by Brian Posehn
My friend Audrey, who also lived in my Nana Irene’s apartment complex in Redwood City, played me her K-Tel hits album, current big songs of 1975. I dabbled in pop. Maybe even just to not look weird around her. It didn’t stick. I didn’t love music that felt like it was made for kids: The Osmonds, The Bay City Rollers, The Jackson Five. I knew those bands; I knew their hit songs. They just didn’t move me.
That was also my first exposure to The Who. Unfortunately I didn’t hear their good stuff first. I heard “Squeeze Box” on one of those K-Tel records and thought they were silly. I’d also heard a couple of Beatles songs at my Nana Norma’s; she had some of my Uncle Gary’s records and an old record player in the guest room at her condo. My cousin Todd and I would entertain ourselves for hours. At that point “Day Tripper” was my favorite.
Back to my library nerdhole, I don’t remember what I was reading that day, but Beverly Cleary or Roald Dahl probably wrote it, or it featured the Hardy boys. Then I heard it—the greatest hard-rock song of all fucking time, “Detroit Rock City,” on 45.
I was ten, and at the end of the song the car crashes and the narrator dies. Do you know how cool that was to me at the time? By the time the vocals started, I was so in. I know for a fact I had never heard anything that hard or aggressive before that, certainly not The Bay City Rollers—Mac Davis didn’t rock like this. So I was all in, as they say in Vegas, Reno, Atlantic City, and really any place with legal gambling.
Then after three minutes of the best thing I’d ever heard, the song ends on a CAR CRASH! I was already a fan of story songs like Cher’s work and Kenny Rogers’s “Coward of the County,” and this was, at the time, the coolest story song I’d ever heard. Scratch that. I didn’t hear it—I felt it.
It was the coolest thing I’d ever experienced at that point. I was a KISS fan, whatever KISS was. And this was before I knew what they looked like and before I heard their other classic songs like, “Strutter,” “Cold Gin,” and fucking “Black Diamond.”
I wish I could recreate the joy I felt when I found the KISS Destroyer LP. I had directed my mom to the only game in town for vinyl, the Wooden Nickel Record Store. It was near my Grandpa George’s house in a mini-mall between a liquor store and a Chinese restaurant in downtown Sonoma.
The Dan Fogelberg–looking owner directed me right to the K’s in the rock section. There it was: KISS: Destroyer. The cover, a revelation, was a comic book come to life.
The iconic cover features a painting of Paul, Gene, Ace, and Peter with their thematic face paint, matching outfits, and giant boots ruling an apocalyptic wasteland. I would later find out their mortal names, but when I learned their KISS names and roles, that’s what stuck.
From left to right, it was Paul Stanley, the Star Child. Paul played rhythm guitars and lead vocals. His symbol was the star, and because of his abundant chest hair and lead singer status, he was known as the Lover and Star Man.
Next was Peter Criss, the Cat. Also known as the Cat-Man, he was the drummer. He also sang on a couple of songs. He had kitty whiskers and green cat eyes—hence the cat. No third nickname for him, though. He’s just the Cat or Cat-Man. Kitty-Man didn’t stick.
Next to the Cat-Man, of course, is Ace Frehley, the Spaceman. I’ve also heard him called the Space Ace and the Ace Man. I guess his silvery makeup looked “spacey,” sure. Ace was the lead guitar player and singer of “Shock Me” and “Rocket Ride.” Get it? Rocket? Space?
And who could forget little Gene Simmons, the demon? No one: Gene wouldn’t let you forget him. Gene played bass and sang. Sometimes his bass looks like an axe, and demonic makeup and proclivity to blood and fire helped cement his “scar” Demon persona.
These four characters from “space” or “hell” and “two other places” looked to be traipsing around after the end of the world, and they didn’t seem that bothered by it. They kinda look like they’re dancing. I didn’t know what to think. This feeling was new. Hero worship?
I loved Batman, Superman, and Spider-Man. I also loved Evel Knievel and Jaws. But before KISS I had never been obsessed with anything. KISS wasn’t just a band; they were superheroes of rock. KISS could beat up Spidey, Bats, and Supes with their kick-ass guitars and punch Jaws in the nuts with their bass and drums.
