“But first,” she says, “I gotta go back home for a few minutes to put out some feed for the horses.” Oh yeah, I’m not in New York anymore. I end up back at her house, riding horses bareback all night, naked. Right out of a storybook. Is this really happening? Am I dreaming, or am I being dreamed? Around 5:00 A.M., she says, “Put your clothes on, we’re going. What the hell, I wanted to see the show anyway.” If this ain’t something I already put in a song, it sure as hell’s gonna be.
Well, the next gig was in Davenport, Iowa, and damned if we didn’t drive that little Corvette all the way. Four beautiful hours, with mysterious fields of corn flashing by, rusty old gas stations, grain elevators, clapboard churches—and the sun’s coming up.
Two months later, she’s still on tour with me. The guys in the band, of course, are royally pissed. Why wouldn’t they be? They’re up there reading their in-flight magazines, drooling stewardess dreams, while I’m out there getting my kicks on Route 66. I swear to god—or General Motors—I never traveled so sweetly . . . to this day.
I only wish we were on the radio right now, or on Oprah. I would say, “If you’re out there, please call this number. I want to know how you are, what you’re doing, and what you look like now!” Of course, sometimes you don’t wanna know. You’d rather remember them the way they were—the way we all were.
Later on, when fame comes, things change. We’re in all the pop magazines and gossip columns, we’re fuckin celebrities, and we’ve got an impressive entourage of haute coke dealers and purveyors of other things for the discerning drug addict. Everybody wants to be my baby, everyone wants to kiss my ass.
“But isn’t that what you always wanted, Steven?” my guardian angel in a pink bustier asks. Hell yeah, baby. Whatever you say.
But Fame is a bitch. You’ve probably heard that somewhere, but only because it’s goddamn true. It’s a riderless horse, it’s a two-headed dog sniffing its own butt, a one-eyed cat peeking in a seafood store. And . . . it’s the absolute greatest generator of creative fiction there is. You make it up, then they make it up. And as soon as you get well known enough for people to want to make stuff up about you, they will. It’s not up to you anymore; the demon is on the loose. Everybody you work with, buy a car from, hire as a babysitter; everyone who fixes your computer. Each becomes, overnight, a writer of short stories, a chronicler of mouth-watering scandal.
Remember who we’re talking about! Famous people. Why, they’re capable of almost anything you can imagine. They’re degenerate, ruthless, heartless, and disgusting, so pile it on. Anyone who’s worked for Paul McCartney, believe me, has a story to tell.
“I saw Macca massaging her stump!” “Get out!” “No, really!”
Of course, that’s all we ever wanted: to be famed and acclaimed, but be careful what you wish for, because fame is the bitch goddess of rumor, innuendo, slander, and gossip and the perverted purveyor of tabloid trash. She’ll say anything to anyone anywhere. “Pssst! Wanna hear some real hot stories about Steven Whatsisname? How he got there and what he did to whom when he got there. It’ll make your hair stand on end—and that’s not all that’ll stand on end, baby. Wanna see some Paris Hilton–type sex tapes? Wanna hear some nasty shit secretly recorded by his babysitter—I swear!” Oh, yeah . . . that shit goes on. Tapes of the babysitter overhearing every private conversation you ever had with your children, band mates, accountants, ex-wives, even your fucking proctologist. In the end, even the babysitter’s story makes you look like an asshole.
Once you become a rock star—something you’ve prayed for fervently since you were sixteen, making promises to sleazy saints and strange goddesses of the night—all bets are off.
After you’re famous, it’s all simple and brutal: you’re either loved across the board for things you did do . . . or sneered at for things you didn’t do—or vice versa. Either way, you become a dartboard for other people’s fears, doubts, and insecurities, and right there in the bull’s-eye are the two terrible tabloid twins: sex and drugs. Now, of course, the good stories—we claim proud ownership of those. As for all the rest, well, we don’t read our own press . . . wink wink. But that’s horseshit. One way or another we eventually get to hear all the news that’ll blow a fuse. If we don’t read it, we’re sure to hear it from girlfriends, mothers, fathers—or our best friends. Then there’s the occasional “Tyler’s in Room 221” written in smoky letters across the sky by a stunt pilot who found that we were staying at the Four Seasons in Maui, who got his info from the concierge who got it from the bellboy who got a phone call from the airline steward who sent the call the second he saw your ugly face getting off the plane. “LEND THE FAMILY PARROT TO THE TOWN CRIER!”
