Upon hearing the acoustic chords sounding the intro of ‘that syrupy ballad, which sucked in apocalyptic proportions and consequently deposited a shitload of money in Aerosmith’s bank account, we stubbed the cigarettes on the moist ground beneath our feet and scurried past the exit sign. I guess it was predictable. They had to end the show on an audience friendly note. Considering the audience largely consisted of people who thought of Aerosmith as that rock band, which made a song for that Bruce Willis movie about a gigantic meteor crashing down on Liv Tyler’s abdomen, I didn’t take too much offence to the curtain closer. Fact: Aerosmith still rocks and rolls like a bulldozer on amphetamines. Fact: I sang along to ‘Dream On’ until my throat pleaded for the music to stop. Friggin’ Fact: This was the greatest concert experience I have ever had.
Of course they began the show with ‘Taste Of India’, but so fucking what? Mindless fun was what coursed through my veins when Tyler screamed ‘Sweeeeeeeeeeet taste of India’ and I realised that I knew the lyrics. Aerosmith then crashed headfirst into a plethora of classics including ‘Living On The Edge’, ‘Dream On’ and an absolutely kickass version of ‘Sweet Emotion’. With the final solo of ‘Dream On’ still rummaging near my brain cells like feathered guitar chords in heat, Joe Perry strummed a lonesome blues note as the band joined in for a menacing blues explosion. The ghosts of Muddy Waters, Taj Mahal and BB King were thrown into a blender along with a few leftover cocaine strips snorted by Rolling Stones in 1969 – whipped, stirred and thrown at us with such a blissful haze of rock and roll.
Like I said, we didn’t stay till they played ‘that song, which has a video featuring that no-talent sonofabitch, who somehow managed to win an Oscar along with his best friend Matt Damon’. But from the parking lot we could hear the crowd giving head to Aerosmith with a few retards even begging for an encore. We didn’t care too much. One of my friends said, ‘We could have left after ‘Dream On’, it wouldn’t have fucking mattered…’. Even after sobriety kicked in, we kicked it right back out by hitting the rewind button on our memory capsules.
We were right there listening to Aerosmith – live and raw. We heard them ripping the living hell out of Garden City’s summer night. We even missed ‘that song which got Steven singing about not wanting to miss something else’. Our lives have not gotten better since then but we could at least say we jumped the fuck up and didn’t stop until the final chorus of ‘Baby, Please Don’t Go’ died down. And any music enthusiast would tell you, it matters.
Oh and just so you know. Fuck Kabbalah. Fuck Scientology. Fuck Ritchie Sambora. Joe Perry is God.
