by Joe Perry
It turned out that Dr. Collins played guitar and Dr. Tanzi played keyboard. So during the period of my Have Guitar, Will Travel album, we jammed together and made a Rock Stars of Science video. We met up in Washington, D.C., where the three of us testified at a joint meeting of congressmen and senators on the need to fund research into cancer and Alzheimer’s. At a post-hearing jam, we were asked to play unplugged. The keepers of the House were afraid that the loud rock buzz might smash the crystals in the chandeliers.
The campaign continued in New York two years later, when I was honored by the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center labs. I spent the day with doctors, scientists, and researchers, looking and learning. We did interviews that were posted on YouTube and created a Rock Stars of Science poster—“Rock Gods Don’t Follow Orders”—that showed me and the scientists looking like we were about to take the stage. The New York Yankees got behind the effort and plastered the poster all over their stadium. Within a few weeks, the poster was all over the country.
Despite the lack of headway on a new album, Aerosmith forged ahead. Another summer meant another tour. This one, though, would be short-lived. It was also the tour that brought up the question that had never quite gone away: How long can this band stay together?
FALLING
Steven’s moods grew increasingly erratic. He was either flying high or falling low. When we finally got it together to go on the Guitar Hero tour during the summer of 2009 with ZZ Top, he was increasingly out of it. Then, on a cloudy night in August in Sturgis, South Dakota, as we were about to break into “Love in an Elevator,” the power went out. While the technicians worked to fix the problem, out of the corner of my eye I saw Steven lose his footing on a ramp and stumble off the stage. The bodyguards down there began to lift him up. I moved in to see if he was okay but he was already mobbed by security and stagehands hustling him backstage. None of us knew what was going on. Then he was put in an ambulance that roared off into the night.
What followed was a long and difficult separation between Steven and the band. We were extremely worried about him but also furious that he had played in such a fucked-up state. We had to end the tour. Even more worrisome was the thought that Steven could have fallen differently and wound up killing himself. He claimed that before the show he had only snorted Lunesta, a sleeping aid, which would have explained his wooziness.
Man, were we pissed! Steven had cost us a summer tour with one of the best bands in the country. We were all ZZ Top fans and had been working to get this lineup together for years. It was the big sold-out tour of the summer. Its cancellation meant that thousands of rock fans wouldn’t get to see the show, not to mention the money it would cost both bands and their crews.
More importantly, we were concerned about Steven. I tried to call him but couldn’t get through. A few days later his manager sent an e-mail to us and our management. He stated that Steven was being bombarded with phone calls and did not wish to speak to anyone. If we had any questions, we could address them to Steven’s manager. Steven made it clear that he had spoken to everyone he wanted to speak to.
Well, he had not spoken to us, his bandmates. The silence continued for months. That was fucked because Steven made it impossible for us to check on his well-being and, more importantly, how his condition would affect the band’s future, and our finances. He made it hard to have any sympathy for him. Later he’d bitterly complain that we had ignored him. That was only because he had insisted we stay away.
Later that year he did show up for a few gigs that we had to make up as a result of the cancellation. Mark Hudson came along as his companion/assistant. But Steven never spoke a word to any of us, and as soon as the shows were over, he disappeared.
In early November 2009, after a concert at the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, I flew to England, where, on behalf of the band, I received an award for our classic album Rocks. Ironically, it was in Classic Rock magazine that I read an article headlined “Is Aerosmith Headed for a Permanent Vacation?” In a postshow interview back in Abu Dhabi, Tyler had discussed the future of Aerosmith: “I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” he said, “but it’s definitely going to be something Steven Tyler, working on the brand of myself: Brand Tyler.” He also spoke about taking two years off from Aerosmith.
He hadn’t said a word to us. This was the first we learned that he intended to go out on his own. It reminded me of how he had handled the Zep auditions: a unilateral move done on the sly.
