But you all seem to like the poor bastard, and so do I, so here we are.
And here’s a picture of Laraine Newman in Paul Stanley’s actual KISS gear: He used to leave a set at photographer Lynn Goldsmith’s studio, until she started dressing her celebrity friends up in it and selling the shots to Rock Mags. Can’t really blame him for asking for his clothes back.
So there: Jenkins and a lady in semi-stolen leathers making a silly face. What more do you want from me?
Yet more compliments for long-time FoTotD Mr, Completely:
Just does shit for other people because he’s kind.
Patrols and protects the Rose City each and every night in his role as Cascadia’s Champion, the Tree Octopus.
If you got a booger, or maybe your flag’s at half-mast, then Mr. C.’s gonna tell you in a chill and discreet way so as not to embarrass you.
Has never–not even for an instant–considered selling any of his family to gypsies.
Cleans up real nice so you could take him somewhere fancy, but can also throw on his jean shorts and get real loose with it.
Hustles back to play some D.
Only believes in the fun, old-school conspiracy theories, like “Grace Kelly wasn’t in a car crash; she was actually eaten by CIA robot cheetahs,” and not the scary, new-hotness conspiracy theories, like “The Jews did it.”
Hates a lot of the same things I hate, and that’s a huge plus in anyone.
Used to run the Chillout Tent at shows where they’d bring in kids who took too much; Mr. C. would talk those suckers down, and give them oranges and cigarettes.
What does this have to do with KISS?
Had you waited ten seconds, you would have found out. It was literally the next Bullet Point.
Hop to it, then.
I’ll hop up your asshole with a machete, muchacho.
You don’t have the balls to take on my asshole.
…
…
…
Shall we move on and pretend the last few lines didn’t happen?
These shows are a bit of a revelation: To hear the stories about early KISS and the legends about how much overdubbing was necessary to get Alive! and Alive II! into shape for release, you’d think the raw tapes would sound like deranged chimps banging on orphans. But no! They were a tight, well-rehearsed combo. I mean, they weren’t about to break into a set of Mahavishnu covers, but neither are they all playing in different keys simultaneously, unlike some semi-defunct, choogly-type bands I could mention.
Is Mr. Completely done? Has he finished his task and then withdrawn beatifically, leaving only joy and sunshine and a fresh, citrus-y smell in his wake? No! Of course not! He also points shit out, specifically the fact that KISS went–in just a bit over two years–from the 2,000-seat Agora to the 20,000-seat Richfield Coliseum, which is some impressive fan-garnering.
Download those shows presently, however: They’ll only stay up for the weekend. We close with a picture I like to call What? And leave Show Biz?
*Some of you may be happy to see this theme explored, but no one was like “TotD, can we have more disjointed and semi-random spewings on the Silly Rock band from the 70’s?”
We have not, Enthusiasts, ventured into the Problem Attic recently; with all the creators and their creations being chucked up there lately, I thought it best to avoid the whole affair lest I be mistakenly consigned. Classic films and popular teevee shows have made the shameful crawl up those rickety stairs. Writers and actors, and a whole lot of stand-up comics, too. Not Kimmy Kimmel, but not for lack of trying.
But our interest is musicographical here, and so we concern ourself with the Problem Attic’s jukebox, which only takes dimes from Apartheid-era South Africa. A random sampling follows:
Hot Child in the City – Nick Gilder It’s about teenage prostitutes in Hollywood, and you can tell. Nick Gilder does not couch his topic in metaphor; he eschews euphemism. Just straight-up about teen hookers.
Every Picture Tells a Story – Rod Stewart You could get away with naming a character in a song “Shanghai Lil” today. Maybe a line about “She called me Glasgow Rod, and I called her Shanghai Lil.” That’d be hunky-dory. But you could not call Shanghai Lil a “slit-eyed lady” in the next verse. Your Coachella appearance would be cancelled within minutes if you released this ditty today. Still a bop, but it’s now a headphones bop.
Illegal Alien – Genesis This is what happens when you put Phil Collins in charge. Peter Gabriel wouldn’t have pulled this bullshit. Peter Gabriel would’ve dressed up like a mailbox and written a 20-minute song about Jesus.
Christine Sixteen – KISS Not right. This song is not right now, and it was not right then, and it was never right. “TotD,” you’ll say. “People used to get married at fifteen and die at 28. This song would’ve been all right then.”
SCHWINTZ!
I just buried a machete in your face. Do not question me. This shit is fucked up. You’re not allowed to describe girls you “saw coming out of school” as “young and clean.” If this song were a color, it would be lime-green: A bad look on anyone.
Brown Sugar – The Rolling Stones Ha! Fooled you! Brown Sugar is NOT in the Problem Attic. It should be! It should be there right next to Some Girls and Under My Thumb. But, due to the total incomprehensibility of Mick’s faux-gumbo yawping, the vast majority of the song’s fans don’t know any of the words except “How come you taste so good” and the “Woo woo woo, yeah” part at the end.
