I would be all over the place: early Fleetwood Mac with Peter Green, Blodwyn Pig, Taj Mahal, the Fugs. In those days deejays would play the whole side of an album. Nowadays some of your best XM/Sirius stations play deep tracks. We should all be proud that our music, what they were inventing back then, has lasted so long. Love—and the music of its time—is its own reward isn’t it? And having sex with the deejay while she’s playing “Whole Lotta Love” was the ultimate consummation of my radio sex music fantasy.
Joe Perry, Joey Kramer (we went to the same high school in Yonkers), Tom Hamilton, and I arrived in Boston and got an apartment at 1325 Commonwealth Avenue in the fall of 1970, entering the city like spies, ready to conquer the world overnight. It took a little bit longer than we thought it would.
With any of the bands I’d been in I’d always wished we could live together. I’d been dreaming of that since I was twelve, and now we could. We could write together, go to bed at night with the lick we wrote that afternoon fresh on our minds. The Island of Lost Boys.
Day one, I said to the guys, “This is so great that we’re living together! I fuckin’ love that!” It started out blissfully but soon turned into little skirmishes over chewing gum and toothpaste and petty psychological feuds. But that’s what marriages are. And in the end the band really worked, and I think somewhere deep inside—and quite hidden even from themselves!—they really loved me for making them do that when we lived at 1325. Stealing the food and cooking! I would make breakfast; we’d learn those songs and really craft them, make them tight.
In his book, Hit Hard: A Story of Hitting Rock Bottom at the Top, Joey told the world that the reason he has a facial tic is that I abused him just like his father did. I used to yell at him. I’d say, “Don’t play it like that . . . play it like this!” I know good things don’t come without practice; if I was hard on him it was because we had to get it right. But because I had decided not to be the drummer in the band, I gained a right IN MY MIND to be able to live vicariously through Joey.
I had a dream. So in the beginning, Joey was my interpreter, and we sat and played together. I took my drum set and said, “Joey, today’s the day.” And he’d go, “What, man?” And I’d go, “Well, you set up your drums and I’ll set up mine . . . right in front of you! And we’re gonna play facing each other.” He never understood. Later on, with Aerosmith records, he always thought that if I did a snare hit with him—or if I played the high hat while he played the drums—people would notice that there was someone else playing the drums. And I’d say, “Listen to Greg Allman’s ‘I’m No Angel’ or the Grateful Dead stuff with two drummers. It’s a sound. The Beatles sang in a room that had a voice . . . which means the room had an echo. They didn’t have some ass fuck engineer try to get rid of it. They put it on the track like that. Once it’s a hit, that echo is on there forever.”
A room has its own sound and music. You can buy a machine and tune it to “ambience.” When we were making Just Push Play, we recorded our empty room. If you record that hall noise and sing over it, it’s like letting the hall embrace you. It has chairs and equipment and people. The room IS another instrument. The room is in the band.
So with Joey, we would play together, and in the beginning—what I’m getting at—is there’d be this Cheshire grin on both our faces. He loved me and I loved him. He couldn’t believe the tricks I knew. And to this day, he can play what I could never play. But back then, in ’71, it was all about “Hey, show me that again!”
Hence there was I, night after night, sitting near his drum riser, going, “Do a drum fill here,” ’cause he really didn’t know on his own that after the second verse—right after the prechorus, going into a chorus—one needs something exciting and . . . what would that be, Mr. Drummer? A drum fill! A prechorus means “Whoops, here it comes.” A verse should be the storytelling, and the prechorus is the “Whoops, here it comes.” And then a drum fill to go into it to show that it’s important . . . to mark its importance! End of the song, maybe a prechorus again, and a middle eight (recapitulation), a little “tip o’ the hat” to something you might have said in the beginning of the song to remind everybody what it was about . . . and WHAMMO, right into your chorus and you’re out. And during the chorus and the fade . . . come on, play the drums even more. These things I knew and learned and passed on to Joey. So he played, and for the last thirty-five years, I lived through him. I don’t know how not to.
You know what one of my favorite albums of all time is? Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life, mainly because of what drummer Raymond Pounds decided to do, which was, in essence, not live up to his last name. There are very few drum fills on that amazing record. You can be good just holding down the fort. On Zeppelin’s “Kashmir,” listen to that drum beat. Simple. Straight. It gives the song legs—like the linemen who protect the quarterback.