I figured I had two choices: I could wait with the other guys until Steven’s “Brand Tyler” operation was over and hope he’d rejoin the band, or I could keep making music. I chose the latter. Fortunately, I had a new album, Have Guitar, Will Travel, which allowed me do some traveling and promotion. It was a way to stay creative and positive.
We received a letter from Steven’s manager confirming that Steven was taking off two years to develop “Brand Tyler.” Then came another letter from Steven, restating his decision to leave. He claimed that Brad, Tom, Joey, and I had been auditioning other singers to take his place. This wasn’t true. On the other hand, if Steven had really decided to jump ship we’d be justified in coming up with a Plan B. So when the press approached me on the issue, I said that we were exploring our options. In fact, no other vocalist ever rehearsed with us or tried out for the gig. But then the press did what the press loves to do—they distorted the story and said Aerosmith was looking to replace Tyler. None of this was true.
I could tour behind Have Guitar, Will Travel because Aerosmith’s slate was empty. There were great moments that year: When Johnny B. and I were on a promo trip on my bus, we were in Chicago for the weekend. By coincidence, Lollapalooza was happening Saturday, and Jimmy Buffett was playing Sunday. At Lollapalooza, before sixty thousand screaming fans, I sat in with Perry Farrell and Jane’s Addiction on “Jane Says,” and the next night I found myself jamming with Jimmy Buffett on “Margaritaville” in front of sixty thousand Parrotheads.
Howard Kaufman got behind the CD, released on my Roman Records and distributed by Mailboat, Buffett’s label. We headlined at large rock clubs and at several arenas opened for Mötley Crüe. The experience of playing with my own band again felt great. No backstage drama or yelling. In its place were good vibes and lots of laughs. Just play and give it all you got. There were no politics, no backstage tension, no wondering if there was going to be a freak-out because the toilet paper was the wrong color. Granted, I was the boss. But top of my list was finding guys who could really tear it up, get along, and have fun making music together. Whether playing before a hundred or a hundred thousand, it was a blast, reminding me of the bands I had formed in the sixties before Aerosmith.
The highlight was opening for Paul Rodgers and Bad Company during their reunion tour of the UK. I’d met Paul over the years and knew that, like Aerosmith, his band had gone through heavy changes. On this tour, though, there were no problems. Paul had taken great care of his voice, treating it like the precious instrument that it is. He belted out those great songs with more power than ever. All the fans—including me—were thrilled to be seeing Bad Company in its original glory.
As the Project prepared to leave for the UK, we played Irving Plaza in New York. During the encore break, much to my surprise, Billie came into the dressing room and said, “Steven’s here,” just as Steven, Mark Hudson, and entourage walked through the door. Tyler had timed it so he’d arrive backstage during the break. Having just completed a steamroller set, we were exhausted.
“I want to sing ‘Walk This Way,’ ” said Steven coldly. I could see that he was not in good shape. He made it plain that he had not come to discuss reconciliation. He simply demanded to sing the song as my encore.
“Fine,” I said, “but you’ll have to sing it as a duet with Hagen.”
He kept saying he wanted to sing alone, but when I made it clear that wasn’t going to happen, he agreed. Onstage, he sang over Hagen’s lines anyway. Making matters more confusing, he also announced to the audience
that rumors of his quitting Aerosmith were bullshit. He said that he was not leaving the band. All fine and good, but I knew the truth. Over and again he’d made it clear that he was leaving. At the same time, at the end of this great show I wasn’t about to comment. Let Steven say whatever he wants to say. After he had his say, he walked offstage and left the building—no goodbye, no thanks for letting him sit in, no anything.
After the show, I saw a clip on YouTube of Tyler and his crew leaving the club. Mark Hudson was shouting at reporters and cameramen on the street, “Did you hear what went on in there? Does that sound like Steven is leaving the band?”
Mark had worked himself up into a frenzy over an announcement that apparently he and Steven had planned.