My next KISS purchase was Rock and Roll Over. It was released later that same year. It’s kind of crazy that they had two classic albums out eight months apart. Rock and Roll… came out soon after I became a KISS fan, and I went to the record store at the Santa Rosa mall on a mission to get it.
That evening in my tiny room, surrounded by KISS and Farrah Fawcett posters, while I sat on my NFL bedsheets, I excitedly listened to side one of Rock and Roll… for the first time. It started with “I Want You” and “Take Me,” which provided a nice lead-in to the instant KISS klassics, “Calling Dr. Love,” “Ladies Room,” and then “Baby Driver.”
Side two had “Love ’Em and Leave ’Em,” “Mr. Speed,” and “See You in Your Dreams,” followed by two of my favorites, the almost pretty “Hard Luck Woman” and the ultimate sing-along ode to doin’ it, “Makin’ Love.” And then another classic KISS album is complete, four pieces of hard-rock perfection and a couple of clunkers.
Because the members of KISS were and are the best marketers and always on brand before that was a thing, the album came with a sticker, so you know ten-year-old sticker-loving me was stoked. It went on my toy trunk. I was so young that I still had my fucking toy trunk. I wish I still had my fucking toy trunk.
In 1977 two of my favorite things collided when the guys joined with Marvel Comics to release the first KISS comic book. Of course, I had to own it forever. It was advertised as being printed in the blood of the band. Super-metal, of course—they probably only gave less than an ounce of blood.
But it was enough to make me think it was the coolest thing I’d ever heard of. The comic told a sloppy story of four New Yorkers who find a small, strange box. Of course, they open it and, of course, it turns them into KISS. Then they use their KISS powers, Gene spits fire at them, Paul tries to fuck their girlfriend, and Peter and Ace get drunk and wind up in trouble.
Actually, I think only the part with Gene shooting fire happens. Later in the book you get cameos from all the Marvel biggies, like Spidey and Cap. It also featured KISS fighting the Devil and then Dr. Doom. Because in the seventies Marvel world, Doom was scarier.
In the summer of 1977 I would go even deeper into KISS when Love Gun was released. I loved that record as soon as I could get it home, out of my mom’s Pinto station wagon, and onto our turntable. I was still a vinyl kid at this point. Love Gun is maybe the second best of the bunch in my opinion.
And it came with a cardboard “LOVE GUN”—better than a sticker. Something was working; they made six great records in eight short years. Another iconic cover, in this one they’re sexual superheroes. The guys are surrounded by lots of scantily clad women wearing KISS face paint. They’re clearly about to be serviced.
AFTER LOVE GUN I joined the army—the KISS Army. It’s the only Army I’d ever want to join, really. And it’s probably the only army that would ever take me. Not probably. For certain. That said, forty years later I am still a member of the KISS Army.
The KISS Army is the shittiest army. Salvation Army would kick our asses. The army some dude made with his four angry friends to fight the leaders of their tiny village in some place I’ve never heard of could defeat the KISS Army.
Here are just three differences between the real US Army and the KISS Army. Real Army: you fight for a cause, learn unity, and they prepare you for life. KISS Army: Fight for a cause? To rock and roll and party every day, mother *&%er! Unity? Have you seen KISS fans? They look like me. And worse. Do you want to be a part of that group?
And how did being in the KISS Army prepare me for life? Disappointment. They taught me about disappointment. But not for another two years. It’s still the fall of 1977, KISS, Alive II was released. I couldn’t wait until KISSmas. My mom told me
it would be a great Christmas present, being that it was a double record and therefore double priced. I convinced her I would die if I had to wait ’til December 25.
We went to the Warehouse Records in Terra Linda to purchase it, like a good little member of the KISS Army. Terra Linda is a suburb of the already suburban Marin County. It’s all malls, luxury car dealers, and wife swapping. It was the same Warehouse where I would later discover Randy Rhoads. Two good things about my mom are she loved leaving Sonoma and she loved malls.
I quickly knew which malls within a fifty-mile radius had which record stores. And in the eighties some malls had more than one record store. I knew them all. And soon their employees would know me.
