Hit Hard

  Drummer of Aerosmith

  Joey Kramer

  Hit Hard

  A Story of Hitting Rock Bottom at the Top

  With William Patrick and Keith Garde

  DEDICATED TO: Doris, Mickey, Annabelle, Amy, and Suzy Kramer

  IN MEMORY OF: Mickey Kramer, Torri Wightman,

  Ralph Simon, Anne Krouse, John Ramp,

  Bob Timmons, Frank Connelly, and Don Bernstine

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Foreword

  Introduction: Scared Shitless

  1 Two Imposters–love and Abuse

  2 Is That a Belt in Your Hand or Are You Happy to See Me?

  3 Brown Rice and Carrots

  4 Nothin’ So Good There Ain’t Some Bad In It

  5 Drug Addicts Dabbling in Music

  Photographic Insert

  6 I Never Met a Drug I Didn’t Like: Has Anyone Seen My Career Lately?

  7 One Disease, Two Disease, Three Disease More

  8 Dear Dad

  9 Nothing So Bad There Ain’t Some Good In It

  10 Now That That’s Over…

  11 Epilogue: From Ten ’Til Now

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To my band mates, my partners, my brothers…even at its worst, you’re the best. We have stood the greatest test of all—time. It is an incredible honor and my great privilege to play the drums in our band, Aerosmith.

  To Steven Tyler for all that you’ve given me—for the gift of the love of the brother you are to me.

  I would like to honor, give thanks, and much gratitude to Keith Garde—his contribution as one of the principal architects and drivers of Aerosmith’s career since 1987 has never been rightfully acknowledged. As marketer, co-manager, creative contributor, collaborator, guide and friend, Keith, unlike anyone outside of the five guys in my band, is truly a part of what Aerosmith is today. Without his painstaking understanding of my struggle, his patience, compassion, and kindness—this book would simply not exist. I love you Keith and thank you.

  Thank you to the many Aerosmith fans who reached out to me—when I was in need and who suffer today from depression, anxiety, or the disease of addiction. There is hope.

  Thank you Linda Pappan for opening my eyes and helping me to see the light of life once again. “I love you as deep as the ocean and high as the sky.”

  My thanks to Brad Mindich, whose generous friendship is equaled only by the uncompromising honesty, depth of insight, and skilled, balanced criticism with which he contributed to the editing of this book.

  To Jessie Goldbas and Andy Martel for all the hours of organizing (and agonizing), coordinating what would have otherwise been a mess of words and pictures and pages…

  To my son, Jesse K. a.k.a. J-2—Always keepin’ me laughin’.

  To Sandy Jossen for forty-six years of undying love and friendship.

  To Patty Bourdon for believing in me when no one else would.

  With love and thanks to Trudy Green for marshalling the forces as only you know how to do.

  To Nikki Sixx, a kindred rock ’n’ roll spirit who fought the fight, felt the pain, and has come out the other side—my thanks, respect, and love.

  To Jill Kneerim for bringing me to Roger, locking in Harper and all the love along the way.

  To Roger Freet for believing in me, for “getting” my story, and for rising to every occasion—keeping it all together when the seams felt like they were going to split.

  …and to all the angels and demons I’ve had relationships with along the way—angels for the love and demons for the pain (you all know who you are)—I would never have been able to really see myself without you.

  FOREWORD

  Sitting in a hotel room in Boston, Joey Kramer’s manuscript for this book is in pieces all around me—it looks like a bomb has gone off in my room; and feels like I’ve been on a roller coaster through hell, page after page. To be perfectly honest, I’m lying here exhausted not only from my own tour (which, ironically, ends today in the very city where Aerosmith began—Boston, MA) but mostly from Joey’s book and life. It’s funny how life is funny, even when it’s not funny.

  I don’t think you write a foreword as a sales pitch or as a way to make a book look, sound, or feel better. You write a foreword out of respect for the author or respect for the content of the book. In this case it’s both, and it’s also a warning to the reader: so sit down, buckle up, and hold on tight. You are about to hit warp speeds exceeding reality.

  I first met Joey Kramer in 1972 when I stole my first Aerosmith record. They became my favorite band in the world, and Joey Kramer was a major fuckin’ reason it had ump, boogie, groove. The band snarled, spit, and vomited attitude. Steven and Joe? Monsters at their machines. Brad? Solid and melodic. Tom? Unstoppable on the bottom end. And Tom and Joey together? The dirtiest, tightest, rhythm section in rock ’n’ roll. Mix it all together—It was and is pure sex…the kind of sex that’s sweaty, dirty, illegal, and probably deadly. It didn’t and doesn’t get any better than Aerosmith.

  But you know what…so fucking what…’ cause that isn’t what this book is about. There are tons of books about America’s greatest rock ’n’ roll band, and I agree with them all. But this is something that one man, proudly, had the balls to write, to stand on his own, and, through the unraveling of his life, found out how to make life work on life’s terms: stop fighting the past, and live in the present. There’s an old saying, “It’s called the present ’cause it’s a gift”…I agree. But, it too took me, a long time to figure that simple lesson out. So we begin, again…

  Forewords can be long and boring, and I know you’re eager to get to the meat and potatoes so to speak, so let’s just cut some of the fat off the bone so we can get straight to the gristle.

