Rocks: My Life in and Out of Aerosmith

by Joe Perry

  Billie and I helped bring the All Stars themselves to Woodstock’s Pentangle Arts and Music Festival in Vermont the following summer. They were touring America on the strength of the film, and while Woodstock wasn’t nearly large enough to justify a stopover, we helped make it happen anyway. The band members were not only the nicest human beings you’d ever want to meet—ranging in age from sixteen to fifty-six—but superb musicians. The first half of their set was reggae-based and the second traditional African. Amazing, when you consider that this was a band put together in the abject conditions of a refugee camp. I was honored when they asked me to jam. Their traditional instruments were works of art, but their electric stuff wasn’t in good shape. I rallied my instrument manufacturer friends to donate new gear. Everyone came through. The youngest All Star was a teenager who was into rap and wanted to go to college. When we put a new Mac PowerBook complete with Pro Tools recording programs under his arm, he had stars in his eyes. The All Stars spread joy wherever they went, proof of the power of music to help people overcome the most horrific circumstances.

  That same summer, with both Steven and me working with broken-down knees, we took our tour to Europe, the Middle East, and India.

  A few months earlier Billie, John Bionelli, and I, longtime fans of Tom Jones, had gone to his show his Vegas and hung out with him afterward. He and I had a warm chat and agreed to go into the studio together someday soon. Then came this worldwide tour that had Aerosmith in England the same time that the sons of Princess Diana threw a huge charity show at Wembley Stadium to honor what would have been their mother’s forty-sixth birthday. Tom Jones—who was headlining along with Elton John, Duran Duran, Rod Stewart, and Kanye West—called and asked me to accompany him. As luck would have it, I was off that day. Hell, yes, I’ll play with Tom Jones. I went out there, standing next to Tom, for a two-song set. As eighty thousand Brits cheered, he hit every note like a kid in his prime. That was one guy who took care of his voice.

  Steven had been invited and turned it down. But he remained unhappy about my playing with Tom Jones without him and wasn’t shy about letting me know. He blasted our manager Trudy Green with a jealous e-mail about my appearance at Wembley.

  The tour took us to exotic locales and introduced us to new worlds of fans. I was especially happy because Billie and I had invited my mother to come along. There were huge crowds in Dubai, and, most spectacular of all, there was India. We were driven through the streets of Bangalore in crazy traffic. The air was clouded with heavy exhaust smoke. Minibike riders seemed intent on committing suicide. Suddenly we turned into a walled compound where a huge ornate gate opened before us. The elaborate structure was left over from the days of British rule. We climbed out of our cars and looked around at a lavish botanical garden. It was dusk. The air smelled of burning incense. Torches were lit. Moments later, the peace was broken as a parade came our way, complete with traditionally garbed men and women dancing alongside an Indian-style marching band. Blessing us with incense smoke, women draped exquisite silk scarves around our necks. We were given an exotic blend of fruit juice that tasted divine. Like royalty, we were escorted to our private bungalows.

  As a surprise for Billie I had arranged in advance to have hundreds of night-blooming tuberose flowers hung above our canopy bed. When we opened the room, the sight of the roses—the same beautiful flowers that had been used in our wedding leis in Hawaii—brought Billie to tears.

  A few days later a large, painted elephant appeared for a photo session, marking the first time in Aerosmith history that the elephant in the room was a real elephant.

  When it came time for the show, the moon was full and the crowd ecstatic. I worried whether the fans would actually know our music. I had no reason to worry. They sang along to the words of all our songs.

  That night in ancient India, time stood still.

  When we got home, more good news awaited us. The Aerosmith edition of Guitar Hero was out of development and would soon be in stores. It was great knowing that we were making our way into the world of high-tech video games. We were the first band to have a game of our own. It wound up selling more than any music game ever. As of April 2010, it had sold 3.2 million copies. In fact, it far outsold our last album, Honkin’ on Bobo, and exposed Aerosmith to a whole new generation of fans. Guitar Hero had the same impact on our career as having a hit album.

