This entry is not about horror fims. But many horror fans I know are also fans of KISS, so I figure this is as good a place as any to get this off my chest.
KISS — the band — is finally going in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
The band members, Gene Simmons, Ace Frehley, Peter Criss and Paul Stanley — have done everything they can to screw it up for everybody.
Between social media, That Metal Show, radio call-ins, press releases, books and Rolling Stone, we fans — many of us fans for decades — have gotten a new look inside the band we love.
And we hate it.
We now see how the sausage is made in this band. And we don't like what we see, because it is not what we remember or believe in.
We're nostalgic for our own childhoods and wanted to relive them one more time at the induction ceremony.
We wanted our fire breathing, blood spitting, smoking guitars, smashing guitars and rising drum kits — and the men behind them — to be the same as what we saw when we opened the gatefold of Alive II. When we were 12-14 years old (or in my case, 6) we thought the characters and the men playing them were one in the same on the same mission. And maybe they were on the same mission at one time. But they aren't anymore.
We're not going to get that trip down memory lane because behind these characters, these personas that we all believed in as kids, are flawed human beings.
The Spaceman, with his rocket-shooting, smoking guitars and blistering solos will always be my guitar hero.
The real Ace Frehley is a spaced out ex-coke fiend who thinks aliens abducted him.
The Demon that was plastered on my bedroom wall (briefly, until my mom made me take it down) with blood dripping down his chin and breathing fire will always scare the crap out of me.
The real Gene Simmons is an admitted friendless, greedy jerk.
The Starchild with that big mane of hair and the mirrored guitar will always stand tall in the pantheon of cool, with the Fonz, James Bond and Dirty Harry.
In real life, Paul Stanley is the Man Behind the Curtain, a string-puller who seemingly can't stand any of the people he's worked with, but tolerates them to keep the rock and roll money and fame machine moving forward.
The Catman will always live in a thunderous, never-ending drum solo showered in smoke and confetti.
The real Peter Criss may be the only one who is close to a genuine person, and it's sad that he isn't going to get one last hurrah. I, too, was moved by his speech on That Metal Show. But he is also the guy who hung Ace out to dry in his book and is so paranoid he is afraid to answer his own door.
And whatever they appear to be to us, they apparently appear 1,000 time worse to each other:
— Sweet guy Peter didn't merit a phone call from his bandmates when he had cancer?
— Reality star Gene can't get his "brother" Paul to stay at his house for more than a few minutes because Paul thinks Gene lives a "fake" life?
— Paul is so ruthless he'll "cut your throat?" And says people who don't realize who the real boss of KISS is "don't know the band"?
— Ace says Peter was his best friend in the band but then voted him out? (Or didn't, depending on what day you ask him.)
These guys are goofballs. Idiots. Assholes. Between the four of them they have maybe two brains and half a heart.
But the four of them together circa 1977 — or 2000 — reach a level of awesome that's rarely been achieved by any of my other childhood idols. I've seen KISS in various lineups a half dozen times. I've seen the original four together once, and that show still blows away any other. Because those four together, in makeup, on stage, create something special.
So that's how I'm going to remember them — on stage. On my turntable. On my bedroom wall. I don't want to hear about, read about or otherwise discuss them, the Hall of Fame or any of their off-stage drama any more. Because I don't need those four guys. I don't need to be a part of their lives. I don't need them.
But I do need KISS. Sometimes I need to be a kid again. Sometimes I need to rock-and-roll my troubles away. And as long as I can put on a KISS record I can do that. Listening to the music is a must.
Listening to the nonsense is optional.
Some said KISS stood for Knights in Satan's Service. Others said it was the old adage Keep It Simple, Stupid.
For me, from now on, it will be Keep It Separate, Stupid — love the music, love the nostalgia, and the hell with the rest of it.