No matter what you do, there’s someone putting together a little bag of anecdotes in which you’re prominently featured doing nasty stuff. If I get gas down at the corner, the woman who pumps my gas is going to be telling all her friends the next day. And the story will grow: not only do I get my gas there all the time, but I get my car serviced there, and, as matter of fact, I had dinner over at her house the night before and watched American Idol with her and made popcorn. And if she happens to be good-looking and your wife finds out, then you’ve automatically had an affair with this girl. That Stevie! The kind of things he asks you to do!
So, go on, make it up! By now Steven Tyler is pretty much a fictional character anyway—I have absolutely no control over the little fuck. I read about him and I don’t know who it is.
Just the other day, I open a book and what do I find? A former Aerosmith accountant, a perfectly reasonable, rational person—someone who adds up columns of figures, divides them, amortizes them, collateralizes them—has turned into a writer of bodice-ripper romances. She’s telling a lurid tale featuring little old me. The woman’s become an authority on my sex life: My dear, there’s a little-known fact I’ll share with you about Steven Tyler . . . Something that few people know. By this point we’re all holding our breath, we’re spellbound. In a hoarse whisper, she continues: He makes his groupies put on kinky costumes. Oh, yes, he designs them himself. He makes them recite nursery rhymes while he fucks them. He can’t get it up unless they’re dressed up as Little Bo Peep, Little Miss Muffet, Little Red Riding Hood. . . .
What a perv that Steven is! And that was my accountant!
Back to our story already in progress. . . . The band hits warp speed in the Midwest. At the helm our driver, Mark Lehman, a one-man hump-amp, rig-lights, set-up-sound-system wizard. When I saw Almost Famous I said, “Holy shit, is this sideways Aerosmith or what?” We were on that bus, in that plane, diving naked off rooftops into the way-out-o-sphere along with fellow demon Ted Nugent. The hallways were crowded with bad girls, seedy characters, and a waiter named Julio delivering groupies on a room service cart.
Now, one night after our show at the Paramount Theatre in Seattle in late November 1973, we’re all in this big room backstage, and our very considerate promoter had invited these girls there for us. “I’ve got a little surprise for you boys.” My, my, my, what do I spy with my little eye? Six nubile young chicks, one cuter than the next. They curtsy and introduce themselves to the band. One says, “Hello, boys, we’re the Little Oral Annie Club.” Well, beam me up, Scotty, says I.
Then she says, “Well, sir, we’ve taught each other how to give great head, so when we meet rock stars . . . we blow you like no man has been blown before.” To have two girls come up and say, “Hi, we’ll do each other, wanna watch?” is mind-boggling. Six hot girls and one of them whispers in your ear, “I can eat her pussy right here and now better than anyone on the planet.” I think I can safely speak for all males of the species . . . this moment would have changed your religion.
All these girls were dressed up fantasy style in sexy costumes. Guys are very predictable creatures. We all like schoolgirls in plaid skirts, women in high heels and fishnet stockings. . . . Strawberry Fields, as she called herself, was their den mother—kind of heavyset and a littl
e older, but she knew what rock stars—hell, what all boys—wanted. As for the me that I thought I knew? He’d left the building! This woman knew. She knew how to take care of her girls and how to please the boys.
Speaking of which, remember a little group of nasty girls called the Plaster Casters? There were originally two Plaster Casters, but soon more were needed. If Led Zeppelin were in town, say, and the first two girls were busy . . . well, that night they would send another couple of girls over to do the Allman Brothers. Eventually there were more girls involved at each session: a plethora of plasterers. One cooked up the plaster, the second one did the fluffing, and the third one would cast the mold and put it in her Easy-Bake oven. I never had my plaster casted, ’cause I always believed in mystery meat. I figured if I got the cast, it would wind up on someone’s mantelpiece somewhere, and people would be going, “That’s Steven Tyler’s dick?” We’d lost half our audience right there.
