Aero Force One
February 1, 2010

Here’s another one from the early days. For the Walk This Way Book it was broken up and intermingled with other people’s memories of this story. Thought you might like to see it the way I originally wrote it.

It must have been the winter of ’71-’72. It seems most of my most profound early memories of the band happened during the winter.

One day Brad and I decided to go down to Wurlitzer’s, Boston’s main music store, and do some errands. I was always ready to go there. Since I was about 12 or 13 the place was like Disneyland to me. There were always new guitars, amps, accessories and tons of other stuff to check out. Not only that, but a lot of times when I didn’t have any money, there was a great guy there named Billy Murray who would throw me free strings and stuff.

We hadn’t had a gig in at least a month and things were getting tight. Not only that, but we had no place to rehearse. Rent was due on the apartment and the phone refused to ring.

We were hanging around the counter when a friend of ours walked up. His name was Scott Baerenwald and he played for a band called Reddy Teddy, one of the local contenders. He asked us what was up and we told him that we didn’t have a place to work. He told us that his brother was the assistant manager at a place called the Fenway Theater, which was basically right down the street. It sounded far fetched, but Brad and I decided to call the other guys and head over there.

“Just ask for Swine” he said.

“Swine?” I wanted to make sure I had that right. No sense in calling somebody a pig because you didn’t hear their name right.

We all converged at the Fenway a little while later. It’s just a small place, about 1500 seats but it had a big stage and a balcony and everything told us it was the kind of place we wanted to play in.

We wandered in the front door and somehow found our way into a little wood paneled office and face to face with two of the toughest looking people I had ever seen.

Steve Baerenwald, A.K.A. “Swine,” stood about 6’5.” His long red hair was tied straight back. His narrow piercing eyes were only the beginning of a vibe that said he’d seen his share of mud and blood. He was decked out in the classic post hippie denims that all the bikers wore. He introduced us to his boss, John O’Toole. John had the look of a longshoreman. The no-shit face behind his big, bushy mustache gave him a nasty look that made Swine seem like the ice cream man. He had short hair and wore straighter clothes than his partner and he just looked plain mean.

“So I hear you’re looking for a place to practice.”

“Yeah.”

“Well it’s fifty a day plus fifty for the engineer to run the sound system.”

We just stood there watching another opportunity blow away like a fart in the breeze. He may as well as asked us each to cut off a left nut and throw it on the desk. Actually, that would have been easier because at least we each had one of those. He didn’t have to wait for a reply. Our sad stunned faces had “No deal” written all over them.

After letting the value of the favor he was about to do us sink in, he said: “Well I’ll tell you what. I don’t have anybody in here this weekend. You can set up for the next three days and if I like you maybe we can work something out.”

Bam! Just like that we had our first taste of the warm, flip side of John’s personality. He was putting us back into business and right from that moment a second stage booster kicked in. In the space of two hours we went from having no prospects to playing in the kind of place we had dreamed about. It was only rehearsing but so what. The stage even had a lighting system!

After thanking both of them we left to get the gear. As we walked out we noticed this ratty lookin’ little guy sitting in the corner.

“Oh that’s just Prew” said John.

“Who?”

“Prew.”

“Prew?”

“Yeah, Prew!!”

Prew smiled, his single front tooth catching the light. I was never quite sure what Prew’s job was and didn’t really want to know. I don’t remember him saying anything as we filed out.

The Fenway was on a tight budget to say the least. As far as we could see, nothing was happening there outside of John, Swine and Prew hanging out in their den. There wasn’t even any heat. We set the gear up on the stage but had to keep the big curtain closed to keep in what warmth there was. I seem to remember it being about 50 degrees in there. The only heat came from the amps and a lot of jumping around.

Every day before we left 1325 we’d pile on the layers. Then we’d all pile into Steven’s black Volkswagen, two in the front, and three in the back with guitar cases on our laps.

“Man, there’s too many of us for this little thing. We’re gonna blow the fuckin’ engine. Can’t you guys take the train?”

