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  The one who looked least enthralled by the action was Paul. It was almost as if he showed up to humor his partner for going to the trouble to organize the frat-house cliché. Gene was enjoying the scene immensely. Here was the dichotomy played out. The light and the dark had collided to create something extraordinary, and KISS was that creation. But in real life, the eminent Dr. Stanley and his true eternal other half, Mr. Simmons, were as different as night and day.

  How the planets aligned to allow for the big-bang delivery of KISS is one of the great mysteries of the universe. Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley were two Hebrews, one born in Israel and the other in Brooklyn, who somehow met, mind-melded, and birthed the most popular four-letter word in music history. KISS wasn’t the solo, horror-movie trickery of Alice Cooper or the satanic sarcasm of Black Sabbath. They had a precise, well-developed, and completely original theme.

  Four characters, each with its own singular look and thing. Gene was the tongue-flapping, leather-and-spiked, fire-breathing, bass-playing God of Thunder. Paul was the androgynous, Bowie-in-face-paint, guitar-strumming, “starry”-eyed, trash-talking Minister of Love. The Spaceman, Ace Frehley, noodled the flame-throwing lead guitar, and Peter “the Cat” Criss played drums. They all wore absurd foot-tall elevator platform boots, giving them a bigger-than-life image on stage.

  At the close of 1995, KISS secured the managerial services of rock’s P. T Barnum, the one and only Doc McGhee, the far-sighted entrepreneur who helped bring Bon Jovi from the streets of New Jersey to the stadiums of the world. The synergy between Gene and Doc was the likes of which the modern music business had never witnessed.

  In February of 1996, KISS eased into their triumphant Reunion in Makeup tour with a guest appearance on the Grammys. As Doc and Gene—with conscious, creative input from Paul— designed the plans for the biggest comeback in the history of rock, nerves were jumpy around the KISS camp. That is, until tickets went on sale at the end of April for the first date of the tour.

  I was playing golf with Doc in Palm Springs the morning he got the call from the promoter in Detroit. “You’re kidding,” giggled Doc, placing his tee in the ground with the cell phone to his ear as he received the news. “That’s fantastic.” Tiger Stadium had sold out faster than you could say “Black Diamond.” The circus was back in town, and this time it was bigger, louder, hotter, and more expensive than even Gene Simmons could have possibly imagined.

  In the late ‘90s, I had no press platform with which to professionally approach KISS and the gigantic prosperity that the second time around in makeup was affording them, so I just popped in to see the shows when they passed through L.A. When I reen-tered the world of hard-rock journalism at KNAC.com in December of 1999, KISS was soaring and I was reconnecting with the superstars who had paved my previous path. Through my long relationship with Doc, I’d never lost the laminate to the inner sanctum where the kings of the nighttime world did their dirty work. But my head had changed since those frolicking RIP days, and if there was anyone I wanted to go toe to toe with again—rock scribe to rock star—it was the irascible Mr. Simmons.

  I didn’t have to wait long for that assignment. On March 17, 2000, I found myself in Gene Simmons’ hotel room at the Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino in Las Vegas. We had seen each other six days before when I flew into Phoenix for the show that my old friend Danny Zelisko was promoting. That night, Beatle offspring Sean Lennon was in the crowd, and like that evening a decade ago with Trent Reznor at the Palace, I was the one connecting the rock tissue. And this time, the hero was far more modest.

  “Hello, Sean,” said Gene, in full concert regalia outside the dressing room just minutes prior to taking the stage. Lennon’s beautiful boy was wide eyed and, dare I say, starstruck. “I loved your father very much,” commented the eight-foot-tall leather-studded masked marvel. It was the second time I’d gotten a glimpse of the “doctor” inside Mr. Simmons. Seemed like a healing moment for both men. “Come back after the show so we can talk some more.” I’m not sure but under the makeup, I believe Gene was actually blushing.

  Three hours before showtime with tape rolling in Las Vegas, I did my best to take the conversation to higher ground, but Gene consistently returned me to earth and the core values that had driven him since childhood: sex and bucks and rock ‘n’ roll. He told me in no uncertain terms that he did not believe in karma and dismissed even the faint possibility of judgment from any higher power other than himself.

