Let the Music Do the Talking by Suzanne Monson If you don't think God has a sense of humor, be a rock band that's outlived its expiration date. -- Steven Tyler Steven Tyler's quote keeps popping into my head. He was being interviewed on the eve of Aerosmith's induction into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame last summer. With his usual wry smile and mischief-rich eyes, he talked about how unlikely it was that this 30-year-old hard rock band was still together, much less celebrating one of music's highest honors. No rock artists have ever been more closely associated with substance abuse than Steven Tyler and Aerosmith's guitarist Joe Perry, referred to as the "Toxic Twins" in their '70s hey day of stadium concerts. Today, Aerosmith stands as a tribute to the power of recovery, the only artists in the world to have gone into rehab as a band and kicked the habit. It's hard for me to write about humor. It's something that's been seriously lacking in my life -- especially this year. In the span of six short months, four people I loved dearly have died, one of them tragically. The World Trade Towers have been reduced to rubble by terrorists. Our country has gone to war. Fear and panic headline the evening news each day with accounts of Anthrax attacks and security alerts. What, exactly, is there to smile about? Something about Tyler's quote kept nudging me to write about it anyway. How weird is it that this tribute to outrageous, in-your-face self-expression would speak publicly about his belief in God? How curious that he would suggest this Higher Power has a sense of humor. Dream on I became a fan of Aerosmith's when I was 14. It was 1973. Their first album, Dream On, came out the year I was placed in my foster home. The title song, with its now famous chorus, "Dream until your dreams come true," seemed to have been written just for me. My fantasy of escaping years of brutal abuse and finding parents who could deeply love me had come true. When I listen to this song today, I am reminded of how it felt to be discovering the road back myself. I had a daily ritual when I was a newly liberated teenager. I would come home from school to a blissfully quiet house and play my favorite music, loud, on the console stereo in the living room. My foster parents ran a small advertising business and didn't arrive home until 5 or so, and I relished having this open white room all to myself. I would put on my favorite clothes; tight blue jeans and sexy low-cut peasant top, and I would dance in front of a wall filled with mirrored tiles. It was my little piece of heaven. I never told anyone that I did this. I just went home every day and performed my own private, simple ceremony. Something about the music of Aerosmith spoke to me. I admired the richness of their lyrics; the careful way Steven Tyler composed a song, so many innuendoes and private jokes. I noticed how they addressed child abuse when no one was talking about it. I felt the deep longing in Dream On and their other ballads. I wanted to dance and dance and dance some more when I listened to their music. I didn't even know how healing it was for my badly injured body and soul to move freely, with a sense of my sensuousness, safely. I simply felt the songs all the way through my body and let the music do the talking. Dancing days When my 17-year-old niece Nicole called to tell me Aerosmith was going to be playing The Target Center in October, I was psyched. After all the trauma of this summer I was ready for a ritual, ready for some old-fashioned rock 'n' roll. The concert sold out in two hours. Against all odds, we got great seats. As I chose the outfit I would wear to the event, I remembered my dancing days, and smiled. It had been a long time since I felt her presence. In tribute to that vibrant teenager, I put together a perfect rock concert uniform: slim-fitting black jeans, black leather jacket, black leather boots with two inch heels, and three inches of bracelets for my arm. As the lights went out and the band took the stage, I knew I was about to be transformed. Everyone in the Target Center stood up. I mean everyone. No concert I've been to lately had people standing, except maybe at the end, to applaud. This was going to be different. I touched Nicole on the arm and said, "This, is a real rock concert!" All of the props were in place: the colorful rag-draped mike stand, the stacks of amplifiers, the 20 guitars, the smoke machine, the giant silver hand placed in the middle of the stage mimicking the robotic look of their latest album, Just Push Play. Almost 25 years out of the game, I was back in a time I hadn't visited since I was a carefree teenager. High kicks Steven Tyler walked down the long runway extending deep into the center of The Target Center wearing a giant black top hat with a red bandana wrapped around it, an artfully sliced up silk shirt and tight leather pants. The smoke billowed around him, the music was so loud my ears were ringing, and I was transfixed. Doing high kicks, swinging his mike stand, reaching out to touch the outstretched hands of fans, singing at full voice, never missing a beat in his carefully orchestrated stage show, Steven Tyler went to work. "How old is he," Nicole asked between songs. "In his 50s," I replied. "Damn." For one night, Aerosmith took me back in time to that precious piece of myself who knew how good if felt to bend the rules just a little. I didn't care that it was a Monday night, that there was a mountain of work waiting for me back in my studio, that profound crisis had been rattling my cage for months. I was mainlining the music that had brought me home to my body. I was in the presence of greatness. Alive, in the moment, I danced with Nicole and Steven and Joe and Brad and Tom and Joey and thousands of strangers. And I loved every minute of it. When I drove home from the concert, I had one of those "ah-ha" moments. I realized this outrageous pop icon had captured my heart because though all of the pain and challenge, he had held fast to his dream. More than anything, he wanted to have the greatest rock band ever. When all hell was breaking loose in his life, he came back to this and rebuilt. The powerful ideology of 12-step recovery has been a major support structure for this evolution. When I read the band's biography, Walk This Way, I learned that Steven Tyler travels with an altar when he's on tour. Filled with essential oils, a different one for each concert, and personal momentos that keep his spirituality front and center, he continues to reinvent recovery in his own dazzling style. A shattered life And this was where I finally had to laugh. I got it. This is how spirituality enters a shattered life and whispers about beginning again. It shows up disguised as a rock concert, offering a glimpse of someone we once were a long time ago when we trusted the future, knew we were being watcedh over, and felt certain it would all be okay. It tells stories of survival against all odds by an extravagant tattooed man in his 50s who continues to play like a teenager, in public. It invites even the most serious, the most spiritually correct, to walk this way. I think Steven Tyler said it best: "When you get sober, after a certain amount of time you need to be able to form your own opinions. A lot of the lyrics from this album are directed toward a kind of lid that was on our jar. I don't like that. It's not what I got sober for." So I'm loosening the lid a bit. I'm remembering that it is possible to have a good time in the midst of recovering from tragedy. Thank God. I don't think I could have survived another day of my serious there-is-nothing-to-smile-about stance. I was having a really hard time breathing there. Today, I'm going to put on some of my favorite Aerosmith albums and dance in my living room. Suzanne Vadnais Monson is an inspirational author and artist creating tools and techniques for inviting creative expression into our daily lives. Her deck of 64 simple ceremony and playful practice cards is available for $24. Call (715) 294-4522 to find out more about her workshops for adults and children. Copyright © 2002 Suzanne Vadnais Monson |
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