The New York Dolls were the template for most bands coming out of the city at the time. Of course I’d heard of them, but up until then I hadn’t seen them live. One night in March 1973, Gene and I went to see them at a ballroom in a sleazy midtown hotel called the Diplomat—the kind of hotel where hookers and junkies crashed.
They were the kings of the New York City rock scene and arrived fashionably late—actually intolerably late. They looked spectacular. And when they took the stage, the camaraderie and chemistry were amazing. Their playing, however, was not.
Still, they looked terrific. Their waists were as big as my wrists. Gene and I looked like linebackers by comparison. We looked at each other. We realized KISS looked more like a bunch of firemen in drag or something. This wasn’t going to work. We couldn’t beat the Dolls at their own game. Forget being a better Dolls; we had to be a better KISS. We had to win on our own terms. After that show, we decided to ditch all our colorful clothing and remake ourselves in a sinister all-black look.
I used to window-shop at a couple of boutiques where they stocked all the latest rock and roll fashions, particularly the stuff that was hot in London. One day I saw a pair of pants in Jumpin’ Jack Flash that would be perfect for our new look, but they cost thirty-five bucks. That was a lot of money. I decided I could buy fabric and make something similar myself. I had never used a sewing machine before, but I took apart my favorite pair of bell-bottom jeans and made a pattern. My mom kept saying I wouldn’t be able to put in the zipper.
I can do anything.
It’s simply a question of working at it.
The pants, in sleek metallic black satin, came out great and cost next to nothing—and the zipper worked fine. Gene liked them so much that he asked me to make a pair for him, too. Which I did. Ace’s mom made him a shirt with an applique of an eagle on it.
Then we went to a pet store and bought dog collars for ourselves. I needed a Great Dane collar—the poodle collar didn’t fit. Eventually we worked our way to shops that sold S&M gear. I’ll never forget climbing the stairs to a place in the meatpacking district and walking in absolutely wide-eyed—I had no idea what I was looking at: leather hoods with zippered eyes and a tube in the mouth—what on earth did you do with that? We ended up finding some of our early studded cuffs and collars at another S&M place, the Eagle’s Nest, down in the West Village.
Somehow, wearing white face paint went hand-in-hand with our new outfits. Together in our loft on 23rd Street, we all sat around looking at a mirror on the back of the door. We had no idea how to apply makeup. It was as if we were possessed, just smearing makeup on, wiping it off, trying different things.
First I tried out red makeup. Then I tried a ring around my eye like Petey the dog in the Little Rascals. But stars had always fascinated me, and now, of course, I also intended to be the frontman of the band, the focal point onstage. No longer would I be the awkward kid, the outcast. I would be the Starchild.
I painted a star around my right eye. It was hard work trying to draw a two-dimensional symbol on a three-dimensional object—my face. It looked one way from the front and another from the side. I was tired by the time I finally created one good star. I didn’t want to struggle through painting another one on the left side. Done.
It was eye-opening to watch the other guys come up with concepts that suited their personalities. Ace’s design was ethereal, spacey. And in the short time I had known him then, that was exactly how I would have described him—the Spaceman. He often joked about coming from a planet called Jendal; he constantly threw out off-the-wall sayings like “one by one I kills ’em” and spoke in made-up languages and gibberish. Sometimes he would shiver and ask, “What was that—did we just have an earthquake?” And we’d say, “That was you—you just had a tremor.”
Peter’s makeup was elementary—the symbolism was direct, not abstract. He felt that over the course of his life he’d gotten lucky during a few close calls, and thus had nine lives. You know, like a cat. The Catman suited him. Peter was not what you’d call an intellectual.
Gene’s makeup was arguably the strongest of all. It was symmetrical and demonic. It was lascivious. It had the drama of Kabuki. It was a striking image, and then when he stuck out his tongue—it just made sense. The Demon. And as we would soon realize, his look and mine—me smiling, him scowling—created a great juxtaposition onstage: light and shadow.
The only measure of whether the images “worked” was the extent to which each guy felt comfortable in his. The images all enhanced or reinforced characteristics in each of us, and in that way, they weren’t just costumes. They were outward shows of things inside of us. It made sense. And we all in some way enabled each other to find those personas.
We never sat down and articulated the “why” behind the makeup. We had no real understanding of why. We just wanted to go further than others had, to become a band the likes of which we ourselves had never seen. The makeup allowed us to embody all the qualities of the English bands I idolized; it presented a cohesive look, a united feel, and at the same time offered the possibility of distinct personalities.
From this point on, we began to create a world that we ultimately inhabited and ruled. But at the start, we certainly weren’t at the center of anything. We weren’t part of the clique of New York bands. We weren’t junkies; we didn’t hang out at the Chelsea Hotel trying to relive somebody else’s past; some of us could carry on at least semi-intelligent conversations, and that wasn’t cool. We were the outcasts of the outcasts. The New York Dolls and other cool bands hung out in clubs surrounded by beautiful girls. We had no time for clubs or girls. We were still too busy trying to become the band we wanted to be.
