashlights to make our way through a graveyard filled with ancient tombs, mystical ley lines, Masonic symbols, and a scaled-down obelisk. Not spotting any ghosts, the kids returned to the bus. Billie and I spent another hour or two taking in the history of the area.
I had read books on the subject before actually meeting a voodoo priestess who had a little shop in the funky Ninth Ward of the city. I mentioned to her that I was interested in getting a tattoo with voodoo symbols for good luck.
“That’s fine,” she said, “but you need to have a ceremony before you get tattooed. The ceremony must happen at the crossroads.”
“My tattoo artist,” I said, “is in Atlanta.”
“You can find crossroads anywhere. I’ll give you instructions.”
I took the instructions and, next time I was in Atlanta, made the arrangements. Billie, by the way, was not happy about any of this. She had bad vibes about my interest in voodoo.
Nonetheless, Billie, my trusty sidekick John Bionelli, driver Mark Langley, and I set out to find a crossroads. When I found the one that felt right, I was supposed to put some pennies on the ground and pour rum over them, a ritual that acknowledged one of the great paternal voodoo icons. Once this was accomplished, I’d head back to the hotel and get tattooed with the voodoo symbol.
I performed the ceremony, and within a second of finishing it we heard a screech of tires. We turned to see two cars plowing into each other, only a few feet from where we were standing. The collision was horrific. The ensuing explosion prevented us from approaching the vehicles. Ambulances arrived quickly. Thank God no one was seriously injured.
Everyone was stunned. Back at the hotel, I told my tattoo guy that I was going to change the design. No voodoo symbolism today! Instead I put the ancient equal-sided cross, as opposed to a Christian one, to represent the crossroads. Then I added an image of my eye, for when my eyes were opened at the crossroads. Billie’s name was integrated into the tattoo along with appropriate astrological signs for each of our sons’ birthdays, plus Billie’s and mine. I got the tattoo and said goodbye to voodoo with a deep respect for its power. Like Billie says—“Don’t open doors when you’re not ready to deal with what’s on the other side.”
One day in Memphis, Billie, John Bionelli, and the boys and I were touring Sun Studios. The tour guide was a tall skinny guy with muttonchops, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a scruffy skateboarder look. He gave me his CD, and when Billie and I listened to it, we were enthralled. “Holy shit,” I said, “this is fuckin’ brilliant.” They were a band called the Porch Ghouls.
The lineup was classic porch stomp. One cat played Danelectro guitar on his lap. The front man, Eldorado Del Rey, played guitar standing up and sang. The third guy played harp and shakers and the fourth played suitcase drums. Their sound was raw and their songs were deep. I immediately signed them to my fledgling label, Roman Records, with distribution through Sony. They went in and recut their material using better recording equipment. I got them a van and had them perform on that summer’s Aerosmith tour, playing the B stages at various venues. The record came out, got good reviews, and left me feeling proud that I helped introduce the Ghouls to the world.
There’s a video by the Porch Ghouls on YouTube with music from the independent film This Thing of Ours, directed by Danny Provenzano. At the top, Billie, Steven, and I play bit parts in a parody of The Godfather, with Eddie Lynch, and Frank Vincent of The Sopranos in the lead role. Unfortunately, the Ghouls broke up not long after.
Far and wide, home and abroad, in indoor arenas and outdoor festivals, we pushed Just Push Play as far as we could push it. Despite my reservations about its quality, the record did well. The tour pushed the new songs out there and helped preserve the classics. We persevered in the major and minor rock capitals of the world. Our new relationship with our old label Columbia was off to a good start. But then came the old challenge that was always a new challenge and never an easy challenge.
A new record.
New songs.
The cycle of touring-recording-touring-recording had not changed at all. My fervent hope was that, for all the aggravations in the past, the present would be different. It was different, but in ways I could have never predicted.
HONKIN’
There were the good times—even the great times—when Steven and I walked the world as brothers: In Salt Lake City, we spent a day paragliding off a four-thousand-foot mountain cliff. It was fun hanging together without the stress of the band. On another trip, the rapper Nelly asked me to play a solo in the desert outside Vegas for a video shoot for his hit song “Number One.” Afterward, Steven met Billie and me for an afternoon of paragliding over an enormous lake bed, another over-the-edge experience.