The girls are parading around in their outfits, and I’m talking to Strawberry Fields—she’s got my attention—and other parts of my anatomy, too, by now—and she’s telling me all the stuff they do. Groupie Geishas! I wanted to say, “As long as I’ve got a face, you’ll always have a place to sit,” but it came out, “Igloo boffrim modden ginsky” . . . but what I meant to say was “Blahimi auhfern koofnard gynolia?”
“So, uh, you girls, you dress up in different outfits?” I asked.
“Well, of course, we have any kind of costume you want,” chimes Ms. Fields. “Just tell me. We’re here to please.” This was way before you could call a service and say, “Send over a couple of hookers dressed up like Jack Sparrow and Whoopi Goldberg.” Strawberry Fields had the costumes made to order for your particular perverted fantasy—any fucking fantasy your twisted little heart desired. Out of this entire erotic circus, there was one day where seven girls showed up dressed like Joe Perry with tits. No one got laid that night.
Penny Lane, the groupie Kate Hudson played in Almost Famous, could easily have been based on sweet . . . hell, I’m not even going to give the girl a pseudonym, but that was her, my girlfriend to be, one of the six girls in the Little Oral Annie Club we met that night. She was sixteen, she knew how to nasty, and there wasn’t a hair on it. With my bad self being twenty-six and she barely old enough to drive and sexy as hell, I just fell madly in love with her. She was a cute skinny little tomboy dressed up as Little Bo Peep. She was my heart’s desire, my partner in crimes of passion.
Early on in the band when I was still Jung and easily Freudened, I’d blurt out my sexual fantasies. I thought I was just being honest and saying what was on everybody’s mind, but I made the mistake of talking this stuff in front of the band’s wives. You know, stuff like how I liked doing it with two girls—twins, preferably. “You’re disgusting, Steve!” one of the band wives blurted out (I hate it when people call me “Steve”; always a tinge of squinge attached to Steve). I’d say, “What? Boys don’t like threesomes? Don’t all boys dream about that?”
And did I expect my band mate to say, “Oh, yeah, I’m sorry, baby, that is my secret fantasy. And, honey, while Steven’s brought up the subject of sexual fantasies, did I ever tell you I’ve always wanted you to dress up in a Nazi uniform and order me to goose-step on your great white plain?” What was I thinking? No man is going to tell his wife what he really likes. Because when he gets home, she’ll Lorena Bobbitt his ass and he’ll never find his licorice nib again.
Any cop will tell you that the things people lie about most are sex and drugs—and in that order—so hypocrisy is the order of the day. I would just sit there, flabbergasted, going, “Oh, really? You mean boys don’t like girls going down on each other?” I think I’m on firm theoretical grounds in saying this, but I always welcome other points of view.
Of course, nowadays, in every fuck club or strip joint, it’s fashionable—hell, it’s mandatory—for two girls to kiss and jam out with their clam out. Why did it take so long? That’s how they get your attention; now they know.
Can I help it if I was ahead of my time? Back then, I used to say, “Aw, c’mon, all guys like a close shave.” In the year 2011 it’s become fashionable for girls from sixteen to sixty to be cut to the quick. It’s waxed, smacked, and shellacked. Do we need to do a survey? They may have a landing strip, so flight attendants, please remain seated until my face comes to a complete and full stop. I remember one night on the road when Joe and I were sharing a bed with two girls and woke up in the morning with a seafood blue plate special. Crabs for . . . everybody! And I’m the last guy on the planet to use that little Barbie Doll comb that used to come with a bottle of A-200 that would burn the critters out. At one point, I had so many crabs, I used to say good night to them.
