Why exactly did we think KISS ruled?
by ADAM GLENN DEAN
When I was a child, I not only wanted to listen to KISS, I wanted to be them. The band that had every mother trembling in her station wagon and every eight-year-old boy spitting out ketchup on the dining room table was the ultimate display of rebellion washed in carnival sideshow theatrics. The white-faced messiahs that carved a totem of gothic metal lords in my still developing psyche, were more of a religion than a band. Like other great religions, I was forced to practice it in secret, for fear of persecution.
The illusionists, that were the seventies super group, made life mysterious and bearable for a tortured first grader in the “burbs.” The images of dragons, metal-clad warriors and a legion of fans, that became a literal army, fostered my need to immerse myself in all things Kiss. As time went on, however, the grease paint smeared and the reality of the “B” band emerged.
On the surface, the four members of the arena dwellers had an otherworldly facade that was never questioned by their youngest followers. These were not high-school dropouts in white face, but rather real “demons,” “catmen,” “space rangers” and “starchildren.” Their disguises were perfect. My parents were adamant about their dislike and kept my exposure to them at a minimum. The fact that what I knew of them was more second-hand than actual personal exposure made them all the more appealing. “Gene breathes fire and has to be put out by a paramedic every concert,” my cousin, a fellow disciple, would report. “That isn’t make-up, that is their real skin,” I was told by the same “reliable source.”
The larger-than-life image I adopted of them was even grander than the one their publicity machine could manufacture. In secret, I would look at pictures of them in old issues of “Hit Parader,” sing the song “Beth” to myself on the school bus when I felt maudlin and even cut the bottom of my favorite blanket so it would look like the bottom of Gene Simmons’ cape. I was not allowed to own one of the Casablanca-marketed vinyls that I could spin on my Winnie the Pooh record player and, thus, give me the full effect of their message, so my actual knowledge of the music was limited. Songs like “God of Thunder” were “poisons” that I could ingest only in small doses in the confines of my cousin’s basement while flying low under my parent’s radar. While the generation ahead of me shared coffee and chit-chat in the rooms above the basement, I was living the life of a small-time deviant lapping up every last chord and drum beat. Huddled around the speakers with the music played so low it was barely audible, we imagined ourselves front row in a stadium deadening our ears with blistering volume.
When I was a child, I not only wanted to listen to KISS, I wanted to be them. The band that had every mother trembling in her station wagon and every eight-year-old boy spitting out ketchup on the dining room table was the ultimate display of rebellion washed in carnival sideshow theatrics. The white-faced messiahs that carved a totem of gothic metal lords in my still developing psyche, were more of a religion than a band. Like other great religions, I was forced to practice it in secret, for fear of persecution.
The illusionists, that were the seventies super group, made life mysterious and bearable for a tortured first grader in the “burbs.” The images of dragons, metal-clad warriors and a legion of fans, that became a literal army, fostered my need to immerse myself in all things Kiss. As time went on, however, the grease paint smeared and the reality of the “B” band emerged.
On the surface, the four members of the arena dwellers had an otherworldly facade that was never questioned by their youngest followers. These were not high-school dropouts in white face, but rather real “demons,” “catmen,” “space rangers” and “starchildren.” Their disguises were perfect. My parents were adamant about their dislike and kept my exposure to them at a minimum. The fact that what I knew of them was more second-hand than actual personal exposure made them all the more appealing. “Gene breathes fire and has to be put out by a paramedic every concert,” my cousin, a fellow disciple, would report. “That isn’t make-up, that is their real skin,” I was told by the same “reliable source.”
The larger-than-life image I adopted of them was even grander than the one their publicity machine could manufacture. In secret, I would look at pictures of them in old issues of “Hit Parader,” sing the song “Beth” to myself on the school bus when I felt maudlin and even cut the bottom of my favorite blanket so it would look like the bottom of Gene Simmons’ cape. I was not allowed to own one of the Casablanca-marketed vinyls that I could spin on my Winnie the Pooh record player and, thus, give me the full effect of their message, so my actual knowledge of the music was limited. Songs like “God of Thunder” were “poisons” that I could ingest only in small doses in the confines of my cousin’s basement while flying low under my parent’s radar. While the generation ahead of me shared coffee and chit-chat in the rooms above the basement, I was living the life of a small-time deviant lapping up every last chord and drum beat. Huddled around the speakers with the music played so low it was barely audible, we imagined ourselves front row in a stadium deadening our ears with blistering volume.
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February 7, 2003
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