Up until a month ago I would have jumped at the chance to see Aerosmith live. But that was before my wild-goose chase… before that moment when I was a mouse-click away from making a cyber-klutz of myself.
Now, the way I’m feeling, I wouldn’t go and see them if Sharon Stone came to pick me up in a chauffeur-driven stretch limo… OK, well maybe I’d be tempted if I could sit opposite the star of Basic Instinct on the way to the gig; but there again, knowing my luck, she’d probably turn up wearing jeans.
So how come this teeth gnashing? Well, it all started with Joe Perry’s announcement that Steve Tyler was taking a two-year hiatus to recover from his addiction to painkillers. Now, with a track record of drug abuse which suggests he spent his school vacations hanging around ponds and streams and licking every frog and toad on the off chance he might get a buzz, I was tempted to say colour me not surprised. But I was more interested in the search for his replacement.
Lennie Kravitz and Paul Rogers were talked about, and then not, and when Billy Idol failed to turn up for an audition because he had a cold … don’t laugh, it was time for me to go public with my own ideas and leave Steroboard’s fans to pick up the thread.
With his roots in punk and country and an angst-basted voice versatile enough to make most musical genres seem like his first love, Ryan Adams’ name seemed to type itself.
I’m not going to kid you by saying that my second choice sprung to mind so quickly. In fact, if the truth is known, I was staring at a brick wall until the radio DJ played I Wonder Why. I’d forgotten what a great song it was, but as soon as I heard Curtis Stigers’ voice, the words came flooding back and I was singing along as if it were the National Anthem: ‘Love is a hunger … ‘ boy-oh-boy, I didn’t half sound good.
Still in full-on voice I searched out the album and although the sleeve-notes’ ‘extra-special thanks to my auntie Pamela’ was hardly reminiscent of a bad-boy hard-rocker, I wasn’t going to dump him for being a nice guy. I did try to Google some dirt but nothing. Zilch. I couldn’t even find any record of a childhood fondness for frogs and newts let alone a dalliance with psychoactive toads. But what the hell? He looked a lot like Steve Tyler and he could belt out a song just as well … ‘Love is an anchor …‘ Sorry! Got carried away.
But that was as far I got. No sooner had I double-underlined Curtis’ name than the head scratching began in earnest. Two hours later, all I had to show was a page full of tornado-like doodles and an ever-growing list of rejects – if I tell you that Ozzy Osbourne was amongst the also-rans, you might figure how flummoxed I was.
And my biggest best buddy who lives in Cardiff was no help either. I called him around midnight and should have guessed he’d been out on the fizz when the first name he came up with was Tom Jones. He couldn’t understand what I was laughing about, but it didn’t put him off his stride. Straightaway he bounced back with Shakin’ Stevens, and although he sounded serious, I thought he was joking for sure. It was only when he started on about old Shaky and his four number ones that I realised he wasn’t.
That night I dreamt about Aerosmith performing This Ole House. It was a nightmare. I was glad when the phone woke me up.
Normally, I’d rather eat herring roe than leave an article unfinished, but with my own novel due for publication and a whip-cracking agent barking out instructions like he was in a rush to get the pyramids built before the rainy season, eight days of promotional work came as a relief.
And it was during my own mini-hiatus that I came up trumps. I didn’t even have to watch the film; simply noticing that The Commitments was due another TV screening was enough to rekindle the vision of Andrew Strong singing Respect. I went goosy all over.
Here was a man who, according to Alan Parker, was perfectly typecast playing the part of a foul-mouthed jerk, a man with the voice of God … and my bang-on-the-money shoo-in.
I didn’t even bother unpacking my suitcase and ignored the dog despite him being in pigeon-catching mode at my return.
I’d already written the closing paragraph in my head. It was a real smarty-pants cocksure ending and when it came to typing in the words Andrew Strong, I was half expecting the little on-screen paperclip to jump up and down and clap.
I was feeling like Britain’s answer to PJ O’Rourke when I logged on to Stereoboard; my journalistic humdinger ready to hit the cyber highway. I even kissed the dog on his fuzzy snout.
The way the headline hit me reminded me of the time I was standing next to a speaker when The Clash opened their gig with London’s Calling. Snatching short gulps of air I shook my head and shut my eyes so hard my jaws snapped together. I wanted to scream but through clenched bared teeth the noise came out like a growl. The dog disappeared behind the settee.
I risked another peek. No change. Steve Tyler was back with Aerosmith and due to appear at Donington Park in June. I slapped the desk. From his hidey-hole, the dog sounded as if he’d seen the vet putting on a rubber glove.
Three weeks work down the pan … and judging by the photo of Steve Tyler, he thought it was a giggle.
‘Well you just wait …’ I muttered as I plugged in the MP3 player. ‘This’ll learn ya.’ From the 5 ‘Fav Playlists’ I clicked on ‘Driving’ – you know the kind of thing: a compilation of foot-to-the-floor classics that make you think you’re burning up the miles in a Mustang GT convertible instead of a Fiat Uno.
Anyway, there between Jackson Browne’s Running On Empty and Radar Love was Walk this Way. Click! Delete! Bosh! Gone. It was about as productive as a petulant six-year-old girl scrawling all over her painting with a fist-clenched black crayon, but it sure felt good.
And yet, as hyped as I was, I could sense the hesitancy even as I flagged up the ‘Smoothies’. A lot more thought had gone into this list: this wasn’t just a mess of I’ll-love-you-’till-my-quartz-clock-stops songs; this was the musical equivalent of chat-up lines. Nothing too pushy; nothing overly emotional and definitely no wedding bells and mortgages.
These are second or third date songs to be played when you’re looking to get up-close and canoodly. A bottle of pricey white Burgundy – not too chilled. A light supper, maybe chicken breast and Waldorf salad – nothing too heavy. Two spoons and pick at a bowl of raspberry and white-chocolate mousse. Intimate. And then it’s time to pour the brandies, dim the lights and cue the music.
I’m not going to share all my secrets – the right kind of women are in short supply as it is. But I will say that Paolo Nutini’s Candy is a new addition and the jewel in the crown is Aerosmith’s only number one, I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing … and if this song doesn’t do the trick, either you’ve set the bar way too high or you need to get your halitosis seen to.
The orchestral intro alone is a knock-’em-dead swooner. But to hear Steve Tyler belting out the words ‘I want to lie awake just to hear you breathing’ … well, let me tell you, that’s the kind of line that not only opens the bedroom door, it’ll fold back the sheets and even strip the cellophane from the condom packet … and d’you know something else? Angry and lusting for vengeance as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to hit the delete. Just couldn’t.
There’s no point denying it: at the time I felt ashamed for letting my libido rule my head, but that didn’t mean I was going to roll over like a puppy looking for a tummy-tickle. No siree. Fuelled by inspiration, my forefingers fair danced across the keyboard; the headline appeared as if by magic: Shakin’ Stevens To Replace Steve Tyler … yeah, yeah, I know it’s a whopping great fib, but as my old granny used to say: ‘What’s good for the Aerosmith is good for the writer’ … alright, I’ll admit it was a lie. She never did say that; but I had my fingers crossed when I typed it!
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