by Joe Perry
The kicker was that, while I was out there, my accountant called and said she’d just received a bill for the private jet—sixty thousand dollars. I hit the ceiling. I was the one who’d been perfectly happy to travel commercially; it was Steven who had insisted on flying me out on a private plane. Of all the screwed-up things Steven had done, this was among the screwiest. I told the accountant to send Steven the bill. The bill came back to me a few more times until Steven got the idea that I was not paying it under any circumstances.
During the South America tour of 2011, Aerosmith was at an all-time high, the bandmates getting along as we sold out huge arenas. Yet even in the midst of this period of goodwill, the underlying tensions came out.
Steven was heard telling the promoter that the only reason he was touring was because the band—not he—needed the money. He said that he made his from American Idol. On the road he had to split his money five ways, and he didn’t like it.
His insatiable ego was even more evident when 60 Minutes came to call. In his interview, Steven implied that he alone had carried the band to greatness, complaining that the rest of us were riding on his coattails. When I heard that statement, I thought, That ungrateful fuck. God may have blessed him with a million-dollar voice, but when I think of the thirty-five years that the five of us worked together—and this is what he’s got to say?—my respect for him as a human being drops to almost nothing.
There also were insightful statements from my bandmates, who said that my opinion of Steven was far more important to him than his opinion of Joe Perry was to me. Surprising me, Tom Hamilton said, “Joe defines cool. Joe is the rock star of the band.” This, though, was one of the various interviews that the show placed on their website, leaving the juicier bits in the segments that were aired.
The band watched Steven’s bullshit, knowing he had spoken his truth and we had spoken ours. For good or bad, the 60 Minutes piece showed the true band dynamic.
Home from the tour, I was asked to play and sing on Amnesty International’s fiftieth-anniversary CD dedicated to the songs of Bob Dylan. I was honored to sing “Man of Peace” and pleased when they made a video of my performance and asked me to sing the song on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno. I was also honored to sing the song at Muhammad Ali’s televised seventieth birthday party in Vegas, a charity event for the Cleveland Clinic. I was thrilled to shake the champ’s hand. Even in a wheelchair he appeared larger than life. When we locked eyes, I saw a powerful gleam that spoke of great determination and indomitable strength. His mobility may have been crippled by Parkinson’s, but nothing could stop that fighting spirit.
At long last the band settled down to turn our attention to our next record, Music from Another Dimension!, a much-belabored album with an infinite number of stops and starts. You could say we’d been working on it off and on since the aftermath of Just Push Play. Given that Steven was taping Idol in Hollywood, we decided to finish the tracks we had recorded at our Vindaloo studio the summer before the Japan, South America, and Australia tour. Jack Douglas was amenable and, as always, proceeded according to his first rule in producing Aerosmith—get the boys playing together. That did my heart good and gave me hope that we’d be able to turn out an exciting record even in our sixties.
One of the most meaningful songs I wrote was “Freedom Fighter,” which I wound up singing on the record. When I got ready to cut the track, I’d just gotten off the road and didn’t have all my studio guitars. Around this time I met Johnny Depp. He’d known Jack Douglas for years. Jack had invited Johnny and his buddy Bruce Witkin down to the studio and, fortunately for us, he was an Aerosmith fan. Later on, Johnny invited me to his studio, where he lent me a guitar. Rooted in our common love of guitar rock and blues, we became fast friends. You can hear Johnny and Bruce singing background on “Freedom Fighter.”
In 2012, Los Angeles, as always, turned out to be a hot spot for musical creativity. Great guitarists, innovative guitar makers, and edgy new equipment were everywhere. I used an Epiphone, a semi-hollow-body guitar with a short-scale neck that gave the strings a tighter, more percussive sound. You hear that sound on “Legendary Child,” a track Steven and I worked up with our friend Jim Vallance from Vancouver. Combining the old with the new, I played into a ’50s Fender Bandmaster, an old three-speaker amp that’s one of my studio basics. I’m also partial to going back to the by-now ancient technique of avoiding an amp altogether by plugging the guitar directly into the board. Many of the new amps diminish the sound of the foot pedals. Plug in directly and you get a fuller sonic feel.