The Perrys and Tylers have a treasure chest of shared memories. There were big cookouts at Lake Sunapee, where we’d watch our kids play in the same lake where we had played as kids; day trips with our families to the Medieval Faire; Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinners, Easter egg hunts, mountain climbing, rock hunting, fishing. Not to mention water-skiing. Steven and I spent a lifetime of summers skiing at Sunapee. We’d ski in an air chair that lifts you over the lake, we’d ski on banana peels (which are skis without fins), I even skied without skis, just t
he soles of my feet keeping me aloft. Throughout the years the Tylers and the Perrys have been able to go on many family vacations together. All beautiful memories, and yet . . .
As we moved deeper into the twenty-first century, my hope was that the collaboration between Steven and me as composers and producers would finally find the right rhythm. It had long been obvious to the rock-and-roll world—especially as we entered our fourth decade—that we were meant to work together.
Back in 1986 we were performing in Dallas when my worn-out boot heel slipped out from under me. I fell some four feet off a riser and tore the ligament in my right knee. I finished the tour using a knee brace and had my first surgery when I got home. For the first few years everything was fine, but as the touring went on, the knee wore down. At this point I’d been living in considerable pain and was told I required surgery. The doctor predicted that it would only be a matter of scoping and repairing a torn tendon. He didn’t think the ACL required replacement. In the end, though, he had to replace that ACL with a cadaver’s. Rehab was rough, but I managed to make it back for the “Girls of Summer” tour of 2002. A month into it, I was walking down a staircase to the stage when I heard something pop and knew my knee was still fucked. My plan was to grin and bear it. My work ethic wouldn’t let me miss a single show. So for the next few years, I dealt with it. Elastic braces helped a little, but I still had to figure out how to move onstage without falling on my face. In the bus after the show, Billie would be waiting with a bag of crushed ice and I’d gulp down a bunch of painkillers. As time went on, the pain got worse.
The pain of writing and producing with Steven had also increased. No progress had been made on a new record. This would be the project that would fulfill Sony’s contract and make us free agents. I wanted us to be in that advantageous position. I wanted this record to happen.
The business had changed radically. Every six months new technology would come along and encroach on the labels’ ability to retain power. Napster and other Internet paradigms had made it easy for people to bootleg or steal music. The record companies were doing little about it, simply hoping the thievery would stop. Record industry people were losing their jobs left and right while the suits were desperately trying to hold on to their seven-figure salaries or find a way to jump ship and cash out. Everyone saw the changes coming but no one knew what to do about it—especially the overpaid suits occupying the executive suites.
I didn’t like how Sony had absolute musical control over everything we did. Granted, we had one of the best royalty deals out there. But the contract that we had signed ten years earlier was woefully behind the times. Sony still got the lion’s share of our money and exerted total control over how our music was exploited. After all these years in the business, we felt stuck with a label that was failing to protect our interests. They were far too proprietary. For example, when Steven was asked to play drums and sing background on a Ringo Starr solo record—a huge honor—he ran into the studio and had a ball jamming with one of his idols. But when Sony got word, they nixed it, contending that Steven playing with Ringo would hurt Aerosmith sales. Sony made certain that Steven’s background vocals were stripped off the tracks. This was embarrassing for Steven and a fuckin’ ridiculous argument to boot.
At the same time, we had to make a new record and were getting nowhere fast. This disturbed me because I was eager to get back in the studio and do something great—something that represented our rock core with new vitality. My eagerness, though, was met by Steven’s reluctance. Once again we were back to the old pattern that had plagued us from the start: Steven was distracted from his job of writing. He wanted hit pop songs. My attitude was that every time you sit down to consciously try to write a hit single you edit yourself to death. I loved having a hit single as much as anyone—but I hated sounding like we were trying too hard. Steven and I were at opposite ends: He was obsessed with making the best pop record ever, while my top priority was getting out of our antiquated Sony deal. I was ready to follow the Rolling Stones formula, where they’d gotten out of their Decca deal by doing “Cocksucker Blues”—just cut a bunch of unplayable funk with outrageous lyrics and let the label dump you.
Meanwhile, we had to get back on the road. Our new tour was titled Rocksimus Maximus, and it would take us across America from July to December of 2003. Aerosmith was co-headlining with Kiss. Even without material for a new record, we could—and we would—always tour.
