Looking back at these archival tapes from Sept. 1, 2010, is like excavating a specific layer of rock and roll geology. The air was thick with it. Aerosmith, America’s greatest and most perpetually dysfunctional rock band, felt like it was genuinely on the precipice. Steven Tyler was flirting with American Idol, Joe Perry was fuming on social media and the whole enterprise seemed ready to implode. And right in the middle of that storm was bassist Tom Hamilton, the band’s quiet anchor, trying to navigate the chaos.
Hearing his voice on this raw tape, you get the sense of a man choosing his words with immense care, even when he’s being brutally honest. The previous year had been a public relations nightmare. When asked how much of the reported drama was true, Hamilton doesn’t flinch. “Well, a lot of what we went through last year is, you know, reported fairly accurately,” he says, his tone measured. “You know, it was really just one of those times that we've had, you know, every once in a while where things seem to melt down.”
That’s an understatement of stadium-sized proportions. The meltdown included tour cancellations, public spats and the infamous Toronto incident where Tyler took a tumble off the stage, an event many fans and insiders whispered was a not-so-subtle nudge from Perry. The band had hit a nadir. But Hamilton, ever the pragmatist, saw it as just another cycle in their chaotic orbit. “We reached a low last winter, and we did what we needed to do to try to get the ship sailing again, and it's been amazing.”
And this is the central paradox of Aerosmith. The off-stage drama is legendary, a five-decade saga of conflict, ego, and addiction. Yet, the moment they hit the stage, something else takes over. It’s a chemical reaction that defies logic. Hamilton’s explanation for this alchemy is perhaps the most insightful thing ever said about the band’s volatile chemistry.
“When we're up there, the only thing that you can do really is all positive,” he explains. “You can't argue. You can't get into anything. You just, you're in a state of concentration that you have to keep going for two hours, and it doesn't allow for anything else but the fun of what you're doing and concentrating on your playing.” The stage wasn’t just a performance space; it was a sanctuary. It was the one place the five of them could remember why they started this thing in the first place.
It’s the shared language of the riff, the rhythm, and the roar of the crowd. That’s the glue. It’s not friendship, not always. It’s a synchronized mission. “We all like the feeling of what it's like to be on stage playing an Aerosmith show,” he admits. That singular feeling has been powerful enough to override decades of personal grievances, lawsuits and public humiliation.
But make no mistake, the grievances are real and ever-present. Hamilton is candid about the constant state of friction that fuels their creative engine. This isn’t a well-oiled corporate machine that clocks in for a tour. It’s a rolling family feud. “There's usually some bone of contention on any given day,” he says with a weary resignation that speaks volumes. It’s a strange, high-wire act to maintain for a career.
The only real critique one can level at this dynamic is its sheer unsustainability. It’s a miracle they didn’t burn out completely by 1985, let alone 2010. The constant tension, the heated arguments over setlists, the personal jabs—it’s a recipe for disaster. Yet for Aerosmith, it was somehow just standard operating procedure. Their greatest magic trick wasn’t a power ballad; it was survival.
When I'm up on stage with Aerosmith, I basically have something to hold on to, and I have four other people up there. But when you do a play or you do comedy in front of a large group of people, your ass is a little more bare.
When the conversation turns to the infamous Toronto show, Hamilton plays his cards close to his chest. He claims he didn’t see the alleged push from Perry. “Steven likes to roughhouse. That's all I can say. And so stuff happens, but, you know, we get past it.” It’s a masterclass in band-member diplomacy, a verbal shrug that protects the family secrets while acknowledging that, yes, stuff happens.
Then comes the elephant in the room: American Idol. At the time, the idea of Steven Tyler, the Demon of Screamin’, sitting beside Jennifer Lopez to judge karaoke singers felt like a betrayal to the rock and roll faithful. It was a move that threatened to neuter the band’s dangerous image. And in this interview, Hamilton lets the cat out of the bag before the official announcement.