  The truth is, Joey is open about the confusion between love and abuse. Open…open like heart surgery. What became apparent early in this read was that all the while Joey’s story breaks your heart, it gives you hope. It touched a lot of raw nerve endings in me, and I hope it does the same for you. As Joey’s awareness sets in and he grows through it all, you feel it too…self-help? I don’t know, but it helped me to look at myself, again, I hope the same for you.

  You know the funny thing about humans? We’re all the same on a molecular level. But we think we’re chemists, psychologists, and gods on an ego level. Joey reveals what’s under the skin of these unhealthy theories—and not just the road rash left by years of playing rock ’n’ roll. The worst rashes, the ones most likely to leave the ugliest scars, are the ones from our childhoods and families. When you boil it down, it always goes back to that—the family; and until you dig into that wound, you’re destined for a life of agony—the highs are never high enough, and the lows are not unlike the depths of hell.

  I love this book; this is an important book, because it’s not bullshit. Joey had the balls to see what’s underneath the hood, and to fix it. Being a rock star was easy compared to that.

  —Nikki Sixx

  Courtesy of Doris or Joey Kramer.

  INTRODUCTION: SCARED SHITLESS

  When I stepped into the lobby, I felt my stomach rise up into my throat; tears started streaming down my face.

  This was the Marlin Hotel, a jet-set place a couple of blocks off Ocean Drive in South Beach. I was completely losing it. Surrounded by palm trees, Ferraris, halter tops and those exotic drinks with the little umbrellas, and here I was crying so hard I was barely able to stand. All I could think was What the fuck is going on? It doesn't make sense. We’re selling millions of records, playing sold-out concerts. Everyone loves us. Everything is great. But I am losing my mind.

  It was Februa
ry 1995, and a few weeks earlier the rest of the band had gone down to Florida and were getting ready to record, but I was still at home in a gray, cold, New England winter, so full of anxiety that it was all I could do to get out of bed each day. I was so afraid, and the anticipation that it would get worse was almost paralyzing. Every waking moment I was filled with dread like I was about to hear a fatal diagnosis. I just wanted to get this feeling over with, but the despair, the emotional weight, and the anticipation of more of this misery had become misery itself.

  After a while the pressure got so bad that I drove to the airport and caught the next plane to Miami. I was hoping that throwing myself into my work might pull me out of this funk. I walked through the lobby and straight into the small sound studio inside the hotel when the pain took over. I stared at the drums that were set up for me, but I couldn’t even think about playing, so I stepped out of the studio, and a flood of emotion started to overwhelm me—I could barely see through the tears.

  Bob Timmins was standing just inside the door, talking to some guys from our crew. Bob was a well-known “rock ’n’ roll therapist.” Drugs and alcohol, a specialty—a given with his kind of clients. He’d been working with the band to try to protect us from our collective insanity. He could see at a glance that something serious was going on with me, and he came right up and put his arm around my shoulders and sort of guided me away from the gawkers and the reporters. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said. “There’s somebody I think you should talk to. Come on up to my room and we’ll give him a call.”

  A few hours later, Bob and I were on a plane to California. A guy named Dan met us at LAX, and Bob handed me over to him and got on the next flight back to Miami. Then Dan drove me about an hour up the coast. Dan didn’t say much, and I had nothing to say anyway, so I just stared out the window, watching the people driving in their cars and going about their lives. I was empty. We had to go up the 405 through L.A. and then the 101 across the Valley, which meant that it was pretty late at night when we reached Oxnard. I checked into the mental-health facility where Bob had arranged to have me admitted. It was called Steps.

  One of the first people to greet me was the director of this place, Steve Chatoff. He was the person I’d spoken with on the phone from Bob’s room at the hotel. The not exactly technical term he started using to describe what was going on with me was “nervous breakdown.” His administrators booked me into a private room—supposedly a courtesy for a rock star—but I didn’t feel like a star, and I sure as hell didn’t want to be alone. There’s an expression I’d heard in Twelve Step recovery meetings that “my disease wants me dead, but first it wants me alone.” I didn’t want to go there. For the first forty-eight hours I barely left the nurses’ station, sitting in a chair under the fluorescent lights, sobbing.

  I had no idea what was happening to me. I was scared shitless, confused and even feeling a little guilty. Everything seemed so good. I was nine years clean and sober, and I was getting to live my dream—again. Even after we, as a band, drank and drugged that dream into a nightmare, we’d gotten a second chance and came roaring back. Our last two albums sold more than ten million copies apiece. Our new deal with Sony was worth over $30 million. We had just won the Billboard Music Award for “Best Rock Band,” had more MTV awards and nominations than any other rock band, but here I was so fucking miserable that I could barely make it through the next minute.

