By Jason Harper/Photos: Scott SpychalskiWhen I was a wee lad, the kids at my church asked me if I knew what Kiss stood for. No, I said, I did not know.
"Knights In Satan's Service," they told me as they shotgunned a whole tumbler of Welch's red grape juice, also known as Jesus' blood.
"Really?" I asked.
"Yeah. And they have a whole army."
I knew then that my fear of Gene Simmons was well founded.
This is a fear that I have harbored for all my life, through the dark madness of Kiss Meet the Phantom of the Park , to the post-apocalyptic-whore-wasteland of the sans-makeup years, through the shifting guitarist-drummer lineups of the 80s and 90s, to the horrific non-normality of Family Jewels and finally -- and this was really the last straw -- to Gene being rude to Terry Gross on NPR.
This man is no mere vassal in someone else's employ. Gene Simmons is Satan Himself.
KISS -- all caps -- brought its >Alive 666 35 tour to Kansas City last night, at the Sprint Center, which is not so much a building as a lens for focusing the demonic powers of the Elder World.
Center stage was Gene: bat-winged, dragon-booted, stomping about and wagging his codpiece and slobbering like a Mastiff. He flicked his tongue and caused hurricanes to ravage tiny islands in Polynesia. He spat blood and levitated, all while clawing low-end chaos out of his pointy instrument.
It was SSIK.
And because this tour savors the opinions of music critics, I was granted second-row seats.
This -- and I'm not kidding -- allowed me to feel distinctly uncomfortable whenever Gene walked to the edge of the stage near me. His visits to my side of the stage became more frequent once the Dark Lord noticed the extreme youth and beauty of the girl seated in front of me, whose date was local radio celebrity Johnny Dare. Gene made frowns at Johnny's girl, he mouthed naughty words and shook his fist, and Johnny spirited her away before the encore. A wise move.
And yet KISS is still Kiss so much of the time. And what does that stand for?
Kreeps In Silly Suits.
The band started as a New York Dolls-inspired glam-punk band, settled on a signature look, and then began marketing its brand like an aggressive corporation bent on world domination: Gene, the string-pulling President; Paul Stanley, the cheerleading CEO; Ace Frehley, the wildcard, drunk VP; Peter Criss, the ... janitor?
The product is awesome: "Deuce," "Strutter," "Dr. Love," "Shout It Out Loud." These songs make you wanna fuck and sweat -- both, if possible, but not necessarily. And when KISS plays these songs, they are pure sex and evil and not-give-a-fuck-ness.
Stanley, who is almost 60, is built like Kevin Spacey in American Beauty after he started lifting weights naked in the garage. His chest-hair corona is as radiant as the glistening pelt of a wolverine in the Alaskan dawn. Ace Frehley stand-in Tommy Thayer is lithe and hunched like a cheetah. Little Eric Singer on drums and in Criss cat-man makeup is an expert pounder and powerful backup singer. And Gene, as we all know, ate your mom's vagina to death in 1983.
These guys have a lot going for them.
But then Paul gets on the microphone between songs, and shit gets weird. Children are celebrated. Wal-Mart is shouted out. People are chided for thinking Kiss has any of the answers the questions of the warses and global warmings of today. And his voice -- forgive me for saying this -- sounds like the stock, Brooklyn-accented character that's in every Disney film. (I posted the three videos I took of his stage banter in a separate entry.)
And, you know, that's cool. Wayne Coyne also talks way too much between songs. But the Flaming Lips are not in You-Know-Whose service.
Something to think about, guys.
But all in all, on a positive note, the show was something absolutely incredible, something that only KISS could deliver. And that was the most perfectly outrageous American pyro-rock show imaginable. Superlatives don't do it justice. But what other words are there?
When the amps are up loud and the flames are blowing up your lungs and Gene Simmons is grinning sickly and Paul Stanley is sailing through the air on a trapeze custom-built for his platform boot, there's really only one thing you can say.
KISS is the KISSEST.
View a slideshow of the concert HERE.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOM.
