It was 1985, and I was working at Longhi's on Front Street, a Maui hot spot for VIPs, when a major rock star jangled in, all scarves and beads and bracelets, flanked by two gray-suited managers.
Several months earlier in Arizona, I'd paid good money to see Aerosmith, whose obvious intoxication onstage ruined the show. They were painfully bad, and I regretted shelling out what little I had for tickets. The policy at Longhi's was to let celebs dine in peace, so I didn't acknowledge Aerosmith's front man, Steven Tyler, at first. But being a musician, the need to say something gnawed at me.
"You look familiar," I said nonchalantly as I cleared the table. "Are you in a band?" He seemed incredulous. "Yes ... Aerosmith!" he snorted. "Oh yeah," I replied. "I saw your show in Phoenix a few months ago. Man, you sucked! You were all f*&%#ed up!"
Tyler was taken aback; then, after a beat he said, "Yeah, well, I don't really remember that show ..." "We'll take the check," sighed one of the suits. I rushed off, head spinning. I'd just told one of history's greatest rockers that he sucked—right to his face! Would I get fired? I didn't care. I'd spoken my piece to a hero who'd let a young fan down because of his addiction. Maybe he'd remember that.
Moments later one of the suits approached, and I braced to catch heat. "Oh my god," he gushed. "That was amazing! Nobody tells him that ... nobody! Thank you!" He handed me his card, saying, "If you ever come to Boston, call me and I'll take you out to dinner. You just performed a miracle!" I looked at the card: Tim Collins of the Collins/Barrasso Agency. I was glad Aerosmith's manager cared enough about Tyler and the fans to know the reproach was needed, even if delivered by an unlikely messenger—better, maybe, because the messenger was unlikely.
Two days later I was in line for a movie in Kaanapali, boasting to some friends about calling Tyler out. To my horror, I looked back and saw someone I'm sure was Aerosmith's guitarist, Joe Perry, a couple places behind in line—and I'm also sure he overheard me. Ashamed of bashing one of my favorite bands, I avoided eye contact and exclaimed, "But they're really good, man!" I can't speak for Aerosmith, but if it had been my band and I'd heard fans trashing us over the singer's inebriation, there would have been some fireworks at the next band meeting.
It wasn't long before Aerosmith cleaned up and rose to even greater success, pumping out albums and hits. For decades I wondered whether those encounters influenced the band's decision to get sober. More than thirty years later in Waikiki, I saw Tyler again at a meet-and-greet. I asked if he remembered the busboy, hoping he'd gasp, "You're the guy!" But he just laughed. Now friendlier and unpretentious, he admitted he didn't recall that particular incident, but it was a series of similar encounters that helped put him and the band on the road to recovery. I like to think, though, that maybe mine was the first. I mean, if Tyler doesn't remember, I might as well claim it.
I also eventually saw Collins again. He'd left the music business, got clean himself and was helping others recover and establish healthy lifestyles. I sent an email to an organization he was affiliated with and was pleased to hear back from the man who'd thanked me for my honesty nearly forty years earlier. Unlike Tyler, he did indeed remember the uppity busboy and he even made good on his promise, treating me to lunch where we reminisced about the halcyon days of rock 'n' roll. With no rude interjections from the busboy.
After a celestial fifty-four-year run, Aerosmith retired from touring last August due to a vocal cord injury Tyler sustained. Maybe I'm just dreaming on, but perhaps I played a part in helping the band get a grip and keep its train a rollin'. And I didn't even get fired.
