Aerosmith: Do It for the Kids

Billboard.com reported yesterday that Steven Tyler's attorney, Skip Miller, has addressed a cease and desist letter to Aerosmith management, basically a legalese request that they discontinue their consideration of a different singer.

Granted, a band called Aerosmith without Steven Tyler is not such a good idea. Oh, hell, let's be honest, it's commercial suicide, almost as good a move as Aerosmith without Joe Perry from 1979 to 1984. But the drama playing out in front of the whole world is equally detrimental to the Aerosmith brand. Its cliché for band members to describe their relationships as a four- or five-way marriage, but that's a pretty accurate way of looking at it. And just like a separated couple on the verge of a divorce, watching their personal problems play out publicly is pretty uncomfortable.

At the time, prior to Joe Perry leaving the band in 1979, followed two years later by Brad Whitford, the fans never really knew what was happening behind the scenes. Sure, there were plenty of barbs traded back and forth in print, but that was after the fact. And when Perry and Whitford did return in 1984, we never really read the detailed specifics of the band struggling to rebuild their interpersonal relationships until their Walk This Way autobiography 13 years later. Prior to that, we basically knew the band was back, they worked out their differences, and the music did most of the talking.

But just like David Lee Roth and the Van Halen brothers foregoing the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony three years ago, nothing evaporates the perceived power of a band quicker than their drama being played out in tabloid fashion—except maybe an all-too-revealing documentary, a la Metallica, that exposes the frailty of our icons. That's not to suggest that rock stars don't deal with the same shit as the rest of us. Believe me, they do. After all, they're human beings, too. But the larger-than-life magnitude of their collective persona takes a major hit when we get a glimpse of the man behind the curtain. And unless that man is someone with whom I have a one-on-one relationship as friend and confidant, I don't want to see his limitations. I don't want to give up the suspension of disbelief, and the feeling of empowerment that comes with the perception that rock stars are superheroes. No one ever looks at the everyday foibles of our heroes and says, “Wow, man, I want to be just like that.”

Peter Criss was fired from Kiss in 1980. But when Paul, Gene and Ace appeared that year with new drummer Eric Carr on Kids Are People Too, they stated that Peter was still part of the Kiss family, but he just wanted to spend time with his new wife and pursue different opportunities. No drama, no tabloid fodder. Kiss still seemed all-powerful to a 13-year-old kid, without bickering like a couple during a bitter separation. Sure, the truth came out years later, but by then it was not singularly to the detriment of their mystique.

Entertainment Weekly asks how much we would pay to see Aerosmith perform with rumored replacements Paul Rodgers or Billy Idol. Really, the idea of a band called Aerosmith featuring anyone but Steven Tyler on vocals is ludicrous (seriously, Billy Idol?), but should four of the five band members want to continue without their iconic singer, hey, that's their decision. A better idea would be to call it something—anything—other than Aerosmith. Either way, keep it under wraps until the machine is ready to roll. Hints to the media about potential candidates for the gig just add to the tabloid devaluation of the band. And if a legal course of action is the path Tyler feels will best protect his position and help keep the band intact, fine. Just do us a favor, everyone, and spare the kids until after divorce court.

Sintanic: Classic Darrell Roberts Intensity

I'm pretty sure Darrell Roberts didn't like me very much when we met. Backstage at the House of Blues in Orlando, W.A.S.P. was touring to support Unholy Terror, and Darrell was the new kid in the band. Ours was a cursory introduction, because I was more interested in the hilarity of hanging out with (Mike) Duda and Stet (Howland), and taking up Blackie Lawless on the offer to ride Elvis, the spring-loaded, whiplash mic stand that nearly threw me over the handlebars.

Our paths crossed twice more during that tour—Hartford and Wantagh, NY—but Darrell was very reserved. And intense. He didn't say much, and that piercing, direct stare and no-nonsense demeanor convinced me that I was just an inane jackass to him.

