Sean DeFrank | Vegas Seven
I have a confession to make:
Despite appearances, I was never really in the Army. Yes, I wore the uniform, knew all the terminology and infiltrated its ranks, but after all these years—on the eve of KISS’ residency at the Hard Rock Hotel—I finally have to come clean: I was never an official member of the KISS Army in the ’70s. I had friends in elementary school who paid the $5 annual fee to become card-carrying members, but for reasons unknown to me even now, I never formally enlisted.
Having such a strong devotion to the band, maybe the official membership just seemed extraneous to me. After all, I bought all the affiliated merchandise, or rather my family did: posters, T-shirts, magazines, action figures, trading cards, puzzles, lunch box, a windbreaker jacket, you name it. Even the KISS Your Face Makeup Kit, which my mom used when I was Paul Stanley for Halloween in fifth grade (his makeup was the easiest to do). I had all the albums, some on vinyl and 8-track, even the four lame 1978 solo projects. OK, three were lame; Ace Frehley’s easily outrocked the others.
It wasn’t just my parents who were aware of and supported my habit. My stoic maternal grandfather purchased a copy of Alive II not only so I could listen to it when I visited, but also so he could learn more about this band I was infatuated with, a subtle gesture of love that wasn’t lost on me even then. And I remember distinctly the day in 1978 my paternal grandmother brought home the slick promotional magazine for KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park from the grocery store.
My dad promised he would take me to a KISS concert if they ever came to Las Vegas. But they only performed here once during the ’70s—in May 1975 at the Sahara (with Rush opening!)—not long before I became obsessed with the band.
Like many fans from that era, it was KISS’ 1975 live (with much studio overdubbing) album Alive! that first grabbed me, the introduction proclaiming, “You wanted the best, and you got it! The hottest band in the land: KISS!,” followed by Ace’s guitar cutting into the opening riff of “Deuce,” Gene Simmons’ hand sliding down the neck of his bass and an explosion ushering in a surge of rowdy rock anchored by Peter Criss’ frenetic drumming. For a 6-year-old who had been raised on the Beatles, the Beach Boys and Motown, KISS opened my eyes to a world I never knew existed, leading to the discovery of other hard-rocking bands such as Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath, and forever shaping my musical tastes.
