The mandate to look like a star at all times is the reason I instituted a “no shorts, baseball caps, or watches onstage” policy for Fozzy, as there’s only one band in the world that can get away with wearing street clothes in concert and they’re called AC/DC. Even Angus Young runs around in a full velvet schoolboy uniform, complete with a cap embroidered with an “A,” an iconic look that everybody knows.
Now, it might take a lot of money and effort to look your best, but it’s part of your job if you want to make an impression on people. In this modern era, age is just a number and as long as you try to keep up your appearance, you can stay relevant pretty much until the day you die. I’m not saying you should go for the full-blown Cher and make your face look like an alien cat, but you should do what you can to be in shape and look as hip as possible.
The epitome of this is the Rolling Stones, who still rock and look twenty years younger onstage, even though they are well into their seventies. Mick’s flashy jackets and Keith’s scarves and headbands automatically make them look larger than life. It’s just like putting on a pair of sunglasses: they can instantly transform you into looking like a star. I’m sure that’s the reason why Bono, Slash, and Ozzy wear them constantly. Seeing them without their omnipresent shades would be like seeing Hillary Clinton without a pantsuit. It just wouldn’t seem right.
Gene is another cat who wears his shades just about every time he’s in public and that makes sense to me, given that he’s spent the better part of forty-five years in makeup. I’m sure he feels almost naked without the classic Demon design on his face, and the sunglasses allow him to still hide behind the mask, so to speak.
Gene was wearing black wraparound shades when I first met him at the Golden Gods Awards in Los Angeles in 2010, and again when I saw him at the grand opening of the Rock & Brews restaurant in Oviedo, Florida, a few years later. The restaurant was the latest addition to the chain of rock ’n’ roll–themed eateries that Gene and Paul Stanley owned. They were both at the opening dressed to the nines in standard rock star duds: blackleather pants and jackets, sport coats, shades, earrings, jewelry hanging off every limb, and of course . . . scarves.
I was wearing a snazzy Varvatos scarf-vest combo myself, as I had been invited to the party by Paul and wanted to look sharp for the occasion. The grand opening was a blast, and Paul and Gene were over-the-top friendly, greeting fans, playing songs on old out-of-tune acoustic guitars (Paul chose “Wild Thing” for some odd reason), and suggesting their favorite items on the menu. We had just finished a great lunch and were hanging out with a mob of fans, when a cute girl came over and asked to take a picture of Gene and me. My best friend and critically acclaimed Talk Is Jericho guest Speewee was with me, as he had recently suffered an ugly breakup and had come to Tampa to try to get over his heartache. I asked him to snap the shot and right before did, I mentioned to Gene that it just so happened to be Speewee’s birthday.
“What, it’s his birthday?” Gene said with mock surprise, holding his hands up to his face like a curmudgeonly Macaulay Culkin. “HIS birthday? Well . . . I don’t GIVE A SHIT.”
The crowd hushed awkwardly as Speewee and I smiled uncomfortably at each other, not knowing what to do. Finally, Gene said, “I’m just kidding! Happy birthday! Now come here . . .”
He put his hands on each side of Speewee’s face and approached him for what looked to be a passionate kiss (no pun intended this time). Spee was agog as the Demon pulled him in like a groom about to smooch his bride for the first time. To make things even creepier, just as he was within target range of Speewee’s lips, Gene opened his mouth and released his Kraken-like tongue.
It was an intimidating sight and reminded me of the scene in Alien 3 when the huge creature gets in Ripley’s grill, and the smaller slimy head slides out of its jaws to lick her face. Speewee tried to recoil in shock, but Gene had him in a vice grip and he had no choice but to play along, so he opened his pie-hole to receive The Tongue.
To this day, Speewee claims that Gene’s protuberance entered his gob (it didn’t), but whether it did or didn’t is irrelevant. That’s because a few days later Speewee went back to Calgary and went on a major hot streak with the ladies, which he claims was a direct result of his close encounter with the Demon. He swears to this day that when Gene Simmons’s tongue went in his mouth, it gave him his mojo back. Well, if that’s the case, it’s worth a deuce!