“I got in a lot of trouble for saying that I think I overstepped,” he confesses, after confirming the deal was done. “But, you know, that's what's happening. And we're, you know, in a mode where we're just trying to wrap our minds around it and all the positive things that could come from it and, you know, the possible negatives.” You can hear the uncertainty, the attempt to spin a potentially disastrous career move into a positive. History would prove it was a brilliant play that introduced Aerosmith to a whole new generation, but in that moment, it felt like a gamble.
Still, Hamilton was resolute that it wasn't the end. He saw it as just another chapter. “I don't look at this as the end of anything,” he insists. “It's a whole new era of the same thing that we've had all our lives, basically.” He knew the phone would always ring, that promoters would always want them and that the allure of the stage would ultimately be too strong to resist.
Woven into this narrative of band survival is Hamilton’s own deeply personal battle with throat and tongue cancer. His perspective is sobering and profound. He speaks of the nasty, severe treatment and the ongoing checkups with a calm acceptance. The fight changed him, forcing a re-evaluation of everything. “It gives you the ability to really, you know, think about stuff and decide what's important to you,” he reflects. It’s a stark reminder of the real-world stakes beyond the stage lights and backstage arguments.
His doctor’s words resonated deeply with him, a simple truth that applied to his health and, poetically, to his band: “Cancer causes changes.” Facing his own mortality put the band’s squabbles into a different kind of focus, making him more determined to embrace the things he loved, whether it was music or his surprising passion for comedy.
The revelation of his love for skit comedy and his appearance in the legendary Wayne’s World sketch on Saturday Night Live offers a glimpse of the man behind the bass. It was an escape, a chance to “be a complete ham” and step out of his defined role in Aerosmith. He even admits that doing comedy can be scarier than playing to a stadium. “Your ass is a little more bare,” he jokes.
Even his gear talk is unique. A fingerstyle player in a genre dominated by plectrums, Hamilton’s reasoning is purely about feel and force. His tone has a roundness and warmth that a pick just can’t replicate. His anecdote about creating latex replica fingers to throw to fans—at four dollars a pop—is a perfect, quirky story that encapsulates his off-kilter charm. He gave up when the manufacturer demanded a minimum order of 10,000.
Ultimately, this conversation from over a decade ago remains a vital document. It captures a moment of extreme vulnerability for a band that always projected an image of invincible swagger. It reveals the complex machinery of their survival, a mix of shared passion, constant friction and the unwavering dedication of their fans.
Hamilton acknowledges that multi-generational audience, the teens and 20-somethings rediscovering hard rock, as a key source of their vitality. It’s the feedback loop that keeps the engine running, proving that the power of a distorted guitar through a loud amp is a timeless thrill.
The interview ends on a note of strange irony. For years, Hamilton says, a persistent rumour dogged the band in the seventies: that Steven Tyler had throat cancer. “I don't know how that got out there,” he muses. Hearing him tell this story, years before his own diagnosis and battle with the same disease, is chilling. It’s a final, poignant reminder that in the wild, unpredictable world of Aerosmith, truth is always, always stranger than fiction.
519 Magazine Archive: We are thrilled to officially unearth the Rockstar Weekly Digital Vault. This isn't just a re-post; it's a high-fidelity restoration of a pivotal era in music journalism. By pairing original print dates with modern retrospectives, we’re bridging the gap between historical rock-and-roll grit and the lightning-fast performance of today’s web. These stories—once locked in physical print and lost URLs—are now back, fully searchable, and optimized for a new generation of fans.
We are thrilled to officially unearth the 519 Magazine Digital Vault. This isn't just a re-post; it's a high-fidelity restoration of a pivotal era in music journalism. By pairing original print dates with modern retrospectives, we're bridging the gap between historical rock-and-roll grit and the lightning-fast performance of today's web. These stories—once locked in physical print and lost URLs—are now back, fully searchable, and optimized for a new generation of fans.
