Keep in touch with Mama Kin.
Tell her where you’ve gone and been.
Livin’ out your fantasy,
Sleepin’ late and smokin’ tea.
“Route 66” was our Stones mantra, a way of finding our groove. It was the riff I asked the band to play again and again in the basement of BU to show them what tight playing meant. When I started rehearsing with the jam band, we jammed as good as anyone, but to survive the rock ’n’ roll world, we’d have to write songs and get under the hood . . . that’s why I had Aerosmith play that lick from “Route 66” over and over and over until we were as tight as a midget’s fist.
We played it so many times it eventually morphed into the melody for “Somebody” on our first album. “One Way Street” was written at the piano at 1325 with the rhythm and harp coming from “Midnight Rambler.” On “Movin’ Out,” the first song I wrote with Joe, you can hear him quoting Jimi Hendrix’s “Voodoo Chile.” He quotes the Beatles and the Stones elsewhere on the record. The rhythm of “Write Me” (originally “Bite Me”) came from something Joey was playing. But the intro comes from the Beatles “Got to Get You into My Life,” because at that point we didn’t know how to write hooks.
“Dream On” was the only song I hadn’t finished by the fall of ’72, so I moved to the Hilton at the airport in Boston while we were doing sessions at Intermedia Studios for the first album. I just buckled down one night and wrote the rest of the lyrics . . . and I remember reading them back and thinking, “Where did I get that from? It’s strange rhymage.” I loved Yma Sumac, the Inca Princess with the staggering five-octave voice. “Look in the mirror, the paaaaasst is gounnnnnnnnh.” That’s the Yma Sumac vocal swoop. Singers generally don’t go from the bridge to the chorus with a bridge note like that, but it worked melodically for me. It’s like the Isley Brothers singing “It’s Your Thing,” where after the solo the first line of the verse is sung an octave higher, then slides down an octave for the next.
I would sing along with Yma Sumac, that eardrum-piercing banshee shriek, beginning in the highest register. She sang these strange, otherworldly songs in movies like Secret of the Incas and looked like an over-the-top Hollywood version of an Inca queen. Sam, Dave, and Sumac—an inspirational trinity.
In October 1972 we started work on our first album at Intermedia Sound. It took only a couple of weeks to record because we’d been playing many of the songs—especially the covers—for over a year. Adrian Barber, an English engineer who’d worked with Cream and Vanilla Fudge, produced the album. It was recorded on very primitive equipment—sixteen-track to AGFA two-inch oxide tape.
The band was very uptight. We were so nervous that when the red recording light came on we froze. We were scared shitless. I changed my voice into the Muppet, Kermit the Frog, to sound more like a blues singer. Kermit Tyler. I would unscrew the lightbulbs so no one would know we were recording. One of my favorite things to say before we recorded a song was “Play it like you would if no one’s looking, guys.” They’d be recording and we’d be so nervous, making mistakes and hesitating, and I’d go, “Fuck being nervous! Just play!” We would run through the song live a couple of times and then Adrian would shout. “Yes! It’s got fire; it’s got the bloody fire!”
As soon as we’d cut that first song, “Make It,” upon listening to playback, I knew we’d nailed it. I’d done “Sun” at some studio in New York and all that shit. “Sun” was stiff and forced, but I knew that with this band, once we got out of our own way we were going to ace it. And with a great guitar player like Joe in the band, if we stayed true to our fuck-all . . . everything would sound like Aerosmith.
I used an exaggerated black-speak voice on all the tracks except “Dream On.” I thought it was really cool. The only problem was, nobody knew it was me. “Ah say-ng lak dis” because I didn’t like my voice and it was early on and I wanted to put on a little. To this day, some people still come up to me and ask, “Who’s that singin’ on the first album?” I was into James Brown and Sly Stone and just wanted to sound more R&B.
“Dream On” deserved strings, but we couldn’t hire an orchestra on the kind of budget we had for our first record, so I used a Mellotron to fill out the sound. It was like an early sampling device employed by the Beatles. I used it to add strings and flutes to “Dream On,” while doing lines off my keyboard. I thought the Mellotron would do the trick, coming in on the second verse.