Thankfully, I didn’t have to kiss the guy from KISS to get him to do my podcast, because after Paul’s appearance on Talk Is Jericho, the whole KISS camp became enamored with my interview skills and encouraged Gene to do the show next.
After a few back and forth emails, we set a date and agreed to meet at 10 a.m. a few days later at a location of his choice. He sent me an address and told me to meet him at “Bob Goodman’s,” which seemed a little strange to me. Who exactly was this Bob Goodman? A manager? A friend? Or was it the name of a restaurant or a country club? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter; I was going to show up promptly at 10 a.m. to interview him, even if we were in the middle of a damn cornfield.
On the morning of the big event, I was up at eight so I could take a shower and fix my hair. After all, I was going into the Demon’s den and wanted to make sure I showed up looking like a star. I selected a tight black T-shirt, black vest, swank blackleather boots, and a silver scarf to complete the ensemble . . . on that morning, Dressed to Kill wasn’t just the name of a KISS album, my friends.
As I drove down a tree-lined street in Hollywood towards Bob Goodman’s place, I was as nervous as hell or hallelujah. After all, this wasn’t just another interview for my show . . . I was going to be talking to one of the most iconic musicians and pop culture icons of the twenty-first century, who could eat up a journalist and spit him out like fake blood. But I was prepared because after thirty years of being a KISS fan, my goal was to ask him about things he didn’t usually get to talk about, and make sure he had a good time chatting with me.
As I drove down the crowded Hollywood streets, the GPS on my phone showed that I was near my destination, and I slowed down as the numbers on the sides of the street moved closer to my target. I pulled up to a short driveway that led up to a big fortress wall, like something you would see in The Walking Dead, and assumed that Bob Goodman’s compound/restaurant/teenage dance club resided behind it.
I pressed the silver button on the entry box that was window level with my rental car. A female voice answered and I explained that I was there to see Mr. Simmons. After a few seconds, the gate rumbled open to reveal a majestic palace on top of a hill in front of me. You never would’ve known that the mansion was there from the unassuming gate on the road, but Bob Goodman’s place was a real beaut. I figured this Goodman cat was an associate of Gene’s who out of the goodness of his heart was allowing us to track the show inside his not so humble abode, and that was okay by me.
I pulled my rental car up a windy driveway, parked at the top, and grabbed my pillowcase full of recording gear. Why do I cart around my expensive and sensitive portable recording studio in a nondescript white pillowcase, you ask? I don’t really know, but let’s just say that’s it’s convenient and travels well, okay, junior?
I crossed the driveway until I reached a flight of stairs, and standing at the top like the phantom of the park was Gene Simmons. He of course was fully suited and booted even at such an early hour, wearing a dashing red sports coat with a matching pocket kerchief, snakeskin boots, the obligatory black shades and his helmet of hair perfectly coiffed. He must’ve gotten up as early as I did to get ready, but I’m sure that was par for the course. He had an interview to do and part of being interviewed was looking your best, no matter what time it was. I was silently inspired as I reached out to shake Gene’s hand.
“You have something on your arm,” he said slowly in a calm deep voice, as he pumped my hand a few times.
“Huh?” I said confused.
“Your arm. There’s a bunch of stuff on it,” he said
looking at my sleeve of tattoos. “You should wash it off.”
I smiled as if my dad had just told a joke, as Gene walked me in to the mansion. The place was even more beautiful on the inside than the outside, with large vaulted ceilings and expensive art on every wall. The foyer was completely spotless and barren, with the only decoration being a life-size statue of a butler. Noticing that I was staring at the sculpture, Gene gave me a helpful tip.
“That’s Jeeves. If you go touch his face, he will perform a magic trick for you.”
Expecting Jeeves to fart on me or tell me to fuck off, I grabbed the sides of his mug the same way Gene had grabbed Speewee’s kisser a few months earlier.