  Steven wanted more money than the rest of us because of his lip-synching. But his argument didn’t hold water. The game was called Guitar Hero, not Vocal Hero. The guys who developed it even told him, “We don’t need you to do that extra work. We have pros who can handle it.” But Steven insisted. His ego was getting more and more out there. In the end, we ignored his demands for a bigger share and split the money five ways.

  Our success with the new format should have had us jumping for joy. But Steven turned it into a nut bust for everyone involved—the band, our management, and the game’s producers.

  Triumph turned to exasperation—the Aerosmith paradigm continued.

  CONFUSION AND PAIN

  After a series of arthroscopic surgeries, in March 2008 I had a total knee replacement. I’ll spare you the bloody details. But I will tell you that nine months later, my knee was not looking good and I was not feeling well. The pain hadn’t diminished. I thought it was because I’d gone back on the road too early without giving my knee a chance to heal. Because it was swelling, I had the knee drained. When the results came in, the doctor put me in the hospital the very next day for emergency surgery. The knee had become infected and at any moment the infection could have spread through my body. We caught it just in time. But that meant going through the whole damn replacement thing and months of painful rehab all over again.

  On the Aerosmith front, the band was reeling from more internal conflicts. The battle with Steven had entered a new and perilous stage. He was pissed about Guitar Hero. Even more pointedly, his relationship with Erin Brady radically changed the band dynamic.

  I had first gotten to know Erin when she and Steven went out on a double date with Billie and me in Vegas. I was impressed. She seemed easygoing and good for Steven. We were happy for them. Then, while still working for Live Nation, Erin moved in with Steven. It was during that period that Steven called me and said he wanted to have a meeting with Erin, Billie, and me. Could he and Erin come over? Sure.

  Still on crutches from his foot surgery, Steven arrived alone.

  “Where’s Erin?” I asked. “Is everything okay?”

  “No, everything’s not okay,” he said. “I’ve gotta get her outta here. I’ve gotta get her on a plane tonight. She’s fuckin’ unbelievable, Joe. She’s worse than Elyssa and Cyrinda put together.”

  I was shocked to hear that. Several days later, though, Erin was still at his house. At that point I knew the relationship was going to be a hell of a ride for Steven, but I never expected that the band would go on the ride with them.

  The more involved Steven became with Erin, the more she became involved with his career. She got deep into Steven’s ear and deep into our business. She became a divisive factor, reminding me of those disruptive influences that had injured the band back in the seventies. But even Elyssa never got into band business. She caused trouble, but she knew not to cross the line. In contrast, Steven gave Erin the run of his end of the business. He also reversed our policy of excluding wives and girlfriends from our meetings so that he could include Erin. She had much to say, especially about cost-saving measures that turned out to be inconsequential. After the initial one, Billie refused to attend any more band meetings that included girlfriends and wives. She thought the band meetings should be just that—band meetings.

  Steven considered Erin an insider when it came to sales and marketing. It didn’t matter to him that we had our own insider—our manager Howard Kaufman, who had more experience and expertise in the field than anyone.

  Erin had Steven convinced that we were being cheated left and right by forces both known and u
nknown. She fed Steven’s paranoia to the point where he separated himself from Howard and the band. He insisted on his own representation. He was drawn to Erin, not only for what he considered her superior business acumen, but also because she had a wild side. She liked to party. So it became Steven and Erin versus the world. Erin excited his ego and his already elevated sense of entitlement. She convinced Steven that now, more than ever, the band needed him far more than he needed the band. That made him almost impossible to work with.