In the end we decided not to use “Major Barbara” and did Rufus Thomas’s “Walkin’ the Dog” (via Stones) instead, which was tighter than a crab’s ass from doing it in the clubs for so many years. On the first ten thousand copies of the album they spelled it “Walkin’ the Dig.” If you happen to find a copy, it’s worth about five thousand dollars. You’d figure with all the cash and power the labels had, they’d learn how to spell. That, coupled with the fact that “Dream On” didn’t come out until after the second album, made me think . . . if things didn’t go down, we wouldn’t go up. I believe in life imitating art, but who is art and why is he imitating me anyway?
Of all the songs I wrote on that first album, “One Way Street” has some of my favorite lyrics:
You got a thousand boys, you say you need ’em
You take what’s good for you and I’ll take my freedom
The original title was “Tits in a Crib.” That’s what I wanted to call it, but that was forty years ago and things weren’t as loose as they are today. I wrote it about this girl I was seeing. I’d talk her into coming over because she was such a trip . . . did me sooo good. She had a baby, and when she came over she’d bring the kid and his crib, saying, “I have no babysitter tonight.” She used to fuck me to death in that crib. The line “You got a thousand boys, you say you need ’em” came from where we were living at the time, in Needham, Massachusetts. I’ll do anything for a rhyme. I can’t think of that girl’s name now, but god, she was the skinniest, cutest little trollop.
The style of the first album was raw, filled with relentless attitude. We were a bunch of boys who had never seen the inside of a recording studio. You can practically hear our hearts racing on every track. Barber’s atmospheric technique resulted in tracks that were so open you could literally feel the tracks breathing . . . it was almost transparent.
We knew the road was where we could conquer. Sure it was sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, but we wanted to add one more word to the equation . . . gynormous. We needed to get to the people, so we did it ourselves. Played every small town and went to every station in the fucking country. Sure it’s old school, but it worked.
Aerosmith was all about sex . . . music for hot chicks and horny boys. Loud, bone-rattling rock for chopped and channeled cars and customized Harleys. If you’re driving along and you hear “Movin’ Out” you’re gonna go, “I wanna get the fuck out of here and dance!” Roll the window down and let the world in on your little secret. Well, the gist of Aerosmithism is: cars + sex. Booty-shake music. We rocked like a bitch. Creem, April 1973, wrote “Aerosmith is as good as coming in your pants at a drive-in at age 12. With your little sister’s babysitter calling the action.” Okay, at least somebody out there was getting us.
We spent the whole of the 1970s on tour. It was just one long endless road trip. We’d stay out on the road for a year and a half. The only time we’d come off the road was to record an album. We went out with everybody: Mott the Hoople, the Mahavishnu Orchestra, the Kinks. We toured the Midwest that debut LP summer in a couple of limos with the two guys from Buffalo and Kelly, our new road manager: Robert “Kelly” Kelleher. Our first real tour was opening for the Mahavishnu Orchestra. John McLaughlin, in his white robes, burning incense. Spreading his transcendental six-string scent . . . sweet. We opened for the Kinks in the Northeast and Midwest; Ray Davies called us Harry Smith, after the hair on Kelly’s back. We were opening for bands that were our heroes—Ian Hunter from Mott sang like no one else did. Groups that were beginning to fade a bit . . . and whose aud
iences we wanted.
We stickered every tollbooth from Boston to NYC to L.A. with our first Aerosmith sticker, 1973.
We used to do out-of-town shows with Mott the Hoople. We’d make up to five hundred bucks a night, with them. To save on getting there, we’d use these bogus DUSA—Discover USA—tickets that were, like, 50 percent off. You were supposed to be a non-American passport-holding tourist to get them, but we found this travel agent who helped us out. Then I’d go up to the counter with an English accent: “Hallo! We’d like to preboard,” or whatever the fuck it was. That’s how we were able to do that.