Somehow we all wound up cramming into that little car. I remember trying the train once or twice but after waiting at the trolley stop in the freezing wind chill of the Boston winter while watching the car disappear down Comm Ave, I decided it was worth whatever it took to get in that back seat.

We were getting a really good set of original material together and the rehearsals at the Fenway Theater allowed us to polish it to the point where we were ready to play it for whoever would listen. We’d get there early and go all day. Every once and a while Steven or somebody would disappear and then come back wide-eyed talking about John taking out his big buck knife and shoveling premium blow up their nose. It wasn’t long before we were all sneaking up there.

“You guys are pretty f@#kin’ good,” he said one day. “Listen. Cactus is playin’ here this weekend. Why don’t you come, I’ll give ya free tickets.”

I don’t quite remember what stage of their career Cactus was in but nonetheless, they were a big band and the tickets were free so we decided to go. We packed all the gear down under the stage, ready to share our new found turf with one of the name acts of the day.

The night of the show came and snow was predicted. I remember it was really coming down when we got to the theater that night. I brought some pot and a couple of hits of speed. We marched up to the balcony and took possession of the first row. I leaned back, put my feet up on the rail and fired up the first joint. We hung out for a while and then started to notice that time was going by and nothing was happening. Not only that, but there were only about 60 or 70 people there. I was just getting off on the speed when Prew ran up and said: “Hey you guys, John wants to see you in his office right now!!”

We jumped up and ran down to see what was happening.

“Bad news, the f@#kin’ band can’t get here cause of the weather so they canceled. You guys are going to have to play.”

Their bad news was our good news. We told John we were ready to do it. He whipped out his big buck knife and we knew what was coming next. One by one he told us to lay down on the couch with our heads hanging over the edge as he packed all 10 gaping nostrils with a gigantic hit of cocaine from his private stash.

We were more than ready, now, to hump the gear up the tiny staircase to the stage. Before long we were ready to play. The lights went up, the curtain opened and we were off. We laid into “Movin’ Out,” Mama Kin,” “One Way Street,” and everything else we knew, original or not. There may have only been 60 or 70 people there but they were rockin’. They loved everything we played and showed no sign that they were disappointed that the band they had bought tickets for didn’t show up. I remember how it felt to feed on all that positive energy and how it helped us to sense it and squeeze every bit of energy out of our music. It was a whole new experience but it felt like we had done it many times before.

John was knocked out.

“I wish Frank could have heard “that” he bellowed.

“Who?”

“Ya know, Frank Connelly, the guy I told you about.”

He had mentioned Frank Connelly before, each time with a look of admiration.

“Who is he anyway?” Somebody asked.

“Who is HE!!?? Are you shittin’ me? He’s the guy who put the f@#kin’ Beatles on at Boston Garden! He owns the friggin’ Carousel Theater!” The Carousel was a place just outside of town where all the bands played when they came through: Hendrix, Zeppelin, etc.

After that night it was obvious to everybody that John was going to try to get Frank to come hear us. “He’s never managed anybody before. If he manages you…”

One day we were on the stage rehearsing, hacking away at the arrangements when suddenly the curtain opened and the stage lights came on. John appeared in the aisle downstage and told us to play some of our songs. We had an idea of what was happening but, because of the lights, couldn’t see who was out there in the seats. We played for about half an hour, just enough time to go through some of our best stuff, and then stopped with nothing coming back but eerie silence. We put the mics, guitars and sticks down and made our way up to John’s den. He sat there at his desk with nothing on it but some papers. He told us to read them. They were management contracts! Our mouths fell open as we read the last pages (it guaranteed each of us some tremendously large amounts of income for the first couple of years). It said that if we didn’t make some horrendously large amounts of money in the first couple of years we were free and clear. Somehow we knew we’d be able to pay the rent from now on. And no more stealing meat at Star Market.

Out came the Buck knife.

-TH