  In April 2009, I went to Cleveland to play with Jimmy Page and Jeff Beck at Beck’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. We also jammed with new inductee Metallica. We decided to play “Train Kept a-Rollin’.” Because it was a classic blues that had been handed down from generation to generation, I was surprised that Metallica didn’t know it. We spent most of the sound check showing them the song. Even so, Metallica earned their spot in the Hall of Fame. I could see, though, that with Jimmy, Jeff, and me representing the old school, rock and roll was getting farther away from its roots.

  Late that summer, I was itching to start work on a new Aerosmith album—that final record we owed Sony. I called Steven on a Sunday and said, “It’s been too many years since we’ve written together. And when we have, the room’s been too crowded. Let’s get back to basics—you and me. You play drums, I’ll play guitar. Let’s try it for a couple of weeks and see what happens.”

  “You’re right,” he said after thinking about it for a few seconds. “I’ll come over to the Boneyard tomorrow.”

  The next day he called at 3 P.M. “Sorry, Joe, I got involved in some phone calls. We’ll start fresh tomorrow.”

  Tuesday came and went. No Steven. Finally he called and said, “I forgot I had a dentist’s appointment.”

  He also blew me off on Wednesday and Thursday. When he finally showed up on Friday, we hit a good groove for three or four hours, putting some solid ideas down on tape. The new Aerosmith album was off to a good start.

  “That was fun,” said Steven with a happy gleam in his eye.

  I agreed. “If we keep this up, in a few weeks we’ll have a batch of stuff to work on,” I said. “Can you come back Monday? I’ll be down here working all weekend.”

  “All right,” said Steven. “I’ll call you tomorrow to confirm.”

  Saturday, no call.

  On Sunday I left messages on all his phones but never heard back. Monday and Tuesday—no sign of Steven.

  Then late Tuesday night came the news: I learned that over the weekend he had flown to England, where he was auditioning for Led Zeppelin. What the fuck?

  Two weeks passed before I heard from him again. But I did hear from others and read in the papers that his Led Zep audition had been, according to Jimmy Page, “shambolic.” Apparently his voice was in rough shape. What’s more, he hadn’t learned the lyrics to the songs. By all accounts it was a disaster.

  By now, being treated this way by Steven was nothing new—just another window into our “partnership.” But I wondered about Jimmy Page’s side of the story. When Steven finally did mention it, he said, “Jimmy didn’t have any material I liked. Besides, it would have been just for a few gigs.” Yet several months later when I saw Jimmy and asked him about it, he said, “My first question to Steven was, ‘What about Joe?’ Steven’s answer was, ‘Joe doesn’t want to work right now.’ ” Jimmy also said he hadn’t even wanted to audition Steven but did so because he’d been hounded by his manager as well as his old roadie Henry Smith. When I spoke with Henry, he in turn said that it was Steven who had hounded him to get Jimmy to agree to the audition. Henry wasn’t happy about being put in the middle. He also wasn’t happy that Steven had missed the first day of the audition or that, when he finally did show, he had been embarrassingly unprepared.

  You’d think that by now I’d have been used to Steven’s lying. But I guess you never get used to being disrespected by someone who has been your bandmate for four decades.

  I was pissed, not only because Steven was trying out for another band, but because he’d done it behind my back. If he had come to me and said, “Hey, Joe, I’m burned out on Aerosmith. I think I’m gonna try and sing with Zep. What do you think?” I wouldn’t have been happy, but I would have given him credit for being up-front. Steven had pulled stunts like this before, yet this was a new low. The incredibly defensive version of the audition that he gave to the press was laughable.

  The Zep fiasco had taken place in September. There were gigs that fall. We went on the road, where, in Aerosmith tradition, we buried the resentments. We brought in Brendan O’Brien to help kick-start our new album, but we never got very far. Steven wasn’t really willing to work. Five years had passed since Honkin’ on Bobo. Five years is a long time without a record.