Tom, 1974 . . . so I could hold him hostage. Not anymore . . . (Steven Tallarico)
Then we’d come home and play every high school in the area and little neighborhood colleges. We’d throw a thousand dollars at the athletic fund, and we’d do everything else. And they’d give us the four walls—meaning we’d make all the money. It soon became a little status thing: “Oh, Aerosmith played at our high school!” And then Wrentham High and then the Xavarian Brothers out in Westwood and everybody wanted to have Aerosmith play at their school and we pretty much did.
We did it at our high school, too, and at BC, Boston College. At the Q Forum at BC, that was when I knew the band had made it, the crowd was so huge and out of control. (Meanwhile, our Father Frank is in the hockey team dressing room with Father So-and-So, getting him drunk. Oh, those were the days!) Because there were so many people that we were almost afraid to go on, we went into the bathroom with a security guard, Johnny O’Toole, outside the door. The kids were throwing chairs through the bathroom window and climbing in the window! Ripping the back doors off the arena, just blowing the windows out of the place, trying to get into this hockey rink, which they did. So we ran out of there and went down a hallway. Boston College, 1973. There were so many people, a real freak show.
Sometime in ’73 this guy Tony Forgione said, “I’m going to open a club”—it was the old Frank and Ike Supermarket where Eric Clapton and Joey Kramer had played years ago—and asked us to headline. Al Jakes was around, and all those goofy guys from Frank Connally’s old crew in Framingham. We had Billy Squire and the Sidewinders open for us. The fire department was there and they’d posted a certain capacity. “Here’s how we’re going to do it,” I said. “We’re going to fuck ’em up tonight.” When you’ve got that many people coming in, you estimate the crowd by the median between three clickers. We had three different clickers between us. But the count is always jive because someone somewhere is always on the take! When we were doing it, we’d count every third person coming in. We stuffed that club. We opened one night and the fire department closed us down the next night. The club never opened again. And we took all the money! Steamroll.
Elyssa Jerret, who married Joe Perry, remained unbelievably gorgeous. Everyone was in love with her. She’d been Chicago guitarist Joe Jammer’s girlfriend, had gone to England, worked as a high-fashion model, had dinner at Jimmy Page’s house at Pangbourne on Thames . . . and all that. She felt this patina of über-hipness had rubbed off on her.
On the road, we played “Dream On” every night. I thought that was the song that defined me. But not everyone shared my passion for that ballad. Every time we started to play “Dream On,” Elyssa would roll her eyes and go, “Oh, fuck! Not this song again! God! Let’s go snort some blow!” She’d make sure I saw her. And all the guys in the crew followed her into the bathroom. While she was cutting up lines, it cut me to the core—it broke my heart. It was the song that hurled us to wherever we are today and beyond. Born somewhere between the red parachute and my dad’s piano, that song took this band to places where we could only dream on.
Back in the early days before we’d had a hit on the radio, we made our reputation playing live and loud. As an opening act we’d only get to play three or four songs, so if we wanted to strut our stuff, slow songs weren’t what we’d play. You do the hard and heavy down and dirty to get your ya-yas out. Joe didn’t like “Dream On” from the start, didn’t like the way he played. He felt we were a hard rock band, and here we were staking our reputation on a slow ballad. And to Joe, rock ’n’ roll was all about energy and flash. When it was first released in 1973, “Dream On” only made it to 59 in the Hot 100 charts. But, you know, the song got bigger and bigger and I got my “taa-daa!” moment. When it got rereleased in 1975, it went to number 6 in the charts. I got a Grammy for it, but I would gladly have traded any gold album just to have my brother love that song. Wait a minute, I take that back!
The concerts were getting more rowdy and outrageous. We opened on August 10, 1973, for Sha Na Na at Suffolk Downs racetrack near Boston. Thirty-five thousand kids showed up and got so rowdy they had to stop the show. Awright! Now that was more like it.
Aerosmith had been big in Detroit from the beginning. We had a loud, flashy, gritty, metallic vibe. Rolling Stone called us greasers, “Wrench Rock,” which was strange because we looked more like medieval troubadours. We were hardly grease monkeys—mechanics of ecstasy, maybe. But they did love us in the rust belt towns: Toledo, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Detroit. The only part of us that was heavy metal was the clang of steel . . . the body shop, assembly-line, car-based clamor. We’re a people’s band. Judy Carne—the English comic who starred in the iconic TV show Laugh-In and dated Joe for a stint in the early seventies—thought we were the voice of the mills and the malls. And those working-class towns were the places that embraced us early on.
