Connect with me via
What Steven Tyler Taught Me About Life’s Second Half
September 4, 2014 by Lizabeth Phelps
I’m leaving my forties late next month and haven’t held that fact with a great deal of excitement—until last night’s Aerosmith concert, when Steven Tyler showed me what’s truly golden about the coming years.
“Slash and the Conspirators” didn’t disappoint musically, but psychologically they did, playing mostly Guns ‘N Roses songs rather than their own. I couldn’t understand why they would do that when their songs are so good. But still, I swooned over Myles’ vocals and shook my head in awe as Slash made his guitar whine and scream—a wildly talented pair. When they were done, the concert was done for me, for the most part. I sat during intermission, waiting for Aerosmith who I knew would be good, but who had much more age on them than the guys we’d just seen and I wasn’t expecting much. Neither was my partner.
But something crept into my subconscious awareness the moment Steven Tyler took the stage, strolling—or, of course, really strutting–down the runway-of-sorts they use at their concerts, festooned in red pants and scarf, a black top hat and black sequined top coat. The first notes of his iconic voice filled the arena and there everything I had thought before about the warm-up band and Aerosmith themselves was shattered like glass in an instant. There was no mistake: we were in the presence of godly mastery, the kind Slash and Myles—and anyone under sixty-six years of age–have many miles to go before achieving.
It’s nearly impossible to capture in words what makes up a star’s Star Power, and it’s surely no different with Steven Tyler, but here’s what I witnessed: This man owned that arena from the first step. No one can own a territory unless they believe they can. I’ve read Steven’s autobiography, Does the Noise In My Head Bother You?, and know that he certainly believes in himself and has from the start–but there’s no question: after forty-four years on stages, he knows he owns them. And because he knows it, we know it, too. Without my conscious attention on any of this, all thoughts of Slash and Myles (and this is really hard for me to say, given my love of them) slowly faded away. All I could see was Steven Tyler. He was larger than that venue.
And it is “age” that made that possible. It is “age” that accounts for the power of certainty that exudes from his cells; he knows who 
he is and deeply appreciates that. You see it in the tilt of his head, sway of his hips, lilt in his step. In everything. He’s been in his body sixty-six years; he’s been cooking that long—no more salt needed.
And it is age that accounts for his making the right and perfect moves at every turn on stage, some of them for effect, some of them—well, all for effect, but some are planned, others organic. He knows how to throw the microphone stand and catch it to punctuate a note—he’s done it a thousand times. He knows how to contort his face theatrically and paint his body to affect a persona and how to mug for the big-screen cameraman to bring it further vibrantly to life. He knows how to bend backwards nimbly in expression of awe at living, and music and perhaps himself. He knows that a wind machine blowing his hair creates a mystical, ethereal feel; that being out front from his band, by a hundred feet or more, weaves deeper his legendary status. He knows that bringing Slash on stage will enthrall his audience, but that Slash must stay in the background and Joe Perry must come up front with him. He knows that the massive screen helps him seem larger-than-life—but more importantly, brings him into the laps of everyone, even those in the nose-bleeds. Everything he does he does for deliberate maximum impact on his fans, and he knows how to do it. He’s done it a thousand times.
Those are all staging brilliances and innate understanding of psychology, but then there is the core of Steven Tyler: musical genius. Steven Tyler. Knows. How. To. Sing. Yes, he always has—but his twenty-seven-year-old-self cannot hold a candle to him now, at sixty-six. At the end of the night, during the encore, he sat at his white piano and started to sing an acoustic version of one of their songs but stopped and started over, apparently unhappy with how he sounded (though we couldn’t notice.) Then, after a quick jaunt into “Chopsticks,” these words floated out of him, nearly a capella: “Every time that I look in the mirror…” I wondered, can he reach the note? The one at the end that we all know so well? Can his aging vocal chords handle it? Well, he nailed it. In fact, he slayed it. Throughout the night, he slayed every single song he sung. He scatted brilliantly and effortlessly. He sang every note just as he did in 1977, 1987, 2007–but with something so much richer in his tone: age.
But if it were just sixty-six years that he was bringing to that platform, it could still not have been awe-inspiring, certainly not one of, if not the, best concert I’ve attended. (Did I mention that yet? It was.) What made it that was his extreme energy. In the public speaking training I used to teach, I would have participants hold the edges of a parachute and I’d throw a beach ball on top. I’d tell them to keep it snapping at a consistent rate, which was challenging. I told them this is how the energy in their rooms had to be, no matter how long the event—always going, always popping. Then, I’d have them slacken their grip and watch as the ball’s energy petered out. Steven didn’t just keep the ball snapping; he launched it into the rafters on every single song—he and the band, I should say. A twenty-something whipper-snapper may be able to bring boundless energy to an arena, but only a long-time veteran knows exactly where to send the ball; exactly where it will land; exactly how to alter its velocity: when to slow it down, when to take it to a fevered pitch.
Steven, I suspect, is the mastermind behind this: determining which songs they play and when to create the *precisely right* energy from second to second (which he does when he writes a single song). And this is how you know a master 
artist is at the helm: he understands that they must open with a familiar, beloved tune and keep them coming before a new one is played. Last night, I’m not sure Aerosmith played even one new song. That, too, Steven surely did deliberately, knowing full well that to get us into the palm of his hand, to have us buy anything he or they do in the future, he must envelop us in unforgettable energy, which mostly the classic songs can do. Which only the classic entertainers can do.
I didn’t expect much from Aerosmith last night—for no particular reason—but they surprised the bajeebees out of me. What got surprised most of all was the part of me that’s had the brakes on approaching “50.” Steven Tyler, single-handedly, showed me what the next phase of life is about: it’s about growing and improving yourself and your craft forever, of course, as he does—but it’s truly about finally being able to play the full octaves of your mastery, to share your full catalogue and know you’ve got this. It is the time to own the stage–because you have done it a thousand times. These are the golden years not because the sun is setting on your life and casting a lovely hue—but because you are now an alchemist who can turn your metal–years of sweat, mistakes, and well over 10,000 hours–into gold.
Thanks, Steven! My top-hat’s off to you! You are a legend because you deserve to be. I hope the same will be said of me “when I’m sixty-four”–plus two! As you say, “Half my life’s in books’ written pages; Live and learn from fools and from sages; You know it’s true…All the things you do, come back to you.”
Ann Egan says: Lizabeth Phelps I just read your article on Aerosmith. I don’t think ANYONE could have gotten inside this legends mind and explained it the way you just did…You, my dear ARE a master of your craft..thank you for allowing me to read this.
-
Lizabeth Phelps says:
Thank you SO much, Ann! Your words are welcome and valuable. 🙂 Dream On!!!
Speak Your Mind