  “God gives you a wallet,” he postulated, sitting on the sofa of his hotel suite clad in a bathrobe and slippers. “He’s giving you a choice of having more money or less money in your wallet. Which do you choose?” I fumbled for an answer, not wanting to buy into the premise that God had anything to do with the size of Gene’s or my wallet. “More or less?” he pursued. “It’s not a loaded question. What you do with that money—buy your mom a new hip or blow it in Las Vegas—has nothing to do with it. The question has to do with free choice. You can throw it off a building or use it for good. But if you don’t have the money at all, there’s no choice. You’re happier with more money than less. And without money, you can’t eat. You’re not happy if you’ve got nothing to eat. What about the spiritual argument? Fuck the spiritual stuff. You can’t shit if there’s nothing digesting down there, and that takes money.”

  Gene was in rare form, so I kept my commentary to a minimum, letting him take the conversation wherever it was meant to go. “Does that statement make me a whore?” he asked. Before I could respond, he answered his own question. “Whores are more ethical than wives,” he continued. “Because before the blow job, they’re going to tell you exactly what it’s going to cost. How much will this relationship cost me? Well, God gave man two balls, and the minute you’re married she’s ripped open your sac and taken one of ‘em out. Again, you have a choice. The secret is never have joint bank accounts and never get married. Period. And where did fifty percent come into it? My mother gave birth to me and she’s not getting fifty percent. She’s getting ten percent.”

  “Where does your clarity come from?” I asked.

  “I’ve never gotten high or drunk,” he replied emphatically. “I’ve always been confident. My mother survived the concentration camps and still has a positive sense of life and humanity, and if she can do that with all the horrific moments she endured, what right do I have to complain about anything? The way I look at it, any day above ground is a good day.”

  Then, in October of that year, the following press release hit the wires. When it crossed my desk, something inside me sort of snapped. The release read as follows:

  KISS online today unveiled the KISS coffin, a colorful casket emblazoned with the KISS logo and images of the band members that allows fans to rock in peace forever with their favorite band.

  “This is the ultimate KISS collectible,” said Simmons. “I love livin’, but this makes the alternative look pretty damn good.” Simmons appeared on the Howard Stern Radio Show this morning to pitch the product, saying, “Most caskets go for $3,000, but ours will sell for $4,500,” prompting Stern to chastise him for not giving fans a deal even in death.

  KISS is offering the item in conjunction with Signatures Network, Inc., and White Light, and it will be available only through the band’s official website and through your local funeral homes.… KISS and Signature Networks will continue to develop and distribute more outrageous and innovative KISS products, including KISS GIRL’s Intimate Leather Apparel, KISS Kola, KISS Virgin Red paint, KISS Gaming Machines, KISS Party Cruises, etc.

  The KISS brand had become one of the strongest in the history of rock ‘n’ roll, and one of the most prostituted and diluted as well. The catalog of crazy songs, bombastic performances, and a multigenerational army of fans worldwide were in danger of deteriorating into an apocalyptic banking exercise. Billionaire George Soros once said, “The cult of success can become a source of instability in an open society, because it can undermine our sense of right and wrong.”


  Gene Simmons was not unstable. On the contrary, he was grounded, focused, and insufferably consistent. The gospel according to Gene said, “Take care of your self, make you number one, gather everything God’s green earth has to offer you, be fearless and absolutely truthful, and society will be just fine.” How can one’s sense of right and wrong be undermined in the light of such personal clarity? “Thank you for making my life possible,” he would often say to his fans.

  Do fans really care about the inner makeup of their rock heroes? Or how many millions they’ve got socked away? Is Gene any less a rock hero than Bono or Coldplay’s Chris Martin, who have humanitarian agendas that are as ambitious as their musical ones?

  I was told that Gene and Paul contributed handsomely to charitable organizations but chose to do so privately. I found this oddly inconsistent with Gene’s timeless need for public expression and personal exposure. If the man pulls no punches about how many birds he’s shagged or how proud he is of his growing fortune, why not let people in on the more noble pursuits?