Three years later, I spent a week on the road with W.A.S.P. I figured Duda, Stet and I would laugh our asses off, Blackie and I would bust each other's balls about the Yankees and Red Sox, our respective favorite baseball teams (I woke one morning to giddy news from the back lounge of the bus that Nomar Garciaparra had been traded to the Cubs), and I would stay the hell out of Darrell's way.

But a funny thing happened, somewhere on the highway between Atlanta and Springfield, VA. We connected during a conversation about Ronnie James Dio. I had an advance copy of Master of the Moon with me, and he wanted to hear it. Other than the driver, we were the only ones awake. Darrell slid the disc into the CD player, and “One More for the Road” blasted throughout the bus. Very loud. Wake-the-dead loud. Piss-off-your-sleeping-band-and-crew loud.

Darrell scrambled to turn it down, but something malfunctioned, and it just got louder. The panic on his face was priceless, and once he got the volume under control, we listened. And we talked—about Dio, Sabbath, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and some pretty heavy shit about family and life.

During that conversation, he admitted, “When Blackie said there was gonna be a writer traveling with us, I thought you were gonna be a pain in the ass.” I loved that line so much, I included it in my 2004 Year In Review for Metal Edge magazine.

I got to know Darrell—“D”—a lot more during subsequent W.A.S.P. tours, including a few more days on the road in 2006. On the bus in the parking lot of the Starland Ballroom in Sayreville, NJ, we had another one of those very personal conversations. Later that day, a couple hours before W.A.S.P. took the stage, D, Duda and I were watching vintage Tom & Jerry cartoons, laughing our asses off, nearly to the point of tears. Something about the sight of an animated cat getting slammed in the face with a shovel just seems to bring people together.

D has always made sure I got to preview his newest musical ventures. In 2005, after a W.A.S.P. gig in Hartford on the American Metal Blast tour, we sat in my car and listened to solo tracks he had recorded. And when he joined Five Finger Death Punch, very excited about the musical possibilities he heard in “The Bleeding,” he made sure I got a four song demo CD.

It's pretty funny that, considering how much I initially thought he disliked me, we're good friends. It took me awhile to really put my finger on it, but Darrell has a very powerful presence. Confidence, attitude—call it whatever you want, but the guy has got it. And he's incredibly talented, too. When your friends are musicians, you usually want to hear whatever they're working on, to be supportive and offer encouragement. But I always want to hear whatever D is doing because I've come to know him well enough to recognize how much the music is an extremely personal and intense reflection of what's going on inside.

Since leaving Five Finger Death Punch, he's been working on what has become Sintanic, despite about twenty suggestions from me for a band name. Before he posted them to MySpace, D emailed me two tracks that were promptly loaded onto my iPod. I listened a couple of times, liked them, promised to write something about them, then promptly shifted gears into procrastination—until last week when I thumbed past Sintanic, wheeled back and remembered, Christ, I promised D that I would give him an assessment of these tunes.

So I pushed play, and something really clicked for me. Most metal fans already know that Darrell is a monster metal guitarist. But he's got a deep appreciation and a real understanding of the emotional dynamics of the blues. “Lost and Found” is Darrell taking that raw emotion and adapting it to metal. That absolutely perfect pause, right before the guitar solo, when he speaks—“help”—is classic Darrell Roberts intensity. The lyrics—and his guitar and voice—are stark, desolate sadness. The song is despondent, very lonely and haunting.

D is also an underrated vocalist—well, maybe not underrated, so much as unfamiliar. Like his love of the blues, most people probably don't know that D has an extremely strong, soulful voice. You don't spend five years listening to Blackie Lawless track vocals without learning something about the beauty of pained, wailing singing, or the power of properly using your voice as a blunt instrument. Vocally, “Push the Enemy” is Darrell at his take-none-of-your-shit best. It's also a great example of the guitar creating a compelling musical cadence through the use of minimalism and sustain.

Years ago I thought, “This is the guy who replaced Chris Holmes?" This skinny blonde kid doesn't have a chance. Shows you how much I knew. Turns out that D had his own share of the intensity market already cornered. I just needed to catch up.