Since I’m a drummer and a perfectionist, I rode Joey hard, admittedly. But in the process I made him a better musician. Like when we’re sound checking in Hawaii, I sat down at the drums and wrote the drum line for “Walk This Way.” You want the story now or when we get to Toys in the Attic? Hey, I never said this was gonna be a completely linear read. How could it be? (Ha!) But we’re on DRUMS so . . . what the fuck?
One of the things I’m most proud of is “Walk This Way,” and it’s very EGO and all, but even after you read the press about Run DMC and Rick Rubin, I still think the song was a HIT in and of itself. And the proof of the pudding . . . “Backdoor lover always hiding ’neath the covers.” You can’t SING that unless you’re a drummer or have some major sense of rhythm.
Backstage with Darryl (Run-D.M.C.) in 1982. (Ross Halfin)
So we’re at the HIC Arena in Honolulu, doin’ a sound check, and Joe was playing a riff and I went, “Whoa, whoa, whoa . . . STOP!” I ran over to the drums. Joey had not come out yet. He was backstage, and Joe and I just started jamming on the “Walk This Way” riff ’cause Joe’s rhythm was fucking “get it!” Bada da dump, ba dada dump bump (air) . . . bada da dump, ba dada dump bump. I got on the drums and played to that, and that’s where the “Walk This Way” drum beat came from.
Joey wasn’t the best drummer in the world when I joined the band, and I was a drummer, and it was my theory of how a real band rehearses that fused the band together—playing that line from “Route 66” over and over and over again—and because I wrote the song “Somebody.” Eventually Joey achieved his independence as a drummer. He always had a hard time playing the rhythm at the end of “Train Kept a-Rollin’,” but he worked on his independence—that’s your ability to move all four of your limbs independently—and in the end he’s turned into the greatest drummer in rock ’n’ roll. He now has a right ankle that’s like a bicep from playing the bass drum.
Joey says I drove him crazy, gave him a nervous breakdown. When we were in rehab together at Steps in Malibu in 1996, the class confronted me. “What’s the big idea of bringing someone here who’s an active addict?” I said, “What the fuck are you talking about?” “Your drummer, your drummer’s on cocaine, he’s got that tic addicts get from snorting coke.” Then I had to explain—but I had no idea I was the explanation.
Okay, so we’re all living and working together and we’re getting these early gigs. Sure, there’s friction from time to time, but nobody in the band has doubts that we are going to make it. Everybody was totally committed. No band I was ever in had gone to that extent. Prior to moving to 1325 I would look at Tom and go, “You’re not leaving, right?” “Are you a quitter?” “We’re doing this, right?” Nowadays, there are fewer places for a young band to set up and play . . . and suck. Dare to suck! We did—you can, too!
Joey Kramer’s the one who brought that funk and shit to Aerosmith because he was playing in black bands and he thought he was all that. Of course, he had no idea what he was going to blossom into. He’s so dis-tinc-tive. Even his mistakes fly-y-y-y!
And then there was my old buddy and gang mate Ray Tabano.
He was there from the beginning. Not the greatest guitar player on the planet but one hell of a crazy motherfucker. Crazy Raymond. And I wanted the sound of two guitars in this band (eye, E . . . the Stones). After a year or so Brad Whitford would replace Ray (in 1971).
Like a lot of bands, we lived in the same house, played, got drunk, went to drug school together, stole to eat. We had no money . . . we were starving to death back then. I was stealing food from the Stop and Shop (rechristened the Stop and Steal). I’d go to the store and get some ground beef and shove it down my jeans to throw in with the rice. I’d make that Gravy Train shit that I could pour over some bread with brown rice and carrots. And then the six of us ate.
The psychological warfare began with milk—which is pretty funny, because it was over spilt milk that the band broke up in 1979. I’d get the milk in the morning and put it in the refrigerator; then I’d go to get a drink of milk and what the fuck, there’s just a drop of milk left. “Well, at least we left you something!” they’d say. And there it is . . . there’s the psycholactological crux of the thing, and that’s pretty much as humorous as I can get about our petty daily band frictions. I’ve gotten real mad, but I never actually hit anybody in the band. That nobody ever hit me is a testament to their forbearance. I probably drove everyone nuts.