Like us, Kiss is a band that takes it to their people. Gene Simmons and crew never stop working. Their work ethic is every bit as strong as ours. Decade after decade, they go out and satisfy their core fans. Beginning in the seventies, we also had a shared history. They’d gone through their shit; we’d gone through ours. They had managed to prevail and so had we. I admired their survival skills and they admired ours. They had also skillfully matched an original theatrical performance with great party rock and roll.
The only issue was Steven’s attitude. Because he wasn’t a Kiss fan and was unhappy about the pairing, he refused to do any press or promotion for the tour. Fortunately, we didn’t need much press. The crowds were huge.
During the tour I was intrigued when John Bionelli, a rabid Kiss fan, mentioned that no musician had ever jammed with the band. They also have a strict rule—no one’s allowed in their dressing room for an hour while they become Kiss. I didn’t know this and, a half hour before their show in Oklahoma, I went into their dressing room.
“Hey, Gene,” I said. “Great tour. I’m really digging it.”
Surprised but glad to see me, Gene said, “We are too, Joe.”
Paul said, “Joe, what would you think of jamming with us one night?”
“I think that’d be great,” I said. “But I need to wear the boots. Gotta wear the boots! You have a spare pair? You must have a few spare pairs for the cats who come up and jam.”
“No one has ever jammed with us before,” said Gene, reconfirming what Bionelli had said.
“Then this is a double honor,” I said.
Paul handed me a pair of boots and said, “See if they fit.”
I tried them on. “They’re going take some getting used to. Mind if I borrow ’em for a few days?”
For two days I stumbled into furniture and knocked over lamps until I steadied myself in the boots. I also practiced “Strutter,” my favorite Kiss song. When it came time, I was ready. I took the stage and rocked out with Kiss, a definite rush. Plus, we made a little rock-and-roll history.
We still couldn’t ignore the need for a new record. To push things ahead, Steven and I recruited Jack Douglas, our main man from the seventies, to coproduce with us. We had three months, plenty of time for us to record an album of original music.
As the five of us started discussing the project at the Boneyard, Steven’s heart wasn’t in it. He either came in late or not at all. Nothing was getting done. That’s when I remembered that Sony exec Don Ienner had suggested years before that our first Sony album should be a blues record. Well, why not now?
I called Steven and said, “Look, when it comes to this new record, why don’t we just simplify things?”
“How?” he asked.
“By making a blues record. We can do it in two months. We can cover the blues songs we love the most, the ones we’ve been listening to our whole lives. It’s a way of getting back to our roots and having some fun.”
Silence. I could hear Steven thinking.
“What do you say?” I asked.
“Sounds okay.”
Steven’s tone told me that he was doing it only to appease me. He really wanted a hit record. So did I. But I also clung to my conviction that the best music does not come from a place of “let’s write hits.”
Whatever Steven’s hesitations might have been, we moved ahead with the project. The band built a new rehearsal room with a recording studio at our old warehouse in Hanover, Massachusetts. Our intention was to cut the album right there. In the meantime, we could rehearse in the Boneyard.
The rehearsals were relaxed. It was summertime, so in between takes we’d walk outside and have a cigar in our lush garden, a semi-secluded spot perfect for chilling. During the Just Push Play sessions, Mark Hudson had even painted a purple wooden heart with the words Avant Garden to mark the spot. I had a couple of dirt bikes and four-wheelers for tooling around the grounds. Without the pressure of having to write new material, we could simply dig each other’s company and focus on hot-rodding some of our old favorites. For me it was probably the most fun of any Aerosmith recording project.
It was also fun working again with Jack Douglas, who knew that Aerosmith had to be Aerosmith—five guys meshing in one room. And for us to bang out the blues was, as the Beatles put it, to get back to where we once belonged. Jack had been hoping for all-new material, but he realized that wasn’t gonna happen. He saw the blues record as a necessary step in that direction.
Other than Sony exec Don Ienner, the other label bosses weren’t thrilled about the direction. They argued that a blues album, as opposed to one filled with hit singles, lacked mass-market appeal. They were right, but when I told them that something was better than nothing—especially with our tour looming ahead—they had to agree. We could turn out an album in a hurry—something hot, genuine, and true to our souls—and give our fans a treat. In the end, Sony had little choice but to go along with our plan. Because it was not a studio album of originals, it did not fulfill our contractual obligation. The album was treated as a side deal with Sony, separate from our original contract. Even after this record, we’d still owe the company another album.