My little oral Annie came back with me to the hotel, the Edgewater Inn in Seattle, where we sat in the tub for two hours, naked with no water, when it dawned on me there was an emergency cord in the bus we’d taken to the hotel. So I went down (on my way knocking on Ted Nugent’s door), cut the cord with a pair of pliers I had in my bag, brought it up to my room, attached a fish hook from hell to it, ordered ham sandwiches—which is all you could get after midnight—put the ham on the hook, and dropped it out the window. We pulled up mud sharks and codfish for the next four hours and proceeded to clean the fish and gut the two sharks. Then Ted says, “Check this out.” And lays the two hearts on the sink. “Okay, now go to bed,” orders the madman. Next morning, my phone rings and it’s Ted. “Steven, go into the bathroom and check out the heart.” I touch the sea critter with my finger and I’ll be damned if the heart didn’t start beating . . . nine hours later! Which only proves one thing . . . which I can’t remember just now. “You can’t kill a lawyer,” could that be it?
Nugent suggested we have a fish fry at the gig. So we filleted the cod we caught, put ’em in a cooler, and took ’em to the gig that night with us. I offered him my crabs, but he politely declined.
I was so in love I almost took a teen bride. I went and slept at her parents’ house for a couple of nights and her parents fell in love with me, signed papers over for me to have custody, so I wouldn’t get arrested if I took her out of state. I took her on tour with me. My Sweet Eeee. . .
Standin’ in front just shakin’ your ass,
Take you backstage you can drink from my glass.
Talk about something you can sure understand
’Cause a month on the road and I’ll be eatin’ from your hand.
That was her. I lived with her for three years. She was a sweet, mysterious creature . . . very smart, and she knew what she liked and what I liked. We took baths together. She wore skirts with no panties. We did it on the red-eye from L.A. to Boston . . . that kind of stuff. All the things that guys dream about.
We made love in public, in private, and tried positions the Kama Sutra has yet to come up with. One time we started out in a hot tub on the roof and wound up in the lobby. We got out of the hot tub naked and into the elevator and dared each other we couldn’t make it all the way down to our room without being seen. We hit every floor starting with the lobby . . . unfortunately, it went there first. It was so erotic and romantic that by the time we got to the lobby, we were coming and going all at the same time. When the doors opened, there was an Amish family staring at us like figures in an oil painting. The door closes, then it opens again, and someone says, “Can I have your autograph?”
That sweet girl used to recite poetry and constantly sing songs to me like my mother did when she put me to sleep. It was an inspiration to my heart. One of the songs she taught me was “We Are Siamese,” which I’m sure you’ll all remember from the movie Lady and the Tramp.
Like I said, so sweet. Not like me.
At the end of the tour I brought her home to Boston. We got on well for a while . . . we were best friends and did everything together. She even knew how to mow a lawn. That impressed me. There’s a picture of us in People magazine sitting on my tractor. But toward the end things star
ted to derail. We got so messed up on drugs and were so out of control that the dark side started taking over. And while I was on the road, our apartment almost burned down and she wound up in the hospital with smoke inhalation. I went to see her in the hospital and that’s when reality slapped me in the face. When you love somebody, set them free. And I just had to let her go. She went back to her parents, but I can still see her in the songs we sang together. And the greatest thing she taught me . . . that love is love reflected.
So much to be dealt with when you fall. And I fell hard. And I fell heavy. And I fell so in love. Was it from songs? From my Italian family? From heaven or hell? I’m a breeder. Been married twice. They say never trust a rock musician? We can write songs about love but we’re not allowed to be in love. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I fell in love with you from the side of the stage, surrounded by other women,” your significant other would say if she were honest. But they don’t think that. You get married, and sometimes you fall from God’s grace. You’re sitting there saying to them, “Yeah, but sweetheart . . . you see the girls screaming at me every night. I don’t sleep with them, I just make love to them through my music. And that stage is my mistress. Why are you angry at me?” And, actually, I liked it. When I was younger and easily impressed I watched my heroes and I was enticed by that . . . the crowds, the adulation, the sexuality, and the girls that loved rock guys. It certainly wasn’t the money.
You know, guys in rock bands aren’t the only devils. Wives can be just as bad. I’ve known some wives that cheated on the guys while they were on tour and the husbands never knew it! And they said I should be wearing the genital cuff?
Does the Noise in My Head Bother You? Page 15