This was a dark period for Steven. He was back on heavy drugs. Fortunately, at the start of 2010 he checked into the Betty Ford Center for rehab, where he remained for three months. When he got out, still another uneasy peace between Steven and the band was forged. He was angry with us for supposedly looking for a new lead singer. Although he had his own management separate from the band, he wanted back in. Fine. But at this point we couldn’t trust him. We decided that he’d have to sign a contract to do forty gigs a year for the next three years. He agreed.
The tour, known as Cocked, Locked and Ready to Rock, was tense. Once again, we traveled the world. Our fans embraced us just as our fans always have. But the underlying discord—the friction between Steven and the band—was palpable.
In Wantaugh, New York, as Steven was swinging his mic stand around, it caught the side of my head. I knew it was an accident, but it was a clear example of how Steven, disregarding everyone else, feels that it’s his stage. I’ve certainly bumped him by accident enough times over the years, but never with the potential damage that can come from a twenty-pound metal mic stand crashing into your head.
In Toronto, I was standing at the edge of the stage. The spotlight was in my eyes, blinding me to the boxes and wires below. Since time immemorial, Steven has had the habit of cozying up to Tom, Brad, and me as we’re playing. Sometimes he’ll put his arm around us or bump into us. Since we’re concentrating on our instruments, this can catch us off guard. But because we know the audience thinks that Steven is acting out of exuberance or spontaneous affection, we give him a lot of leeway. For my part, I don’t like it, especially when I’m at the edge of the stage. So when he bumped into me in Toronto, nearly knocking me down into the pit, I got pissed.
I was furious, my heart pounding in my chest. I’d asked him innumerable times not to bump into me from my blind side—whether he thought it was cool or not. As I walked back from the edge of the stage, I gave him a slight hip check, never thinking it would throw him off-balance. I just wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. He wavered a little, then tipped over the side of the stage, into the waiting arms of a security guard. As I reached down to help him back up, he tried to pull me into the audience. I resisted. When he was finally back onstage, I said, “Sorry you fell, but don’t bump me from behind—ever again.” After that, the tour wound its way around the world without further incident.
When we returned to L.A., it was time to finally start the much-postponed Aerosmith album that we owed Sony. In a perfect world, that should have been be no problem. But in the world of Aerosmith, there are nothing but problems. And this new one turned out to be a motherfucker.
IDOL
We were in L.A. when the Sony execs came out to meet with Steven and me about the long-delayed new album. First they met with Steven, then with me. The enthusiasm was high. Our commitment was absolute. With the approval of Joey, Brad, and Tom, Steven and I asked Jack Douglas—the greatest of all Aerosmith producers—to come on board.
“I can’t wait to get started,” said Steven. “It’s gonna be the bomb, and not only that, this one’s gonna be delivered on time.”
We were all grateful that Steven was into it 100 percent.
A day or so later I saw Randy Jackson at our gig. That wasn’t unusual since celebrities are often at our shows in L.A. and Vegas. But that same night there were rumors that Steven has been chosen as a judge on American Idol. It was hard for me to believe this would happen without his saying something to the band. I dismissed the rumors—until the story went viral on the Internet.
Up until then the band had been playing great and all of us getting along. There were the usual ups and downs, but things were generally smooth.
The next day we played Vegas. I went to Steven’s dressing room and asked his entourage to clear out. He knew that meant I needed to talk heart-to-heart. When we were alone and seated on the couch, I asked about the Idol business. What was the story?
“I couldn’t turn down the offer,” he said. “If I had told you guys about it, the band would have tried to talk me out of it.”
“That’s not true. It’s an opportunity for you. But this was obviously something you had been planning for a while. Yet not one fuckin’ word to us. No thought on your part how this might impact the band.”
“I knew that the band would be jealous.”
“Nobody’s jealous. It’s not about jealousy. It’s about trust. Between your talk of Brand Tyler and taking off two years and now this Idol thing, how the hell can we trust you?”