Nah. Groom’s suit gives it away. And your presence. Hipsters.
“These people are not hipsters.
They favor lakes over rivers, and tend towards bilious rather than splenetic, and each has kissed the anus of One-Eyed Black, the goat-god who hates all. You know: hipsters.
“Just stop it.”
You going for Snow White or Red Sonja? I recommend Red Sonja, cuz she looks crazy.
“Leave it alone.”
Did you already make your run?
“Stop it.”
Did you lock your S-foils in attack position?
“Why would you even do that? It alerts the enemy of your intent.”
Don’t do that.
“What?”
Don’t nitpick Star Wars. None of it makes any sense. Why does the spaceship have fucking wings, man? It looked sweet and that’s the end of the explanation.
“Okay, fine.”
CELL PHONE NOISE
“I said I would stop nitpicking!”
I’m still mad.
…
“You’re on with John.”
“Johnny! Yachty here! Are any or all of these men your grandfather?”
“No, Little Yachty. KISS is not my grandfather.”
“Lil.”
“Little Yachty.”
“Lil.”
“I don’t want to do this bit.”
“Help me, Johnny White Guitarist! I’m sorry I forgot your last name!”
“Mayer.”
“Yachty! Nice to meet you!”
“Okay, lemme call you back.”
“You don’t have my number!”
“I know.”
DIAL TONE EVEN THOUGH PHONES NO LONGER MAKE THAT NOISE
“Jackass?”
Yuh?
“I don’t want to go on an adventure saving Little–”
Get Ace away from the Color Guard, please. (Because the past was terrible and I went to high school in the past, my beloved Lancer marching band’s Color Guard were known universally and with a smirk every time as Flaggots. This went along with the musicians, who were Band Fags. Teachers called us that. The administration called us that. Those were our names. Some things get better, Younger Enthusiast. Also, drunken men dressed as science-fiction clowns are rarely allowed to paw at students today, at least not at sanctioned events. So, that’s two wins for 2018.)
That’s the mayor’s wife Gene’s strangling. You have officially been given the red carpet treatment when the mayor lets you strangle his wife. KISS was welcomed to town as though they were astronauts or conquering generals, rather than what they were: four hairy men from the outer boroughs whose first three albums had sold poorly. It is a tale of publicity and synchronicity.
The Cadillac Viking’s football team’s coach, fellow named Jim Neff, didn’t know what was wrong with the boys. Same squad as last year, mostly, but we were undefeated last year and dropped the first three games this year. Jim Neff didn’t know what was wrong with his boys, but he knew about something that’ll cure all your ills. Jim called it Rock n Roll. (Everyone else did, too.) Coach Neff dragged his record player into the locker room, cranked up that old Victrola, and played Hotter Than Hell real loud.
And it worked. Boys started winning games. Coach, already a card-carrying soldier in the KISS Army, wrote the band a letter. (For the Younger Enthusiast: a letter. An according-to-Hoyle letter: paper, ink, envelope, stamp.) Not too many days later, Coach received a phone call from Paul and Gene congratulating him on the wins and thanking him for the letter and all that nice-nice. The call was from Paul and Gene and not Ace and Peter, because Paul and Gene were sitting in a hotel room going through fan mail while Ace and Peter were hacking up hotel rooms with swords and throwing groupies off of fire escapes. Paul and Gene make the Coach promise to keep them updated on the team’s record; he does, and the Vikings win out the season. When the band plays nearby in the spring, they send over a bunch of tickets for the seniors, and in the fall of ’75, Coach Neff stuck with what worked: Rock n Rolling all day, Picking up your GODDAMNED ASSIGNMENT, FIFTY-FOUR! You’re wandering around out there like you’re a turd trying to escape the toilet bowl!
Hey! Hey. Hey, hey. Having a flashback?
I did not enjoy high school football.
You quit after two weeks to take piano lessons.
It was my Vietnam. Can I get back to the minutiae, please?
If you must.
KISS was touring the Alive! album in the fall of ’75 and up in Coach Neff’s turf; he calls and says, “Maybe Gene or one of the guys could come down and say a few words to the team.” And KISS said, “No, fuck that: we’re KISS. We don’t ‘come down and say a few words.’ We bring all the Marshall Stacks in the world to your podunk berg and then we blow shit up until the Spanish Club is dead.” And Coach replied, “That sounds totally awesome except for the Spanish Club part. I can tell you right now that it’s gonna be a non-starter with the Board of Education.” So KISS said, “We’ll work out the details.”