We had to get out there, however we could, to the fans. We knew that the energy we had was contagious, that we would infect the whole colony. Evidence that we were getting through came when we started pulling Mott the Hoople’s audience. Kids started jumping over the barriers, climbing onstage, and grabbing at us. Detroit was the turning point for us. We played Cobo Hall three times in ’75. After that, we exploded. There’s a ton of bands out there competing for the hearts, minds, and bucks of the sacred rock fan, but Aerosmith has managed, for better or worse, to get to the ear (and various other organs) of a lot of them.
Still, our core audience was always the Blue Army—the hard-core kids from the Midwest. They were the Blue Army because they all wore denim jeans; the place was a sea of blue. Just like when you go see Jimmy Buffett and his Parrothead contingent . . . look out, it’s Q-Tip Nation. Everyone’s fucking gray and they love it. And we all got to ride that Aerosmith train to the outer reaches.
Our interest was the same as the kids’: rocking out, getting them off . . . getting us off! Like I always inquire, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?” Inspires a quick verse . . .
Was it as good for you as it was for me?
That smile upon your face makes it plain to see
What I got, uhuh, what you got, oo-wee
So was it as good for you as it was for me?
CHAPTER FIVE
Confessions of a
Rhyme-a-Holic
When I was in my late teens, seventeen or eighteen, I used to come home from one-night stands with local New Hampshire bands like Click Horning and Twitty and Smitty and crash at Trow-Rico, fucked-up on trashy skunk New England weed. I began to write a song on an old Este pump organ about alienation. The ancient Victorian instrument, made in vermont in 1863, lived in the studio where my dad practiced piano four hours a day.
In order to play on the pump organ, I’d have to sneak time during the day while the guests were swimming at Dewey Beach. The song started with a melody in my right hand that rocked back and forth hypnotically, out of the ether. That was “Dream On.”
I began it in F-minor with a C, C-sharp dischord. That gave it a haunting, Edgar Allen Poe kind of feel. I wrote much of the body of the song in Sunapee, where I knew I had something. The verses were composed at the Logan Hilton when we were working on our first album.
I’ve always said it’s about hunger, desire, ambition—a song to give to myself. Something about it was nostalgic and familiar, as if it’d been written by someone else yea
rs before (but if no one has, then you know you’re into something), or perhaps like I had written it years later and was looking back on all the things that have happened to me over the last four decades. “Pink,” off Nine Lives, felt that way, like it was somebody else’s. However interpreted, my primordial thought was that maybe I wasn’t put here on earth just to mow lawns.
Every time that I look in the mirror
All these lines in my face getting’ clearer
The past is gone. . .
Stream of consciousness mixed with the Grimm’s fairy tales my mother read to me from the crib till I had to read them to myself.
Sing with me, sing for the years
Sing for the laughter and sing for the tears
Sing with me, if it’s just for today
Maybe tomorrow the good Lord will take you away
The lyics to “Dream On” came in a thought . . . and my train of thought stops at every station.
By pure crazy chance last summer I found the very organ on which I’d written “Dream On,” in a house on the lake road near where I live. That road has become for me a kind of metaphor for my life. Beginning in the woods near my house, I remember the days I’d be up in Sunapee at the start of winter, really scared in the dark and not knowing what to do with my life. Then farther on, the road winds down to the harbor where Joe and I used to hang.
The road forms a loop, a three-mile jog that meanders past houses quaint and grand, beside grassy green fields, up and down grades. I would make the trek every morning for two months to prime myself for any upcoming tour. Nobody would ever guess that I get the breath to sing “Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” in fucking Russia from running this friggin’ loop. If I could make it up Heartbreak Hill down into the harbor and back up to the house still in one heart-pumping, breathless piece, I’d be ready for the campaign. Sometimes I’d run right off the end of the dock into the water, anointed by the waters of Mother Nature, baptized by freezing Lake Sunapee.
Does the Noise in My Head Bother You? Page 13