He had no good answer.
“We see this is a once-in-a-lifetime deal for you,” I said. “And that’s great. But what’s not great is how you went about doing it without the least respect for us. You didn’t respect the fact that what you do impacts our lives and the lives of our families. Every time I’ve done anything on the side that could affect the band, I’ve let everyone know way ahead of time. I expect the same of you.”
“It just came up. It was sudden.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Steven, I know goddamn well that something like this has been in the planning stages for weeks. That’s when you could have let us known what you were considering. Instead you cut us out and we learn about it the same time as the rest of the country. Man, that’s not only disrespectful, that’s fuckin’ insulting.”
There was more I wanted to say. I wanted to say that it took all these long years of hard work on the part of the band to help Steven get to the point where he could attract such an offer. I wanted to say that, rather than disregard us, he ought to show us some gratitude. But I’d said enough. I stayed silent and just shook my head in disbelief. I knew by now my feelings and sense of propriety would have been met by more bullshit.
I thought to myself: This is Steven. This has always been Steven. Steve Chatoff’s words were ringing in my ears: “Steven will never change.” But after forty years, I saw he was getting worse.
At this point we had no idea how many years Steven would be away from the band—or whether he wanted to be with the band at all.
Beyond that, there were the Sony execs who had learned about Idol the same time as the rest of us. They had just been to L.A., where Steven acted like his first priority was the new record. Now this. They were disheartened and understandably vexed.
One of the execs asked me, “How can we trust this guy?”
I didn’t have a good answer.
Months passed before we knew what was happening. As usual, Steven kept us in the dark. But when talks finally did begin, it was clear that he did not want to leave the band. He also agreed to start work on the long-postponed album.
Once again, in spite of everything, Aerosmith, the band that could survive anything, was still intact, a major miracle in the history of embattled bands playing this thing called rock and roll.
ANOTHER DIMENSION
Before we started the new album, I realized that something else was long overdue: I had to address my dependence on pain pills. I still had not reverted to hard drugs or alcohol. My behavior wasn’t unruly or out of control. But I knew I was indulging. The series of operations over the past five years had allowed me legitimate access to prescription drugs that I took for legitimate reasons. As time went on, though, the line between leg
itimate and indulgent continued to blur. For a long time, Billie and I had been talking about my going into rehab. Now I knew it was time.
Steven gave Billie the number of his contact at the Betty Ford Center in Rancho Mirage, California. I called and we spoke about my entering their program. I made arrangements to fly there from our farmhouse in Vermont. My plan was to go alone. I didn’t feel the need to have my hand held.
“Don’t fly commercially,” said Steven when he learned what I was doing. “I’ll rent a private plane and I’ll take you there myself.”
“Thanks, man,” I said, “but there’s no need for that kind of extravagance.”
Steven was insistent. He wanted to accompany me to the center and introduce me to his therapist friends who had helped him some months before. He said he’d call me with the details. When I didn’t hear from him that weekend, I figured he’d changed his mind. Just as well. As I was confirming my commercial flight, he called to say that he had rented a plane. He couldn’t wait, in his words, “to hook up my brother with my people at Betty Ford.” It seemed like he had turned my decision to go to rehab into a personal crusade, as though it were his idea. It started feeling like another opportunity for him to take credit for something he hadn’t done. The bottom line, though, was that I just wanted to get healthy. When he kept insisting on flying me out in a private plane, I took him up on his offer.
We arrived in Rancho Mirage and were driven to the center, where Steven said goodbye, hugged me, and wished me luck. I knew that he took pride in walking his brother through the door, but I sensed another agenda. Later I learned that he was chairing a big meeting that night at Betty Ford to celebrate his months of sobriety—something he had never mentioned to me. Even his lawyer and agent came out to hear him speak that night. He had led me to believe that he was making the trip for me and me alone.