Robert Baird

Being a sixty year old rock star ain't easy, but there’s gotta be a better way for rock bands to grow old than the one Aerosmith has chosen. A symphony gig? What's next Disneyland on a co-bill with Up With People?

It's been decades since they were a real band that meant something, anything besides grinding out the hits for cash. And is there anything they won’t do for money? A Home Depot opening perhaps?

There's nothing left of the band that made Toys In The Attic and Rocks. Today those cheeseballs would play anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances for specie. At this point weddings, bar mitzvahs and tiny tot birthday parties have to be in the ballpark. As long as the check clears.

I'm still processing the bands "performance" in Boston during yesterday's Fourth of July celebration. As nakedly money-driven as the Stones have become—hint: if they come to your town, do not waste your money—at least they cloak they’re pathetic, grubby motives in something that has at least the aroma of past credibility. They’re still writing songs at least. Not great songs by any means but songs. That and the Stones had a lot much larger reserve of cool to let dwindle down than Tyler and Co.

The last hit from Yonkers boy Tallarico (Tyler) with whom I share a birthday and Perry was the forgettable power ballad, "I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing" from Armageddon. When I watch Tyler and Perry, both of whom have unnaturally tight skinned faces, (gee, wonder why?), I get a mush of feelings beginning with I'm old `cause I remember the release of Rocks like it was yesterday, which is followed by a blend of pity and disgust begging the question, do these guys really need the money this badly? Those applause junkies should have quit while they were still a band and gone off to be rich, blather about how they got sober, produce bad albums by other people or whatever the hell it is that old rock stars do once they can’t do it anymore.