Mark Lehman, our first tour manager, 1972. Joe and I wrote “Movin’ Out” on his water bed. (Steven Tallarico)
But if you don’t bring this shit out into the light it gets suppressed and festers. Bands try and avoid aggravation, but hell, it can actually inspire you to write better songs. One day at the very beginning of 1971 I wrote the basic track and lyrics for “Movin’ Out” on a water bed with Joe Perry in our living room at 1325 Com. Ave. I leaped up and shouted, “Guys! Do you realize what we just did?” Their enthusiasm was curbed. “Yeah, what is it, man?” “It’s our firstborn!” I proclaimed. “The first Aerosmithed song! How great is that?”
First song Joe and I wrote. . . . My dad transposed it, 1971.
We all live on the edge of town
Where we all live ain’t a soul around
People start a-comin’, all we do is just a-grin
Said we gotta move out ’cause the city’s movin’ in
All this time the band is sprawled out watching TV, drinking Ripple and Boone’s Farm, smoking pot. They wouldn’t have been interested if I’d said it was the end of the world. “Move over, you’re blocking the TV,” they’d whine. “No, man,” I said, “let’s go write some more songs!” “Bah! Get the fuck outta here!” and they’d flick their joints at me. I got really fucking pissed off at these guys, went in the other room, sat down at the piano, and wrote another verse to “Movin’ Out,” finished up “Make It, Don’t Break It,” and worked on “Dream On.” And just did a shitload of stuff. Love may be the best driving wheel, but anger is a pretty good second.
The albums that had a huge effect on me were Taj Mahal and Deep Purple—a mixture of Taj Mahal and the Yardbirds. That’s what I brought to Aerosmith. I said, “These albums are gonna be our Bible, let’s have at it.” Taj Mahal. God, his album was so instrumental for me, leaving all those cover bands and doing Aerosmith. I named my son for Taj. It was Taj Mahal singing “Going Up to the Country, Paint My Mailbox Blue” right out in the open with his harmonica—that first album, I still listen to it.
We got “Train Kept a-Rollin” from the Yardbirds, but it started as an R&B hit for Tiny Bradshaw, who was a swing band leader. Johnny Burnette hillbillyized it in the fifties and the Yardbirds just smoked it. What did we have to lose? I always wanted to do “Road Runner”—my totem critter. Bo Diddley’s version Britbluesisized by the Pretty Things.
The first thing you got to do is get yourself a blues Bible: Yardbirds, Led Zep, Stones. The old über-amped Brit blues shit. Pieces of the true cross, baby. Fiery holy relics! Peter Green playing on “Oh, Well” or “Rattlesnake Shake” on Fleetwood Mac’s Live at the BBC. What the fuck? Hidden truths! Melodic sensibilities are embedded in that vinyl.
Now, any idiot can basically buy that kit. A bald-headed accountant in a fright wig and tight spandex can do it and end up on the cover of a heavy metal mag. But in the dazed and confused days of yore, the mystic moves of Jeff Beck, Jimmy Page, and Peter Green were only revealed to true believers.
When Jimmy Page came to Boston on the Outrider tour in June of 1988 and dedicated “Train Kept a-Rollin’ ” to” “Steven and Joe from Aerosmith,” that was like a blessing from one of our gods.
We rehearsed at Boston University, down in the basement of the girls’ dorm. Jeff Green, the director of the West Campus One dorms, was a heavyset guy who loved the band and let us practice there for free. We rehearsed until four thirty and then hitched a ride back to the apartment so we could all watch The Three Stooges at five on Channel 38 and share a bong full of brown Mexican marijuana. Let’s get stupid. Well, not everybody gets stupid. I actually think I wrote some good lyrics on pot, but meth, coke, and Tuinals were my drugs of choice.