  Brendan started coming in every few weeks to help get the ball rolling. We began working up some of the rough riffs that would form the backbone of the new record. Steven either showed up late or not at all. He just wasn’t into it. That was surprising because, like me, he was a big fan of Brendan’s and loved how he had mixed Get a Grip. Despite everyone else’s enthusiasm, though, Steven was emotionally distant. He was getting higher and higher, while I was suffering with knee and painkiller problems. Nonetheless, we moved ahead. The material was getting strong. I felt like I had a tank of high-test gas in a sixties muscle car. I was ready to rock. Plans were made to record in New York. The studio was booked, a schedule blocked out. But a week before we were due to start, Steven withdrew. He said he had pneumonia, which would require three weeks of rest. Scratch New York. Nothing could be done until the following summer.

  Well, I had all this creative energy inside me. I had to bust loose. It had been four years since my Joe Perry album. So I did what I’ve always done. Rather than drive myself crazy waiting on Steven, I started making new music.

  I had a ton of original material—music and lyrics—ready to go. Plus Billie had happened to catch a German vocalist named Hagen on YouTube singing the hell out of “Dream On.” The guy had a killer voice and I thought he might be just what I needed for my solo record and possible tour.

  Billie and I went down to Atlanta to check out Brendan’s studio. He and I cut some tracks with his session drummer and also played the clip of Hagen. “The kid has pipes,” said Brendan. I asked Brendan if he could produce the record, but he had other commitments, so he did the next best thing—he let me borrow his great engineer Tom Tapely to cut the tracks back at the Boneyard for what would be my fifth solo record.

  We weren’t the only ones who were enthusiastic about Hagen’s powerful voice. Howard Kaufman also liked the idea. He pointed out that, were I to tour behind the record, I’d need a vocalist to sing the heavyweight Aerosmith songs. So we flew Hagen in from Germany and, from day one, he was perfect for the Joe Perry Project.

  I worked closely with my engineer Paul Santo, who’s also an accomplished drummer and keyboard and guitar player. It was Paul who helped me put together one of my favorite tracks, “Wooden Ship,” an instrumental dedicated to the memory of Les Paul, the great guitar master. Beyond his ability to play beautifully in any number of genres, he was the inventor of an archetypal guitar model that changed the nature of popular music—and certainly changed my own life.

  I brought in my old friend and founding Project player David Hull as well as Ben Tileston, a drummer in my sons’ band and a student of percussion at Boston University. We even had Boston’s godfather of dada punk, Willie Alexander, playing killer keyboards. Hagen and I shared the vocals. In the past, I tended to write in keys that suited Steven. But now, in addition to writing for Hagen, I was also writing in keys that suited my voice.

  Certain songs—like “Slingshot”—took me back to the very beginning, my boyhood love of rock and roll. It’s a song, by the way, that I had to sing myself. It was that close to the heart. The entire record, Have Guitar, Will Travel, was close to my heart, a reconfirmation of my commitment to keep rocking and rolling as in days of old.
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  In what was largely a dark period for Aerosmith, a bright light came shining through my own life. I was asked to participate in the Rock Stars of Science project. The underwriter was the Geoffrey Beene Foundation, which donated 100 percent of the proceeds to cancer and Alzheimer’s disease research. I was drawn to the project primarily because of my own father’s struggles with cancer.

  I was both impressed and humbled to meet with Drs. Francis Collins and Rudy Tanzi. Collins, an internationally respected geneticist, served as director of the National Institutes of Health, while Tanzi, a professor of neurology at Harvard, directs Massachusetts General Hospital’s Genetics and Aging Research Unit. In addition to discovering the Alzheimer’s gene, Tanzi coauthored Super Brain with Deepak Chopra. Both physicians are true rock stars of science.

  Beyond raising money for cancer research, the idea was to generate a media campaign that inspired kids to work in the sciences. The liberal arts have always been glamorous. As a musician, I’ve lived my life devoted to the arts. But I’ve always had a great passion for science. The fact that America is turning out scientists at an alarmingly slow rate does not bode well for our future. I was happy to join this effort to stress the creative joy of scientific research.