Twenty years ago, my elementary-school friends teased me for dressing up on Halloween as Gene Simmons, the freakish bassist in the rock band Kiss. Last month, my Washington friends teased me for going to see Simmons — still a freakish bassist for Kiss — in concert. Some things never change.
Most readers of this magazine probably know little or nothing about Kiss. It’s not a matter of ideology, though I doubt Bill Bennett would like this heavy-metal quartet. They had their heyday in the late ’70s, with albums like Hotter Than Hell, Dressed To Kill, Destroyer, and Love Gun. Their appeal was as much theatrical as musical. The bandmembers painted their faces Kabuki-style and wore extravagant costumes. The formula worked: Kiss has sold over 80 million albums worldwide.
Thinking back to those glorious elementary-school years, I can only guess as to what I found so appealing. It probably had something to do with the members’ ghoulish appearance and outlaw reputation. Rumor had it that they were cannibals, and the group’s name was said to be an acronym for Kids in Service to Satan. I papered my room with photos of the band, particularly those showing Simmons flashing his seven-inch tongue. My mother tolerated this, but she wouldn’t let me join the Kiss fan club (still known as the “Kiss Army”), and a concert was out of the question.
My interest in Kiss quickly waned when I went to junior high, where AC/DC was the hip heavy-metal group. In the mid-’80s, I even snickered when Kiss got so desperate for publicity they appeared on MTV one night and showed their bare faces, dispelling the mystique that depended on no one’s supposedly knowing what they really looked like. By this time, two of the original members had left. But as the ’80s turned into the ’90s and the band was squeezed by rap and grunge, the aging rockers followed a predictable formula: The original bandmembers reassembled, put their makeup back on, and staged a reunion tour.
I’d like to say I was above all this, but when a lobbyist friend dangled Kiss tickets before my wife and me last month, I jumped at them.
As soon as we entered the arena in downtown Washington, it was obvious the audience consisted of two kinds of people: diehard Kiss fans (check out www.kissdominion.com for a sample of Kiss hysteria) and people like me, who were willing to brave the inevitable teasing to relive part of their youth.
Kiss has never been known for its modesty, and the concert we saw was no different. The MC introduced “the greatest band in the world,” making way for the opening anthem, “Shout It Out Loud.” The mostly white male crowd lapped it up, giving the traditional heavy-metal salute of raised fist, pinkie and index finger extended. The band, wearing exactly the same makeup and costumes as 20 years ago, frenetically moved about the stage, vying with the dazzling pyrotechnics.
But as the show progressed, I sensed something was awry. Gene Simmons was up to his old tricks — he pleased the crowd by breathing fire and vomiting gobs of pseudo-blood (a mix of eggs, yogurt, maple syrup, and red food coloring) during “God Of Thunder” — as was Ace Frehley, whose blistering guitar solos ended with his instrument going up in flames.
No, the problem was the anodyne environment inside the arena. At the last rock concerts I’d been to, in the ’80s, the music was too loud, the temperature too high, the smoke intolerable, and if you wanted to be anywhere near the stage you had to risk your life amidst an uncontrollable press of bodies. You put up with it all as part of the concert experience.
Today, if Kiss is any indication, the rock concert has been completely sanitized. I could have held a conversation while the music played, the temperature was comfortable, cigarettes were prohibited — no traces, even, of pot in the air — and fans seated on the floor heeded the ushers’ courteous requests not to rush the stage. Gone was the bacchanalian spirit of yesteryear: The band’s frontman, Paul Stanley, introduced one song with a mini-sermon against drinking and driving.
The concert concluded with the crowd holding flickering cigarette lighters in the air and singing along to Kiss’s sole ballad, “Beth.” It was a priceless Kiss moment. The real message of the evening, though — spend your money on Kiss paraphernalia — only came through once the show was over.
The towering video screens, which during the concert had displayed hokey three-dimensional imagery, now offered words of thanks to the fans — and a pitch to call the Kiss hotline and get your Kiss credit card, boxer shorts, and throw rug. The number: 1-900-CALL-KISS.
MATTHEW REES