Another song I wrote alone, “Oh Yeah,” was a riff that had been kicking around my head for years. It was on my B list. But Steven loved the lyrics and kept pushing it to the A list. I really wanted to sing it, but Billie had an idea.
“If Steven likes it so much, why not let him sing it?” she said. “Or at least do it as a duet.”
She was right. With Steven’s vocals, “Oh Yeah” turned into an Aerosmith song strong enough to be included in our live show.
“Oasis in the Night” was my Valentine’s Day present to Billie. “Too many talking heads,” I wrote, “what was it that they said / When we’re apart my days are dark / When I’m with you I’m in the light / You’re my oasis in the night.”
“Something” was another song I composed and sang alone. “There’s something that tells me that you got everything you need,” I wrote, “but all you want is more.” It’s a slow, bluesy rock tongue-in-cheek lament about my deep dissatisfaction about our past managers. I urged Steven to play drums on it, and he played it perfectly ragged, giving the song an edge unique to his percussive instincts. Every measure felt like it was going to collapse, only to be brought back with twice the power.
There are two strong Steven-Joe songs—“Luv XXX” and “Out Go the Lights”—and two superb songs for which Tom Hamilton wrote both music and lyrics: “Tell Me” and “Up on the Mountain.” Brad nailed some rockers, the feel of which hadn’t been there since “Kings and Queens” from Draw the Line back in the seventies. I thought the ballads were weak, with the exception of Diane Warren’s “We All Fall Down.” But those were the songs that Steven wanted out there and, in the spirit of the record, we put them on. You never know.
For his part, Steven busted his ass on this project. He’d come to the studio after a full day at Idol and spend another eight hours recording. Whether tracking, overdubbing, or mixing, he didn’t miss a single session.
There were videos—my favorite a live concert performance at the Hollywood Bowl of “Train Kept a-Rollin’ ” with Johnny Depp rocking out on guitar—and cool features in the CD package itself, the best being a sketch made by Slash when he was in high school study hall: his pen-and-ink drawing of Aerosmith in 1982.
Our fans received Music from Another Dimension! enthusiastically, sensing that we had struck the right balance between hard-core rock and beautiful ballads. I also loved the fact that everyone in the band threw in his own ideas. Dimension came as close to a classic Aerosmith album as we had made in years.
The thinking was that because Steven was a high-profile presence in the pop landscape on Idol, the band would benefit. That might have happened during the first season, when he was wacky, funny, and unpredictable. He was on. But unfortunately fame on a show like Idol doesn’t translate into ticket sales or turn songs into hits.
During the second season, things got tired and went flat. There were rumors he was not invited back for a third season. That was fine with me. His presence on the show, though, did dramatically widen Aerosmith’s reach while giving Steven more of what he really craves: fame. From the start, Steven made no bones about it. More than money, more than being the best songwriter—a skill at which he’s no slouch—fame is his driving force.
Analyzing the relationship between Idol and overall Aerosmith income, we saw an uptick of a couple hundred percent on two Aerosmith songs for a very short period of time. We were all hoping this exposure would give us another bu
mp—like Armageddon or Guitar Hero—but it didn’t work out that way. I felt that most of the American Idol watchers weren’t the kind of Aerosmith fans who would come to our shows and buy our records. At the same time, hard-core Aerosmith fans might have seen our brand as somewhat tarnished by Steven’s association with the show.
At least Steven had a great time on the show and some of his dreams came true. We were all happy for him because we knew how much it meant to him to have been a judge on American Idol. But his excitement and willingness to do a Burger King commercial only confirmed what I thought was the truth. Fame, not an allegiance to writing music or the tradition of carrying on the blues, was and is his driving force.
When the Songwriters Hall of Fame inducted both Steven and me in a formal ceremony in New York in 2013, it was an unexpected thrill. It was great seeing nonperforming songwriters get a turn in the spotlight. It was also great to be honored with writer/performers like Elton John, Bernie Taupin, Mick Jones, Lou Gramm, and J. D. Souther.
