Truthfully, my relationship with Aerosmith has evolved over time. In my younger days, their songs provided the electrifying jolt that guitar-driven rock was uniquely equipped to deliver. The Sports Arena era was filled with bands whose music now feels dated or uninspired, but Aerosmith stood out for their deft command of riff construction, concise and ferocious guitar solos, and lyrics that doubled as witty, if often risqué, wordplay. It’s a curious achievement—perhaps a dubious one—that their bawdy humor translated into both laughter and the perpetuation of problematic attitudes toward women for decades.
What fascinates me, in retrospect, is how Aerosmith’s blend of musical craftsmanship and overt machismo created a template for countless would-be rock stars—young men, restless and clever, tempted to trade intellectual pursuits for the spotlight. My own tastes have shifted over the past thirty-five years, and I now find greater fulfillment in the nuanced textures of jazz and blues—Miles Davis, Coltrane, Mel Lewis, Wayne Shorter, Joe Pass, and the catalogs of Blue Note, Atlantic, ECM, Pacific Jazz, Verve, Impulse, Fantasy. Rock and roll, for me, has receded. Yet, when an Aerosmith classic comes on, I still feel that old charge. There’s something about Steven Tyler’s raw, abrasive vocals and Joe Perry’s muscular guitar work that remains compelling. Perhaps it’s their persistent grounding in rhythm and blues—roots that, even if filtered through the Stones rather than Motown or Stax, give their music a certain authenticity. In this sense, they embody the confusion and exuberance of youth, brilliantly expressing what I would call ‘glandular unrest.’
The artistry here lies not in technical innovation but in the band’s uncanny ability to sound perpetually adolescent—never learning much past the schoolyard, never aging beyond twenty-five. As the years pass and we accumulate the aches and maladies of age, our memories of youthful delinquency become more vivid and cherished. We gravitate toward those acts that sustain a sense of rebellion, a persistent scowl. Most bands built on a foundation of rebellion and immaturity eventually seem laughable—Pete Townshend, for instance, only escaped the fate of self-parody thanks to the ambition of works like Tommy and Who’s Next, and lived down his notorious lyric about dying before getting old. Aerosmith, meanwhile, endures because they have mastered their formula. Their sound, for many of us now entering senior citizenship, remains an audible marker of integrity and idealism. The paradox, however, is that their ability to evoke perpetual youth is itself a matter of professional discipline, not impulsive revolt.
Rock and roll, in the final analysis, is inseparable from professionalism. The story of the MC5’s manager cutting the power mid-show in Detroit to manufacture an atmosphere of rebellion—only to restore it and praise the crowd’s defiance—exposes the performative nature of the genre. This was show business, not genuine revolutionary zeal. Yet, there is a peculiar integrity in such theatricality, a legitimacy that persists even if we are reluctant to acknowledge it. Bands like the Stones and Aerosmith deserve credit for remembering what first stirred their passions and for maintaining the loyalty of their audience. The transformation of rock and roll from a raw cultural expression to a branded commodity was inevitable once the machinery of record companies and producers targeted a mass market. Whether the music of Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis was a diluted version of its roots in Howlin’ Wolf or Muddy Waters is less important than the fact that it coalesced into an emblem of youthful restlessness—a style radiating exoticism, daring, and the forbidden.
The process of naming, classifying, and codifying rock and roll—driven by commercial interests and a torrent of critical commentary—rendered it a brand. Once uprooted from its origins in black communities and poor Southern white districts, it became a product for the mainstream. The intentions of artists may have been revolutionary, but the decision to pursue music was, at its core, a career move—a means to make a living, or to get rich. The rare musician who chooses poverty over career is almost a myth. Chuck Berry, arguably the architect of rock and roll’s template, openly acknowledged that his songwriting was tailored for young white audiences, even as he drew upon the traditions of Ellington and Louie Jordan. Berry was both artist and entrepreneur, reimagining his brand and creating something new—a fusion of rhythm and blues, country guitar, and narratives that captured a collective experience previously unaddressed. Critics are right to call this music revolutionary, but it was also a strategic career shift.
None of this diminishes the power of Berry’s music, or that of Dylan, the Beatles, Stones, MC5, Bruce Springsteen, or any other seminal figures. The true measure lies in the quality of their work—the writing, playing, singing, and inspiration evident on their albums. To judge musicians or genres by a metaphysical standard of authenticity is a futile exercise; such standards are unknowable, and those who claim otherwise are improvising. Enjoyment of music is not served by these abstractions. All artists, like entrepreneurs, are risk-takers, and distinctions between the two are ultimately irrelevant. What matters are the works themselves—the products, if you will, whether visual, musical, dramatic, or poetic—created by artists who succeed in their intentions.
Art’s value is inherently subjective, but its purpose is to elicit a response, whether subtle or intense. Critics play a vital role by making the discourse around art engaging; the best criticism achieves a brilliance comparable to the art itself, while the worst falls flat. The quality varies, but the function remains legitimate. Criticism is a necessary enterprise—without it, we risk treating artists as high priests rather than as creative professionals.
Let’s not go down that path. God forbid.
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Ted Burke
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