With Alive II and pretty much every other KISS record, I was first drawn to the cover. Besides Frampton Comes Alive, it’s probably the most iconic Live album cover of the seventies. It’s simple and perfect. Speaking of icons, you can’t really beat the classic blue-and-red KISS logo, the title, Alive II, in blood red, and featuring four classic solo live shots of the guys. Gene won me over that time with his sweaty, bloody face—he looked absolutely demonic in that pic and pretty badass.
If you don’t know that the Live recording starts with the announcement, “You wanted the best and you got the best… the hottest band in the world, KISS,” then maybe we can never be friends. Well, I guess you know it now. Dammit.
My mom was always supportive of my KISS fandom—well, mostly. One day she would betray me and awaken the wrath of the KISS Army, but first this happened. In 1977 my Sunday school teacher, Miss Elaine, made my day one morning when she told us we were all going to decorate our classroom. We were allowed to each bring one poster from home. Obviously I was ecstatic and knew exactly what my poster contribution would be.
I decided not to sacrifice one of my home posters; instead, we went to my go-to Santa Rosa poster shop, International Imports. It was part Pier One and part head shop. Man, I was clueless at that age: I had no idea why it smelled like that—the air was thick with incense and patchouli. It smelled like Han Solo cut a hippy open. Who’s Han Solo? Read the next chapter.
I found exactly what I had in mind, a KISS Alive II poster featuring two pictures of Gene in all his gory glory, spitting fire in one shot and the classic bloody, sweaty shot from the cover. I was ecstatic again. That was the poster. It was the one.
So the next weekend I took it to Sunday school for our classroom. Miss Elaine let us all put our posters up. Of course, most of the girls had posters with all the normal eleven-year-old girly things like the classic kitty on a branch saying, “hang in there, baby,” a basket of puppies, and wild animals.
Cute wild animals, of course, and then the guys had, like, monster trucks and dirt bikes. I think there was a Spider-Man poster even. But I put my KISS poster up, was very proud, and didn’t get much of a reaction from the other kids. And Miss Elaine clearly just tolerated it.
My Spidey sense should have warned me. Next week I came back to class and it was… gone. It was in the garbage, in shreds. It had clearly been ripped off the wall in frustration.
Our church was this old renovated barn because I grew up in kind of a farm town. Although it’s touristy, it’s mainly known for wineries and the farming industry, and it was an old barn—a huge old barn—and they gutted and renovated it just a couple of years before we got there.
We started going there in ’76, once we got situated in Sonoma. My mom found the church; it was close by, I could ride my bike there, and I did. I loved it. I was really involved, but this was kind of the beginning of the end with me and organized religion. This story and the youth leader, Eli, hitting me made me not really trust some adults at the church and question their Christianity.
The pastor had been giving a tour of the church, showing it to other pastors from another church. That happened all the time. Our pastor was really proud of the renovations and showed our room, which had been a horse stall or something like that, before we sat in there and learned about Noah and everything else.
So I guess the pastor walks in and shows these people this room, “… for the kids, these rooms used to be horse stalls and… what the, what the devil?” Kinda comical, when you think of it. Walks in, puppies, kitties, trucks, motorcycles, devil. There is the devil, or the Demon, Gene Simmons covered in blood and sweaty and looking evil, which was awesome to me, but scary to these people. And then in the other shot he’s shooting fire, another thing associated with the devil: fire and heat sources.
I kind of understand the situation now, but at eleven years old I was pissed to see my poster torn to shreds in a garbage can. So I guess he walked in, they were shocked at the travesty, and he flipped out and tore it off the wall. I don’t know if he made a big show in front of everybody like, “We will not have this here.… Oh no, Satan will not darken our doors and appear on our walls.” And he ripped it into five pieces and threw it in the trash.
Clearly a show of power: “Take that shit elsewhere, Satan.” Here’s where Carole stepped in. I was upset, I told Carole, so she was upset. I was using my own money to decorate the room, and this happened. So it didn’t matter that it was KISS, that it was blood, and that Gene was a demon, because she thought it was just entertainment and harmless. The same way she felt about TV and movies until I ruined everything and threatened Ken the Monster that I wished Starsky and Hutch would kill him, but that’s later.