But even though Steven and I were inducted as partners, I felt that a piece was missing. While it’s true that the majority of Aerosmith hits were written by me and him (and an occasional third party), those hits would not have been hits had they not been played by Tom, Brad, and Joey, who also toured tirelessly to promote them.
Unlike the legendary team of Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller, who conscientiously guarded their partnership and almost never wrote with others, when it came to Aerosmith material, Steven wrote with whomever he liked whenever he liked. He was never a partner I could count on. As much as he wanted our writing relationship to mirror Mick and Keith’s, he seems to have missed the trust part.
I continued to push ahead. I did sound track work for movies, including G.I. Joe: Retaliation with Bruce Willis. Thanks to Phil Conserva, I wrote some music for CSI: Crime Scene Investigation and, thanks to Randy Spendlove and John Debney, contributed to Tyler Perry’s Madea’s Witness Protection. I also did a cameo playing myself in Glory Days, a film shot while we were in Singapore.
Meanwhile, Aerosmith played on. We continued to tour the world. Few other bands of our era had their original members—alive, kicking, and still together. Few other bands enjoyed the kind of fan loyalty of our always faithful Blue Army—not to mention a whole new generation of teenagers. Scarred and damaged, angry and resentful, issues misunderstood and issues unresolved, we kept working—for the music, for the fans, for the money. We did it out of habit, we did it with ambivalence, but mainly we did it because our passion for the music drove us. Today that passion still makes us feel like eighteen-year-olds.
But mostly it’s seeing a fan wrap his or her arms around one of us and hearing words like Your music got me through rehab. . . . Your music kept me afloat. . . . Your music saved my life. That’s strong stuff. Steven’s antics, my arrogance, all the stuff that went on with the other guys—it all pales against the knowledge that long ago this band became something bigger than all of us.
And then there are those moments that surprise even us. A huge example was Japan.
In March 2011, a few weeks before we arrived, the country was hit by one of the worst natural disasters in its history: a massive earthquake and tsunami that resulted in a catastrophic nuclear meltdown. For reasons of safety, we were told to cancel our tour. For reasons of obstinacy—and plain devotion to our Japanese audience—we refused. We went over and played a series of sold-out concerts that were among the most emotional of our career. Fortunately, our video director, Casey Patrick Tebo, filmed the concerts and interviewed many of the fans in attendance. With tears streaming from their faces, they spoke about what it meant for us to have shown up for them at a time when strength was desperately needed.
The DVD documentary, Rock for the Rising Sun, includes an interview with Nobu San, one of our most dedicated and generous fans. He has been to some two hundred Aerosmith concerts the world over, sometimes bringing his whole family. When he heard we were coming back in 2013 to promote the DVD in Japan, he offered us three hundred thousand dollars to do five songs he had never heard us play live. In the past, we’d taken suggestions from fans about songs to add to our playlist, yet this was an entirely different request. We quickly decided to honor Nobu San’s request but donate the money to the Japanese Red Cross tsunami relief fund—a great result for everyone.
When terrorists bombed Boston in 2013, two of our sons lived within miles of the explosion and manhunt. That really brought it home. And when Aerosmith played the Boston Strong concert to benefit the victims, once again I felt how rock and roll, born in the blues and rooted in rebellion, can comfort, strengthen, and inspire people to embrace hope over fear. In the face of a violent world, trepidation is understandable. Yet rock and roll—at least Aerosmith’s brand of rock and roll—stares trepidation in the face and says, “Fuck fear. We came to play!”
VERMONT IN THE SUMMER
Vermont winters are underrated. They can be so brutal that when Nobel Prize winner Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn was expelled from the Soviet Union he came to live in Cavendish because it made him feel at home. Cavendish is only twenty-five miles down the road from our farmhouse, a refuge from the world. Winter, fall, spring, or summer, I always feel at home in Vermont. It brings me back to the elements I love best. With its many lakes and mountains, it brings me back to the water and woods and the beginnings of my life on this troubled planet. Living in Vermont is like living in a country apart from time.