Enthusiasts, I was vague in my wording, which is a sin. Language was stolen for us by Prometheus and eleven of his wacky buddies from a Las Vegas casino; for this, they were chained to boulders for eternity and eagles randomly came by to eat their nipples. That you didn’t know when the eagles were coming back was the worst torture: if eagle-time were always noon, then at least you could steal yourself for the de-nippling.
What are you talking about?
Gods and legends. Like always.
Someone should eat your nipples.
Go away, I’m talking to the Enthusiasts.
They should have their nipples eaten, too.
Why?
They know what they did.
Regardless, I’m actually interacting with the nice people for once instead of ignoring emails and making fun of the Comment Section.
How so?
I asked them to name the BEST EVAR song whose title was a woman’s name.
Sexist.
I was going to ask about the BEST EVAR man’s name song.
Suuuuuuure you were.
Swear.
Uh-huh
Anyway, millions of Enthusiasts wrote in with their picks, but like I said at first: I was unspecific in my request. What’s the point of Rock Nerd lists and bullshit unless it’s picky and arbitrary? There’s no fun in arguing about something as nebulous as “Best Song,” but “Best Song by a Band with a Really Short Drummer?” That’s a serious Rock Nerd party right there, my friend.
So: we reduce the entrant pool by upping the requirements. We look for not just the Best Song containing a Woman’s Name in the Title, but Best Song in which the Woman’s Name is the Whole Title.
This means My Sharona is out (not that anyone voted for it) and so is Polk Salad Annie and Ruby, Don’t you Take your Love to Town. Sheena is a Punk Rocker is also, sadly, disqualified.
But The Ramones still make the list:
An underappreciated classic from their most-appreciated album. Of note: Joey managing to rhyme “Ramona” with “come over,” and declaring that the titular Ramona was, in fact, a spy for the BBI. What is the BBI, you ask? Excellent question. You should ask Joey.
Also of note: the intralyrical band member shout-out. This is an extraordinarily rare Rock Move, but when performed well, it wows the judges. Examples can be found at the end of Surrender by Cheap Trick and in the bridge of Girls, Girls, Girls by the Crue.
Next up is something by the Allman Brothers:
Nah, I’m fucking with you. This is what Hakim Bey would call a TAFZ (Temporary Allman-Free Zone).
What is it with you and the Allmans?
If they wanted me to like them, then they shouldn’t have talked so much shit about the Dead.
You pick a side and stick with it, huh?
I’m loyal.
Talk about Dolly Parton.
If you don’t like Dolly Parton, then you’re wrong.
Anything else?
Nope.
You’re the greatest undiscovered literary talent in America.
Why, thank you.
Just continue.
BRUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCE!
The keen-eyed will notice that this song’s title is actually Fourth of July, Asbury Park (Sandy), and therefore not eligible. The keen-eyed should remember what I like to do to people’s eyes in the stories I write. Bruce gets a pass because he is Bruce.
Could’ve gone with Rosalita.
Rosalita doesn’t have the line about Madame Marie in it. Therefore, Sandy is better than Rosalita.
SLAP!
Did you just slap me? How is that even possible?
Don’t worry about it.
Ow.
Go on with your list and know that I’m watching you, buster.
Ow.
Bunch of you chose Gloria, but you all chose the wrong one and should be ashamed of yourselves. I advise you begin drinking heavily. Sure, Rock Nerds are supposed to worship Van Morrison and Patti Smith, but I like brunettes with unruly eyebrows and growly voices in spangled jumpsuits. Plus, the synth riff is killer.
I’ve posted this before; I don’t care: I’ll post it every day until I die. Little Richard on all the cocaine in the entire world.
Jesus, my gums are getting numb watching him.
If you rub your dick on the screen, you’ll be able to fuck all night.
SLAP
Why!?
You’re vulgar.
Violent is worse than vulgar!
Also more persuasive. Stop being coarse.
Here’s something wholesome:
Shortly after this performance Buddy Holly’s plane would be shot from the sky by a rocket launcher-wielding Don MacLean.
And there’s Lorelei by the Pogues, and Angie by the Stones and Victoria and Lola by The Kinks and that one from Rod Stewart that was kind of about him being molested. The Band did Ophelia AND Caledonia AND Evangeline, because it’s more fun to write about people with interesting names; Beatles had Michelle and Eleanor Rigby and Elvis Costello wrote Alison and Veronica.
But I like this one:
HE LOVES BERNADETTE SO MUCH.
Dude.
It’s an exciting tune. I got aroused.
Sexually?
Yes.
SLAP
You had to know that was coming.
I think I’m into it now.
Ew.
And Levi Stubbs was Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors, so this wins.
EXCEPT:
Yup, it’s the love ballad sung by a grown man in a kitty suit.
Listen to it! It’s one of the prettier rock ballads ever written, plus no member of KISS besides Peter Criss appears on the track, which makes it by default better than the songs the band members played on.
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