  The first time I went away for help, I kept asking for explanations, but the counselors told me that understanding was the booby prize, that the goal was just to feel my feelings. So what was I feeling now? I didn’t have a clue. Something between everything and nothing. I was an incredibly lucky guy, I had everything I thought I wanted, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t shake this cloud of despair surrounding me, and I kept asking what the fuck was wrong with me.

  The previous October, Issac Tigrett, the owner of the Hard Rock Cafe, was putting together a journey to India for some people to see Sai Baba, a renowned spiritual leader. My wife, April, wanted to travel to India to see Sai Baba, and with the band’s heading back into the studio, to her this was a perfect time to go.

  We lived out on the marshes of Boston, and it was snowing and raining when April left. By that time I was feeling so grim and shaky that I had to ask a buddy of mine, Frank Gangi, to come stay with me. He camped out in the guest room, and every morning he’d knock on my door and say, “Hey, man, it’s time to get up.” I would just pull the covers back over my head and go back to sleep. If Frank would let me, I’d try to spend the whole day hiding in bed. I just couldn’t see the point of anything. I’d lost my ability to experience pleasure. I had no appetite, so I’d forget to eat. Frank had to take me out and force me to down some food. He also took me to AA meetings, but I’d just start crying and we’d have to leave.

  The idea of recording this album in Florida was the brainchild of our new producer, Glen Ballard, who’d just done an album for Alanis Morissette. Glen was a Southern guy who liked to work at Criteria, a studio in Miami, and everybody was psyched to be working where the sun was shining and it was eighty degrees. Steven and Joe went down early to do preproduction. Brad, Tom, and I stayed up in Boston and rehearsed for a while, and then Brad and Tom headed down to Florida to join the others; I just wasn’t up for making the trip, so I stayed home. As the winter wore on, I started to withdraw. By early February I was almost completely shut down. Just taking a shower became an effort of epic proportions. A shower meant that I had to go into the bathroom, take off all my clothes, turn on the water, warm it up, and then get some soap…It felt like too much—I just didn’t have it in me. In the same way, it felt like too much of an effort to eat. But then I’d get so weak from hunger that I couldn’t get out of bed, and I felt so crappy from lying in bed and not having a shower that it made me feel even more depressed.

  Looking back, going to Miami to record with my band as the way to break out of this misery was, well, misguided to say the least. I was in denial about it then, but being in the studio was its own kind of trauma for me. So it made sense that now I was sitting at a nurses’ station in California, rocking back and forth in my chair, crying uncontrollably.

  Steps is a residential facility in a residential neighborhood, with Spanish mission-hacienda stucco they put on most buildings in California. There was some pink bougainvillea, and they tried to make it look nice, but all in all it had the personality of an office park. I’d left the rock-star luxury of the Marlin for a mental-health Motel 6.

  On my third day there they put me in a room with a sliding glass door that opened out onto a patio with picnic tables. As I would soon learn, that’s where everybody ate lunch and congregated to smoke and talk between sessions. There was a parking lot beyond the patio, and then some eucalyptus trees, and if they let you walk a few blocks, eventually you got down to the beach.

  For about the first week of group sessions I spent a lot of time staring at the second hand ticking by on the face of my watch. The pain and sadness were brutal. I just had to take it one tick at a time, breathing in…breathing out. I felt like someone was peeling back my skin, ripping off scar tissue.

  Japan, 2004

  Courtesy of Ross Halfin.

  The first night that I stayed in my room, I lay awake all night praying to anyone, any thing that might listen, concentrating on each breath, begging for strength. I was in California where it was warm, but all the images in my mind were gray and cold and brooding. I could just as easily have been in New England—I almost didn’t know the difference. I spent that night in personal darkness and started to think about walking the mile from my room to the Pacific Ocean, sinking under the waves and just getting it over with.

  In the morning, when the light came in and I looked around, all the drama of the storms and waves inside my head was gone. I saw a dresser, two single beds, glass doors that looked outside onto the courtyard and a bathroom that I shared with the guys in the next room. The na
tural wood and soft blue cushioned institutional furniture made sense—after all I was back in an institution.

  I got out of bed, stepped over to the glass doors, looked out, and saw my fellow residents sitting around the tables, drinking coffee, having a smoke. I slid back the door a bit, expecting the air that came through to have that soft and misty, coastal California feeling, but it smelled like cigarettes.

  I closed the door and got back in bed. I wasn’t ready to go out and face even this tiny little part of the world. Back in the eighties, when I first got clean at the Caron Foundation, my therapist talked about being “spring-loaded in a pissed-off position.” What he meant was that common characteristics of active addicts could be edginess, irritability, and sometimes paranoia. Here at Steps I didn’t have the energy to pounce on anyone, so I don’t know how spring-loaded I was. I definitely did not want to be here—back in rehab once again. Not only were these people a lot younger than me, but most of them were here to deal with their addictions for the first time. Even though I had nine years in the program, I was so off that instead of appreciating the power and value of hearing newcomers share their stories and identifying with their pain as a way to help myself, I was thinking this was a fucking waste of my time; I’d moved on in my life, and I didn’t need to be sitting in a group talking about drug and alcohol problems anymore.