  When I went back and listened to that Mandalay Bay interview, I stumbled across a very telling moment in the conversation. I missed the comment completely the first several passes, but for some reason it jumped out this time. I asked the question, “Are you ever going to act again?” I really liked Gene as the villain in Michael Crichton’s 1984 futuristic thriller Runaway. Without pausing, he responded with, “I’m acting right now.” It was either a throwaway quip or the first truly honest thing he’d ever said to me.

  And when this book is finally published, I will make sure that Dr. Stanley gets a free copy. As for Mr. Simmons, well, Borders has stores everywhere. Hey, a man has to eat, right?

  8

  Nirvana at High Noon

  ”THE WORLD IS ALWAYS BURNING, BURNING WITH THE FIRE OF GREED, ANGER, AND IGNORANCE; ONE SHOULD FLEE FROM SUCH DANGERS AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”

  —Buddha

  Friday morning, April 8, 1994, I awoke to bright sunshine and a warm desert breeze. I was due at 9 A.M. on the tee at La Quinta’s famed Stadium Course, located thirty minutes east of the Southern California resort community of Palm Springs. I’d be playing in a foursome that included Geffen Records A&R executive Gary Gersh and the label’s head of business affairs, David Berman. We were one of four groups of industry guys united for our annual weekend of fun in the sun under the auspices of Interscope Records president Tom Whalley. He called it the Spring Break Golf Classic.

  I’ve been playing golf since I was twelve and have watched the game I’ve long held sacred become nouveau chic amongst the movers, shakers, hookers, and slicers of the music business. During the peak days of my media career, it was the best access to the titans. Where else could you spend four hours with powerful men that you couldn’t normally get five minutes with on the phone?

  Upon entering the beautiful PGA West clubhouse of the celebrated desert resort where Frank Capra wrote It’s a Wonderful Life, I noticed Berman talking on the telephone with a most disturbing look on his face. This was a man who constantly smiled and was always wisecracking. Berman could have done Jewish stand-up in the Catskills in another life. There was definitely something up in Geffenland.

  “Hey, bud,” I said softly. He shooed me away. Probably dealing with another Guns N’ Roses legal nightmare, I thought. I shrugged it off, walked outside, and began warming up on the putting green. Ten minutes later, Berman joined me. His face looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

  “I was just on the phone with David Geffen. Kurt Cobain’s dead.”

  I stopped putting. “What?”

  “He shot himself,” Berman continued. “It hasn’t hit the newswires yet. Authorities just discovered his body. Apparently he’s been dead for several hours, maybe days. Geffen is really upset. This is incredible. Just incredible.”

  I immediately called my office. Kristina and managing editor Richard Lange were the only ones in that early. “Listen,” I said, swallowing hard, “they just found Kurt Cobain’s body in Seattle. He’s apparently committed suicide. I don’t know much except that it’s true. Watch the news later today. It’s going to be everywhere.”

  It was shocking, but not severe enough for Berman, the editor of RIP magazine, or Gary Gersh—the man who signed Nirvana to Geffen—to cancel their round. Nero fiddled while Rome burned, and the Tom Whalley bunch played golf as the world found out another rock star had bitten the dust. But this wasn’t just any rock star. This was Kurt Cobain, lead singer of Nirvana, the band that changed the course of rock ‘n’ roll, and he didn’t overdose from smack, like Andy Wood from Mother Love Bone, or accidentally overdose, like Jim Morrison. And he wasn’t assassinated in cold blood by a mentally deranged fan, like Lennon. Kurt Cobain had swallowed the barrel of a rifle and shot himself. I wondered who in the bunch had the intestinal fortitude to fire a low round today.

  I first heard Nirvana at a lowbrow Metallica-hosted beer party somewhere outside of London the day before the August 17, 1991, Monsters of Rock Festival at Castle Donington. Lead singer James Hetfield was cranking a cassette by some comical metal outfit called Haunted Garage. Halfway through the soiree, guitarist Kirk Hammett shut the Garage and slapped another tape in the boom box. “Have you heard Nirvana?” he asked excitedly.

  “Nope,” I replied. “Put it on.” Out came the opening riff to “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” And down went my lower jaw.

  Kirk made me a copy of the tape before I returned to the States a week later. The minute I got back in the office, I introduced Nevermind to my staff and began making dubs of the cassette for spontaneous distribution. The RIP writers had been hip to Nirvana since their indie days. Most of ‘em dug Bleach, their 1989 Sub Pop Records debut.

