Joe (see what happens when he gets serious) Fernbacher, Creem, 12/78
The whole internal beauty of Kiss is simple--they would’ve been the pefect backup band for Alice Cooper in his prime. If some hip honcho out in Vinylexecland got his smarts together, he’d form a real supergroup using the brilliant images of the Kiss show and all the refined gory glory of the Cooper shows--kinda like a Blind Faith of Ghouls. The entrail wars between Gene Simmons and Alice would be staggering. What a tapestry of the grotesque these two could conjure up: the God of Thunder in mortal combat with the snake-god Conchita; Alice and Gene dismembering a loyal sacrifice from the ranks of the Kiss Army; Kitty Kat skinning the Cyclops and stretching its skin over his drum kit in a Nazi fetish scene; Ace causing total sensory deprivation for 50,000 people with a power chord so massive and corrosive it’d melt flesh; a final jam consisting of two or three low yield atomic bombs set off in the parking lot; and a climax featuring the fusion of the group with the 50,000 fried fans, forming a gigantic mutated ball of living protoplasm lurching its way about the countryside in search of Cleveland, every once in awhile belching out a radioactive language balloon that says, “Redek, where’s Redek?”
Which somehow brings me to Gene’s solo album. For those who were expecting the apocalypse from the tongue king, don’t be too disappointed if all you get is a simple, conventional weapons skirmish. Simmons’ LP heightens the character quirks that make him the most outstanding and complex member of Kiss. He seems to live the contradiction so many always talk about, and in so doing he proves his merit as a rock ’n’ roll master. Despite the personalities brought along for the sideshow [a cast that includes Cher, Bob Seger, Helen Reddy (hey, why not? She said “fuck” on Ear Candy), Donna Summer, Rick Neilsen and JANIS IAN], this record is all Gino. And for those expecting bone-crushing bass solos at every near turn--forget it, the focus is on Gene’s guitar playing and his surprisingly gentle vocals.
Actually, after the initial shock of the relatively calm and serene pose adopted on the album, the listener can easy get caught up in the inner workings of the man, not the monster. When I first noticed that he did “When You Wish Upon A Star,” visions of Jiminy Cricket being squashed under the lizard’s boots and then ingested ran rampant, but damned if he doesn’t perform the number with a rather frightening sincerity.
The fact that it’ll take both critics and fans a long time to sift through the multi-textured screens Simmons has erected here is testament to the LP’s overall impact and effectiveness. Long after the sonic assaults of Ace and the other boys have been replaced by creatures as yet unknown, creatures that really will be faster and louder, somewhere far off in the corner of the planet a little jukebox will be playing Gene’s “When You Wish Upon A Star” to a bar filled with old Kiss lookalikes bemoaning the good old days. This album will be remembered, and that is a fitting enough criticism.
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