The proof would be in the pudding. And we would eat it like kings.
We booked two more shows, this time out in Amityville, Long Island, at a bar called the Daisy. It was basically a storefront and couldn’t have held even one hundred people. They sold watered-down drinks for thirty-five cents.
I rented a vehicle at Public Service Rentals again—this time, a decommissioned milk truck. We loaded in our gear—and by “we” I mean Gene, Peter, and me, as Ace, as usual, refused to help—and drove about twenty miles outside of the city. The staff bristled from the word go—I think we looked too weird and effeminate out there in the suburbs. The guy scheduled to be the bouncer that night said he was going to kick my ass. We ended up locking ourselves in the manager’s office, hiding and doing our makeup. Periodically someone pounded on the door and screamed, “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
The upside of having to wait in the office was that we could answer the house phone. Several people called and asked, “Who’s playing there tonight?”
“This great band called KISS. You’ve gotta see them!”
When we finally emerged and took the stage, there were about thirty-five people in the house. Ace looked at his makeup in the reflective surface of Peter’s bass drum and started cracking up.
Still, we didn’t encounter the antagonism from the crowd that we might have expected given the bouncer’s reaction to us even in our street clothes. A few people chuckled, but more than anything, people were just curious. And pretty much as soon as we hit the stage, they realized two things. First, we were serious. Second, this was great. We might have lacked technical ability, but we played with undeniable focus and ferocity.
My makeup was a mask that provided distance between me and the crowd. It gave me the shield I needed. Whatever fears I had of being ridiculed—whether for my normal appearance or for wearing makeup—disappeared. The makeup was armor. It protected me.
It was also freeing.
Some people were born with it all. I certainly hadn’t been. But now I had it.
And I was on a mission. Out came the persona I had in mind. Out came Jimmy Swaggart and Billy Graham. Out came the rock and roll evangelist. I sang the praises of mighty rock and roll and all the things I aspired to when I saw the bands I loved.
This is my calling.
I knew I still had a lot of work to do—fronting a band is a craft—but I managed to engage the crowd. I was able to communicate with the audience and elicit a response. I preached rock and roll.
“Hi! I mean, are you high? Everybody having a good time?”
More people showed up the next night, and we killed it again.
After the second night, we got paid. Once the truck rental and our other expenses were taken care of, we each walked away with thirteen dollars. It was the first time I’d ever ended up on the plus side after a show. I had actually earned money playing rock and roll. What a feeling. And everyone seemed to share that feeling.
With these shows under our belts, we felt confident in our songs. Sure, we still had tinkering to do on our look and stagecraft, but musically, we had gelled extremely quickly, and our set already sounded the way we wanted it to. The next step, we figured, was to make a demo to shop to labels.
Ron Johnsen from Electric Lady had stayed in touch with me and Gene. We had even provided some background vocals for projects he had recorded there. Since we hadn’t been paid for those sessions, we approached him with a deal. “Instead of paying us,” we suggested, “get Eddie Kramer to do a demo with us at Electric Lady.”
Eddie Kramer was a legendary audio engineer and producer who had worked with the Kinks, the Small Faces, Jimi Hendrix, and Led Zeppelin. We’d seen him at the studio, and he was a striking character. He sometimes walked around Electric Lady in a cape, carrying a cane. He elicited both fear and awe.
Ron set it up. Well, sort of. Eddie oversaw the sessions, but his assistant Dave Wittman did the actual recording. We cut demos of “Black Diamond,” “Strutter,” “Deuce,” and “Watchin’ You.” The other track we cut, “Cold Gin,” was a song Ace brought to the table and Gene and I tweaked.
Gene and I knew we would be depended on to bring in the songs for KISS because Peter and Ace never showed much ambition in that department. I didn’t begrudge them their limitations, but when Ace showed up with the framework of a song, I was thrilled. After all, we wanted to be like the Beatles—four identifiable characters. People liked the Beatles, but they also had their favorite Beatle. George Harrison had a song or two on Beatles albums, and even Ringo got to sing a novelty song now and then. It made the band—any band—more interesting. Toward that end we had Peter sing my song “Black Diamond.” We wanted Ace to sing “Cold Gin,” too. But he refused.
We figured the more fully realized the individual members of the band were, the stronger the group would be—adding more ingredients would only make the soup better. I wanted KISS to be a club where every member was represented. I wanted it to be multidimensional, with four formidable personalities. The fact that one of the other guys in our band actually contributed to that illusion—by bringing in a song idea—was a bonus.
Now, with a demo in hand, we knew we couldn’t be stopped. If you stood in front of us, we were going to crush you.