As soon as my hands touched the butler’s plastic face, Gene poked my ribs hard and let out a “hee-hee” like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
I jumped around and saw him smiling a Cheshire grin, pleased with himself for tricking me with his literal rib. It seemed odd that he had opened our meeting with a few gags straight from a Henny Youngman Borscht Belt comedy show, but it all made sense later on when he told me he was a huge fan of the old-school comedian.
I was still wondering where Bob Goodman was, but the more I explored the house and the KISS memorabilia covering the walls, I realized this wasn’t Bob Goodman’s house . . . it was Gene’s.
I asked him why he had been so secretive about the whole thing.
“This is your house, Gene. Why did you tell me it was Bob Goodman’s?”
Gene gazed at me with a deadpan look and replied, “Well, I couldn’t give you my actual address and tell you to meet me at my own house, could I?”
I was pretty sure he could’ve, plus he had given me his home address regardless, but I went with it anyway.
“But why Bob Goodman? It’s such a random name.”
“Exactly. It’s so average that you would never question it. I was hiding in plain sight.”
Umm, okay, Gene.
I laughed to myself how this was going to make a great story in my next book (was I right?) as Gene led us into the living room. He then showed me a wooden box filled to the brim with Purple Heart medals he’d received as gifts from soldiers, thanking KISS for helping to keep them alive during war conditions. I was quite impressed with the significant treasures, but that was just the beginning.
We walked to the other side of the house and up a small flight of stairs into a giant room that could only be described as the greatest KISS museum ever. Every inch was occupied with every item of KISS merch you could possibly imagine, from the ’70s to the present. Large glass cabinets lined the walls, stocked with dolls, stuffed animals, lighters, Frisbees, puzzles, eight-track tapes, Colorforms (I loved those when I was a kid), condoms AND coffins (“We get you coming and going,” Gene quipped), comics, toys, and masks—all of them emblazoned with the KISS logo or the iconic characters of the Catman, Starchild, Spaceman, and of course the Demon, who was currently standing in front of me explaining the details of the KISS credit card that boasted the latest chip technology.
I took another look around, then pulled my head out of my thirty years of being a KISS fan ass and got down to business. I set up my portable rig and we sat in that marvelous museum for the next ninety minutes talking about KISS, horror movies, the Beatles, Henny Youngman, Japanese meat pies, and setting fans aflame, until I had to regretfully wrap things up to go to my next interview.
Before I left, Gene asked how old my kids were and put together a fine selection of KISS swag for them that included a pillow from a recent KISS Kruise, official New York Yankees– themed shirts featuring all four members dressed in Bronx Bomber regalia, a stuffed animal Demon doll, and a KISS tour program from 2005 (not sure why my kids would want that, but I sure as hell did). He put the souvenirs into a plastic bag with the KISS logo emblazoned on it (of course), and walked me to the foyer.
I shook his hand and thanked him but before I could leave, Gene had a parting comment for me.
“You look really sharp this morning, like a star. I appreciate that.”
I hope so, Gene . . . after all, you were the one who taught me about that in the first place.
CHAPTER 19
THE
STEVE
AUSTIN
PRINCIPLE
SOMETIMES YOU HAVE
TO BE AN ASSHOLE
I ain’t no nice guy after all . . .
—MOTÖRHEAD, “I AIN’T NO NICE GUY”
(Lemmy Kilmister)
I was watching a random WWE DVD a few years ago and in the midst of all the talking heads waxing poetic, Stone Cold Steve Austin, possibly the most popular performer in WWE history, said something I’ll never forget: “If you want to get ahead in the wrestling business, you have to be a little bit of an asshole.”
I picked up what Steve was laying down, but I understand his words even more today, and they don’t just apply to the WWE. He wasn’t suggesting that you should be a bully tripping nerds while they’re carrying trays of food through the cafeteria or kicking a small puppy when you’re angry. His message was that you can’t be afraid to stand up for yourself when it’s necessary, even if you have to show some attitude. Especially within the confines of the WWE, where you need to be willing to ruffle a few feathers to get what you want at times.
For example, I’ve never had a problem telling the various WWE writers I’ve worked with that their suggested verbiage simply didn’t work for me. I still get a kick out of crumpling up the sheet of paper given to me and tossing it in a junior writer’s face (tongue in cheek of course). I’ll admit, it’s arrogant in theory, but it’s become a tradition and always draws a laugh. In reality, the act forces both the writer and myself to get more creative and write something better.