A year ago I was sitting on a hillside with hundreds of acres of wilderness behind me. Before me I saw the quaint farmhouses and huge barns built centuries ago that belonged to my neighbors. As I looked over the landscape, my black-powder Kentucky long rifle rested on my lap, I heard the chugging of an old car engine far in the distance. All I could see was a black dot making its way up the dirt road. As it came into view, I realized it was a friend driving his rebuilt Model T Ford. He noticed me on the hill and we waved to each other. It dawned on me that this was a scene that could have taken place a century ago. I got goose bumps. I thought to myself, I love this setting. I love this moment. I was born in the wrong time.
Now another year has passed and I’m back in Vermont for another summer, another chance to step away from the noise of modern existence and look inside my mind and life. I take a deep breath and feel grateful for the fact that, here in Vermont, I am with my entire family. All my sons are here with their wives, girlfriends, and children. Billie is here. Both our mothers are here. And so is my sister, Anne. These are the people I love and care for most deeply. To see the various generations smiling, laughing, and loving with such ease makes all the struggles worth it.
I leave the family at the farmhouse to take a late-afternoon walk into the wilderness. This is the time of day when the animals start coming out. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to see a bobcat. The fragrance of the pine forest is overwhelming. The smell is pungent, fresh, and strong. The air is crisp and exhilarating. An early-morning rain has washed the sky clean. The sky is cloudless, a bright and luminous blue. I spot deer behind the ancient trees. I keep walking, moving up a hill, moving through what feels like an eternal moment.
There are philosophers who claim that we are always in an eternal moment. The past, they say, is regret, and the future is fear. Now is eternal. Yet even in the now we look back with wonder. And one of the most amazing things I’m now remembering is something that happened not long ago when, in spite of a lifetime of conflicts, Aerosmith stood tall and united in front of 1325 Commonwealth, the Boston apartment building where, forty-two years earlier, five scruffy kids came together to form a rock-and-roll band. What were the chances of us making it? A hundred to one? Millions to one?
The area around Commonwealth had been closed off to traffic. Forty thousand fans had come to hear us give a street concert and see the unveiling of a plaque that acknowledged the historical significance of this spot. High-ranking politicians were in attendance as well as celebrities like Tom Brady. The New England Patriots cheerleaders w
ere cheerleading. It was a mad celebration for a mad band that had, despite it all, survived. It was a once-in-a-lifetime moment.
I looked at the crowd and then turned to look at the second-floor bedroom that had been my room forty years ago. What the hell would I have thought if, at age twenty, I had been in that window looking at the sixty-two-year-old Joe Perry? Would that young kid—so full of fire—even recognize the rock and roller who had been to hell and back?
Those heady thoughts of Commonwealth recede as I walk deeper into the woods. I think of Steven and our struggles. I think of the countless times we were furious with each other. I also think of the times we have walked through the woods together like brothers. I think of his great volatility and his even greater talent. I think of him as one of the world’s greatest rock-and-roll singers. I think of the time when he was on American Idol and I surprised him by coming on and playing “Happy Birthday” for him. Afterward, I went over to the judges’ podium and gave him a hug. It wasn’t planned. It came from the heart. He is my brother. Even though we’ve drifted apart, there’s that guy in there that I still love. I have great love for Tom, Joey, and Brad—brothers all. I am deeply grateful to all of them.
Recently we played Australia for the first time in twenty-two years. We put on shows in places where we’ve never appeared before—Singapore, the Philippines, and New Zealand. At this late date, it’s great to still be expanding our audience. To be touching music fans the world over in a positive way continues to be—along with the love of my family—the great blessing in my life.
I’ve been walking for a good hour. When I reach the top of this hill, I stop to look at the mountains and the green valley below. It stretches for miles. It’s absolutely breathtaking. I think back on a lifetime in rock. Have the struggles been worth it? The music has made it all worth it. And I know there’s still music to come. As long as there is breath inside me, I will make music. Music is the ongoing miracle that gives my life meaning. Music inspired me as a child; music changed me, directed me, and set me on the path that has led me to this moment.