Photos and Review by Ilya Mirman
If life is a series of improbable coincidences wrapped in heart-shaped peanuts, then this concert was a neon-lit testament to that truth. On a Wednesday evening—the sort of Wednesday that happens once and pretends to last forever—the Joe Perry Project sauntered onto the stage of the Hampton Beach Casino Ballroom, a venue whose salty air and creaky floorboards have seen more rock history than your grandpa has seen porch swings.
And there they were: Joe Perry, age-defying and guitar-weaponized, and his cohort of generational nomads—Robert DeLeo (bass), Brad Whitford (guitar), Chris Robinson (voice of smoky embers), Buck Johnson (keys), and Jason Sutter (drummer extraordinaire). They called themselves the Joe Perry Project, but on this night they were cosmic collaborators tuning the universe with riffs and souls.
From the opening of “Let the Music Do the Talking,” the music did indeed do the talking. It spoke of old wounds and new dreams, all in the language of guitar decibels.
They flung Aerosmith classics into the sand-dusted night: “My Fist Your Face,” “Mama Kin,” “Combination,” “Get It Up,” “Bright Light Fright,” “Last Child,” “Draw the Line,” and even the double-barreled “Get the Lead Out / Heartbreaker”—a Led Zeppelin wink dropped ironically into the set.
Chris Robinson’s vocals were like warm whiskey dribbling through your soul—aching, raspy, and perfect for these greasy riffs. Robert DeLeo’s bass was the earth beneath their wandering, grounding them when riffs threatened to fly off into orbit; Brad Whitford traded melodic fire with Joe, and Buck Johnson’s keys softened the aim just enough to keep us reeling. And Jason Sutter sat behind the drums like a seasoned surgeon with drumsticks, steady as any metronome.
They dipped into The Black Crowes and Stone Temple Pilots like one dips into a communal bowl of nostalgic candies: “Twice as Hard” snarled with slide-guitar grit, “Interstate Love Song” and “Vasoline” were drenched in whiskey and regret. Joe Perry rocked his slide so hard it might’ve bent the space-time continuum—or at least your perceptions of “slightly off-key.”
But it wasn’t all borrowed dreams. They paused for Joe’s own “Fortunate One” and “Won’t Let Me Go,” two lighthouses in this maelstrom of covers—raw, wistful, personal.
The set threatened to end somewhere near nostalgia, but they’d saved the best for last. As if pulling the night’s string by the last chord, they launched into “The Train Kept A-Rollin’” and “Walk This Way.” And there you leaned forward, like the world leans into a cosmic punchline—and the lights went out, and time paused, and you wondered if there might ever be a better moment in your life.
This show was like sleeping through a dream and waking up to find your guitar in your bed—and it’s still warm, still alive, still whispering “play me.” Where else but in rock could time loop between Aerosmith past, STP’s melancholy, the Crowes’ swagger, and Joe’s own rough-hewn songs? You left the venue blinking at the sea, the ocean’s drum matching your heart. The music may have done the talking, but you felt it in your bones saying: “We’re alive. Keep going.”