  When I finally received a proper CD advance of Nevermind, I carried it with me like a bar of gold, sharing its glow with everyone I could. One afternoon, I brought it with me to a RIP cover shoot with Skid Row. The multiplatinum Jersey-bred metal band was riding the top of the charts with their just-released sophomore crusher, Slave to the Grind. “I’ve got something for you guys to hear,” I said. “It’s going to blow your minds.”

  Three songs into the impromptu listening party, the boys were collectively flipping out. “Holy mother of Jesus!” screamed lead vocalist Sebastian Bach at the top of his ample lungs. “This shit rocks! We gotta take this band out with us!” Little did anyone with a screeching wail and shoulder-length hair know—no less the flamboyant Sebastian—that those infectious grooves would soon derail the entire decadent metal locomotive.

  Soon after the LP hit the streets, I was looking for ways to promote it. On my October 5, 1991, “Friend at Large” segment for MTV’s Headbangers Ball, I held up the now-famous naked-baby-in-blue-water cover and said, “This is the first CD to replace the Guns N’ Roses Use Your Illusion discs in my deck in the past three months. This band is gonna be huge.” Huge wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the place Nirvana was heading.

  Nevermind produced four massive airplay video singles— “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” “Come As You Are,” “Lithium,” and “In Bloom”—and went on to sell ten million copies. The week after their breathtaking January 1992 performance on Saturday Night Live, the album sold a staggering half million units. But what is so impressive about this accomplishment is the competitive environment at the time.

  The year 1991 was one of the most potent and prolific years for rock record releases in history. That twelve-month period saw the release of GN’R’s Use Your Illusion I and II, Metallica’s Black Album, Van Halen’s For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge, Ozzy Osbourne’s No More Tears, Tesla’s Psychotic Supper, Skid Row’s Slave to the Grind, R.E.M.’s Out of Time, U2’s Achtung Baby, Michael Jackson’s Dangerous, Smashing Pumpkins’ Gish, and Pearl Jam’s Ten, just to name a few. Nirvana’s rise to marketplace eminence was a miraculous feat.

  But its commercial impact paled in comparison to its role as the kerosene on the grunge bonfire that rearranged the pop culture. Teenage girls who once dressed t
o the nines and dumped on the mousse to keep the ‘do high and proud were now donning flannels and greasy mops. Metal’s support systems were imploding across the map. The Cathouse, the revered Hollywood club that defined the GN’R generation, would close its doors in 1992 after five years of continuous operation. The foot traffic in front of the Rainbow diminished as the eatery transformed into a metal memorial where die-hard hair farmers who didn’t give a fuck about teen spirit would commiserate and recall the days of decadence with a shot or two of Jägermeister.

  Practically overnight, MTV shifted its programming focus from glam to grunge. You couldn’t find a Winger video if you had a search warrant. The network that broke ‘80s metal worldwide was now breaking the back of its artists and fans. Alice in Chains, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, and Nirvana were marching across rock’s landscape like the four horsemen of the ripped jeans, and the rider holding the lead reins in his fragile southpaw-strumming hand was Kurt Cobain.

  Not long after my nationwide Nevermind proclamation, the band showed up at MTV’s Santa Monica studios for an interview with Riki Rachman. Kurt was dressed in a lemon-yellow wedding gown. I finished cutting my spots and was preparing to head back to the magazine when the band passed me in the driveway. Hmm, Kurt Cobain in a wedding dress, I remember thinking.

  I got in my car and cranked Nevermind. With the influence of RIP growing from covering an eclectic mix of bands from across the edgy rock spectrum, I was certain it wouldn’t be long before Nirvana would be doing their whirlwind press junket and I would have my personal hang. That materialized two weeks later when Geffen publicist Lisa Gladfelter called to ask me if I wanted to have lunch with Nirvana.

  I invited them up to the Larry Flynt Publications edifice on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. There was an awesome gourmet Chinese restaurant around the corner called Tse Yang, where I’d taken lots of cool rock folks. It was extremely upscale, but the management loved it when I brought in musicians.