In Joe Perry I’d seen raw power . . . but how to harness it? One day it dawned on me why Led Zeppelin was the shit. Jimmy Page figured it out, and it wasn’t jamming. Everyone in that band knew what they were playing and played the same rhythm. I heard Joe Perry, Tom Hamilton, and Pudge Scott jamming back at the Barn in Sunapee. I was blown away by their unleashed fury, but I wasn’t crazy about their rambling, indulgent noodling. “Hey, we’re jammin’, man,” they’d say. They even called themselves the Jam Band. My answer to that was “Yah and . . . what? What?!” There’s nothing so great about three people jamming. It’s all egotistical, all over the place. So I said, “How about instead of each of you going off on your own tangents, you all play in sync?” Now, there’s balls! “You guys, we gotta play together. We can’t jam and be a big fuckin’ rock band. The foot’s gotta play with the bass—then we’ll have a serious fucking rock machine.”
There are secrets to rock, just as there are secrets about making love to your wife or girlfriend. Do you come at the same time? I’m not going to ask, but I will tell you that some of the finer moments in my life were making love to a woman and coming together. There’s an ancient magic ritual to this: if right before both of you come, you make a pact or say a prayer and focus that thought, “Sweet Jesus, I want you to send this light” to cure an illness, to achieve some deep purpose in your life, it will happen, because there is no power on earth stronger than that. There’s electromagnetic theory behind it. If I hooked up that energy at the instant you came to an electrode it would go mmmmmnnnbrrrrggggnnnnnnn. The little red needle would thrash like a rattlesnake’s tail.
Now, what if you had a thought while your electricity was ramped up? What if your every thought had an electrical charge attached to it that got overamped during sex? When the two orgasms combine they have unbelievable psychic power. The English occultist Alistair Crowley based his ritual Magick on this principle. And it’s an interesting fact that for a dozen years in the seventies and eighties, Jimmy Page owned Bolskine House, Crowley’s old home on the shore of Loch Ness—so who knows what effect Crowley’s Magick had on the serpentine rise of Led Zeppelin?
I’ve practiced that Crowley Magick so I know it works. I’m not saying that every girl I slept with came at the same time as I did or that I asked her to pray for the same thing I was praying for: namely that Aerosmith would become the greatest American band. But then I didn’t have to, because that’s all I ever thought about . . . or prayed for.
Every kid on every block in every city in America wants to be a rock star. But if girls, money, fast cars, houses in Maui, and skybox seats to Red Sox games are your only motivation—and that’s a lot of motivation—then you’re in trouble. Aerosmith has been together—the five of us—for forty years, with a short two-year break, and you don’t get to do that without some very strong motivating force to counterbalance all the stupid fucked-up things that are constantly working to tear you apart. The psychic glue that held us together w
as the music. The collective sound that the five of us make. Peel back the layers of the onion (that’s what it is) . . . and when it works, it’s above and beyond your wildest dreams.
Like it must have been for Jimi Hendrix’s band. His music was so heavy that when you hear the thunderous, orgasmic opening to “Purple Haze,” you don’t have to say anything. You can imagine Jimi’s drummer, Mitch Mitchell, listening to that playback and going, “Oh, my god! Oh, my god!” The rush and din of it sucked you in, it pulled you under. It was magnetic, utterly addictive—you would follow that sound to the ends of the earth. It’s not something you can walk away from. It’s the sound of humping, pumping, grinding life itself—with a voodoo vibe to it.
I remember my first girlfriend, Geraldine Ripetti, saying, “I heard this song on the radio—I’ve never heard music that sexy.”
“What do you mean?”
She goes, “ ‘Purple Haze.’ ”
Gerry Ripetti had the biggest boobs—I couldn’t even look at them while I was standing in front of her, they were so big, it so affected me, I was st-st-stuttering, be-be-be-because. . . . She was so beautiful. She said, “Steven, you’ve got to hear this record, this is the sexiest music I ever heard.” And just hearing her say “sexiest music” I could feel the lump already arising in my pants. “Sexy? What do you mean by that?” She played me “Are You Experienced?” and, come on! She was so fucking right on, because when you heard those Stratocasting gears churning . . . that was sex as sound in its purest primal form.
No one had ever played like that. No one. So imagine being in his band and saying, “We just played that.” Or the Stones creating that raunchy spooky blues vibe, that energy, that tangible force that could not be denied, it had to be reckoned with. A sound that would be the mouthpiece for a whole generation. When you think about rock bands that made it, why did they make it, how did they make it, what did they make it for—I can get really emotional about this stuff. Because the music that they made was so strong, so overwhelming that it was a prayer and an answer all at once.
Does the Noise in My Head Bother You? Page 10