A few weeks ago I was expressing my excitement about attending Sunday’s KISS show to a friend who claims to be a fan, but was not planning on going. “You don’t find it sad yet?” he asked, referring to the state of the band, their flagrant hairpieces, Paul Stanley’s turkey neck, Gene Simmons’ reality TV shows, etc, etc. “No,” I exclaimed with disgust, “they’re the hottest band in the world!”
KISS never tried to deliver anything to their fans but simple entertainment. The exaggerated characters they portray, and the infantile, sometimes hokey music they’ve created over the years, carries that message perfectly.
Yes, I admit, Gene is the sleaziest rock star alive, the florescent, feathered, and tasseled non-make up years are trying at times, and Gene and Paul are more businessmen then musicians. But, goddamn it!! Beth, what can I do? I love them, and Sunday night, they reciprocated my love.
I wanted to see KISS, and that’s what I saw. Gene spit blood and blew fire, Paul worked his hips and strutted around in seven-inch heels, there were big, flashy lights, things blew up, and at one point, drummer Eric Singer drew a bazooka and blasted fake, rubber lights from the rafters that came bouncing to the stage in a shower of sparks. All of it was perfect.
When you see a big-shot stadium act, the rock stars on stage always seem larger then life. There’s a drastic difference from drooling over two-dimensional album covers and Youtube videos, and seeing your idols on stage dealing the goods. Live, KISS has more presence then any band I’ve ever seen. It was like watching some powerful gang of Gods come to life in order to show me how to have a real rock 'n' roll party. And party, I did. Despite all naysayers, I will stand by KISS forever.