I refuse to accept mediocrity when it comes to my performances within the WWE (or anywhere else), and I don’t like being told what to say with a regimented script. But it’s my blunt honesty that’s helped take me to the top, and I’ve formed some great partnerships with the writers and producers along the way. I love working behind the scenes with Pat Patterson or Jamie Noble when I’m putting together my matches, because I don’t have to worry about hurting their feelings or making them mad if I don’t agree with their ideas. I can be straight-up honest about not liking something they suggest and vice versa, which creates a better working environment all around.
During my 2016 WWE run, I started working with a new writer named Chris Scoville, who had wrestled for years on the indie circuit as Jimmy Jacobs. I’d never met him before and even though I’m usually reticent to work with new people, I liked his attitude and after a few successful promo segments, I requested to work with him exclusively. But in order to get truly comfortable working together, I had to be a little abrasive at first. Nothing major, but just enough to let him know that certain ideas presented to me weren’t up to snuff. We hammered away on the various scripts, and after a month or so, got on the same page (pun intended again) and became a great writing team. Had I been worried about hurting his feelings or rubbing him the wrong way, we wouldn’t have achieved the same success.
I put together my matches in the same way, and I’m reminded of this every time I reminisce with The Big Show about our time as WWE tag team champions. We were a great combination, as his size and power were the perfect match for my speed and wily heel cowardice. We had a great time in and out of the ring, but as you learned in chapter 15, I was very shall we say . . . persuasive . . . when we were discussing ideas for our matches.
It was frustrating for him for sure, but I still felt there was no reason to use a lesser idea just to appease someone’s ego. Show says I’m not difficult to put together a match with, as long as you realize that I’m always right. In my defense, I’d like to retort that he’s one hundred percent correct. ;)
I’d also like to point out that I don’t care who thinks of the ideas; all that matters is the quality of the match. I feel the same way when it comes to writing a song. While I write the lion’s share of Fozzy’s lyrics, I had
n’t written a single word on two of our biggest hits, “Enemy” and “Lights Go Out.” “Lights” is by far our most popular song, a top-20 rock radio hit (and top 10 on the strip club DJ charts . . . which I had no idea even existed), and I didn’t contribute a thing to its creation besides the vocals. But as long as the song is good and it rocks, who cares who wrote it? Can you tell me who penned “Back in Black”? No? Well there you go! (It was Angus Young, Malcolm Young, and Brian Johnson, by the way.)
Fozzy works incredibly well as a team, but like most bands with a sizeable fan base, we’re not for everybody. To this day, we still get the occasional poor review and I’ve learned to take the criticism in stride, but sometimes I’ll see a review so ricockulous that my Inner Asshole is forced to appear. Especially when the review in question compares us to a leafy vegetable.
Allow me to explain, Constant Reader. Bloodstock is an up-and-coming festival in England that’s famous for having a much heavier lineup than the much bigger Download or Sonispshere. In 2013, the promoters were excited to book us for the first time, and it was a great opportunity for us to play a new summer festival in one of our biggest markets.
It was a thrashy lineup that day, as we were slotted in between Exodus and Anthrax, with Slayer headlining the bill. But one of our strengths as a band is that we can gig with anybody due to the diversity of our material, so we knew we’d have to heavy up our set. However, it’s no secret that our vibe is more 1979 Van Halen than 1989 Megadeth, and I can honestly say we were the only band who led a “Hey Hey Hey, 1-2-3” chant during the festival. So even though the Bloodstock crowd was more inclined to do a wall of death than a flashing of tits, we had a good show and got a good reaction.
That’s why I was so surprised when I read the review of our show in the following month’s Metal Hammer magazine. It was a typical paint by the numbers burial filled with incorrect details, which made me wonder if the writer had even watched our show. But the coup de grâce was the final line of the report that read: “Fozzy are heavy as lettuce.”
No is a Four-Letter Word Page 19