My mom confronted the pastor and the deacons. Our pastor at the time—I wish I could remember his name—came and apologized to me that Tuesday. Pastor Whatshisfuck gave me a fresh new poster and told me, “I’m sorry. We walked in, and it upset me.” He told me the whole story and that he thought it was inappropriate for church and that he understood what Miss Elaine told us, but this was beyond the limit.
He gave me a new poster but with one rule: I had to leave it at home. Pretty shitty. And it wasn’t even the same KISS poster, which was also disappointing. It was bicentennial themed, from 1976. The poster said, “Spirit of ’76,” and the members of KISS are all dressed like Revolutionary War soldiers.
They’re in costume, but the theme is full bicentennial. Paul has a guitar around his neck, Gene is waving the American flag, who knows what the fuck Ace is doing, and Peter Criss is playing a snare drum and has a bandage around his head and there’s blood on it. So when I said that’s not the same poster, the pastor said, “Well, it’s got blood on it.”
So, thanks, Pastor Whatshisfuck. The point of the story is that I really like that my mom had my back then. That’s always been one of my favorite memories of her. I know no matter what, she always thought that I was smart or mature enough to handle entertainment and know that it was just that: entertainment. She always trusted that I was a smart enough kid and didn’t get into too much trouble. Until my high school years.
Released in April of 1978, Double Platinum was my next KISS vinyl purchase. I went to the state hospital store to get it. My buddy Russ worked at a state hospital restaurant connected to the store. Residents and employees shopped and ate there. I did too. I would visit Russ on my bike; the burgers and fries were classic diner style and frigging awesome.
The hospital store always had a decent vinyl and cassette section. Double Platinum was their first greatest hits record, and at that point I had most of their records, so it didn’t have a ton of songs I didn’t already have. The highlight for me was “Strutter 78,” an update of a three-year-old song that I actually find superior to the ’75 original.
It was the first time I owned a couple of their songs like “I Wanna Rock and Roll All Night…” When I originally heard the lyrics “I wanna rock and roll all night… and party every day,” my dumb ass thought they said, “And part of every day.” Which initially made me question their dedication to rock and roll. And, yeah, I know that joke is in the movie Role Models, but this is my real life.
In the summer of 1978 I met another kid in my apartment complex through my friend John. John, who lived across from us, was two years
older than me. So was this other kid. We went to his apartment to listen to KISS. He was a bigger KISS nerd than me; he had their first double live album, Alive!. I had never seen it outside of a record store. Inside is the classic shot of a KISS audience in Detroit or Chicago or some other place with a local arena and seventies-style stoners.
The first thing I observed was how seventies everybody looked and how smoky it was. And how some guys in the crowd looked really happy to be there, and a lot of the kids seemed to have something small and white in their hands. And some of them were sucking on it. What was it? It looked different from cigarettes. My mom used to smoke cigarettes, and she never looked this happy. What the heck were these cool kids smoking?
John and his friend, the KISS nerd, laughed. “Oh man, those are joints. They’re smoking marijuana—grass, dope, weed.” Me: “Wow, that looks cool.” John: “Do you want to try some?” “Nope. No, thank you. I’m gonna head back to my apartment. I think my mom is making something mediocre.” I know I’ve shat on my mom a lot in this book so far, but her cooking is really terrible.
I didn’t know my mom’s cooking sucked ’til I went to restaurants and met girls who could cook. My mom was born without a sense of smell, which would come in handy when I did smoke marijuana, grass, dope, and weed, but what it meant growing up was that the food wasn’t seasoned well or even cooked properly most of the time. No sense of smell. No sense of taste.
Speaking of no sense of taste, my favorite member of KISS shifted over the years. I liked Paul first because he was the lead singer, and then I was a Gene guy because of his lead vocals on “God of Thunder.” Oh, and because of the blood and fire and just being a scary-looking dude.
Then came my Ace phase. Ace was the coolest; he was from space. The original Space Ace. He was the Silver Surfer, if Norrin Radd, the surfer, ripped on a Les Paul. The solo records released in ’78 solidified my Ace love. His album had “New York Groove,” such a fucking catchy song.