I WAS ONSTAGE WITH KISS!

I WAS ONSTAGE WITH KISS!

Jaan Uhelszki

I was curious about life on the other side of the foot-lights. Armed with an abundance of determination and a tight pair of Danskins (Danskin aren’t only for dancing), I approached Larry Harris, the vice president of Casablanca Records with my plan: “How about if I join Kiss for a night?”

Reluctantly they conceded, assuring me I could join these contorted Kewpie Dolls on stage on ' the following Saturday.

★ ★ ★

Kiss are essentially street punks yanked from their gangs and plugged into an amp. They were brash JD’s, tattooed and tough, who knew exactly what and who they were,. Today, they still proudly display their tattoos (except Gene) but now their “colors” are a little more obvious—the paint they wear on stage. Kiss’ identities seem to be the result of some concurrent conception by Eric Van Daniken, Walt Disney, Stan Lee, and Russ Meyer. Although they wear make-up, the classic stereotype of a flit, Kiss emerge as four macho lugs. “Hey, Uhelszki, you put out?” somebody asked.

★ ★ ★

Johnston, PA: “Room 421, Miss.” Key in hand, I rejoin the gang and anxiously ask, like an old hand, “When’s the sound check?”

“What sound check?” Gene blankly answers.

“You mean I don’t get to rehearse?”

“Nah, you’ll catch on, just follow us,” says Paul.

“Yeah, but I’ve got nothing to wear...”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you kid, your name in lights...” jokes Bill Aucoin, their manager.

It’s 4:00 p.m., and all I have between me and showtime is Saturday afternoon TV. I’m watching Soul Train without having the slightest idea what I’m seeing, when the phone rings.

“Uhelszki?” (By this time I was one of the boys, and either called Uhelszki or kid.)

“Yeah?”

“What size-shoe do you wear?”

“8>/2. Why?”

“Too bad, 1 thought we could snazz you up in a pair of silver boots.”

“Well, maybe I could stuff ’em with Kleenex.”

“No, won’t work. Don’t worry, I’ll rummage around some more.”

I felt like I was getting ready for that Big Date—you know, the prom or Homecoming—when actually I was going to be on stage with Kiss! I kept trying on my leotard over and over, checking the image in the mirror, and feeling a lot like a motorcycle moll. I practiced a few classic Kiss kicks in the bathroom mirror without much success. My practice was cut short by a knock at the door, and an ominous voice: “Be in the lobby in one hour!” The Voice commanded; mine, as a mere member of the shock troops, was but to obey. ’

★ ★ ★

This is it, light the lights This is it, your night of nights Curtain up, we’ll hit the heights No more rehearsing, and nursing a part

We know every part by heart And oh what heights we’ll hit On with the show, this is it.

It was too late to back off. The dressing room in all of its filthy linoleum splendor wasn’t the worst of its lot. Once inside, I’m afflicted with a bad case of modesty, and become obsessed, like a cat searching for a spot to drop her kitten, with finding a secluded corner to change into my clothes. Would a phone booth do? Clutching my costume, I spot an empty stall and dart in relieved, bolting the door. Like a quick change artist, I tear off my tee-shirt, tug at my Landlubbers and don my basic black, feeling more like a naked seal than part of Kiss. Timidly, I sneak out of the stall and approach Ace: “Hey, do you have another pair of tights I can wear? Fm freezing,” I lie.

“Yeah, but they’re size D,” says Ace.

“That’s okay.”

“But Jaan, yours look better. They’re much hotter, because you can see your skin through them. Doncha wanna look good in pictures?”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Hey, hey, if you don’t watch those legs they’re gonna get grabbed,” leers Simmons.

Embarrassed, I turn on Junior and shout: “Hey, how long until we go or!”

“Lookit her, give her a black outfit, and make her a Kiss, and already she’s hard core,” he laughs.

By general consensus, Kiss have decided to make me up as a composite of all of them, just like the back cover of the Hotter Than Hell album. Now for the actual transformation: sidestraddling the bench, I face Simmons in his black satin prize fighter’s robe with OTTO HEINDEL emblazoned on the back, trying not to giggle as English comes out of this Halloween-monster thing. “It’s time to make a little monster. Now watch, so that you can do this,” he instructs as if he were a counselor for the Elizabeth Arden School of Beauty. “First rub Stein’s clown white all over your face. Smooth it very lightly, only using a little around the eyes.”

I dip my fingers in the jar, and start smearing the stuff on my face.

“No, Uhelszki, like this!” he admonishes, losing patience and doing it himself. “Okay, now sprinkle baby powder all over your ' face, so the base will set.” I look at Paul in the mirror and start to laugh.

“Didn’t you know we’re the clowns of rock and roll?” Paul jokes. Ace scowls at his reflection, muttering that he made “the goddamned lines too thick.” Unsatisfied, he storms out the door. Peter dabs on his last whisker, and preens in front of the mirror, caressing his lean leather thighs. “Tony Curtis eat your heart out!”

Gene etches Maybelline black on my dry to normal skin, sketching in his bat insignia. “Hey! Don’t make her up just like you,” yells Stanley.

“I’m not, I told you, we each get a crack at her.” Ace splotches a silver dot on my nose, and Peter adds his own feline touch in messy black crayon. Paul pauses over the conglomeration, and draws a smaller version of his star. Funny, somehow, I feel some kind of immunity behind the paint, a little more confidence. Maybe this rock and roll business won’t be so bad after all. Gene holds up a mirror and stands back, telling me to look at my reflection. “Don’t you feel special?” he inquires.

“No, silly,” 1 admit.

“Come on, you look very groupie.”

“I do not!” 1 argue.

“No, that’s great! Get off on it tonight, while you got it,” he said.

“So then you fhink 1 look okay?” I ask.

“Yeah, but I look better!” he laughs.

My last touch is the freak paraphernalia, and 1 go from person to person collecting their junk jewelry and brutish decorations. Finally 1 was outfitted in a studded collar, a managerie of plastic eyeball (and other unidentified, organs) rings, a metal cuff, and a studded belt whose buckle encased a tarantula named Freddy. Unfortunately, Freddy kept slipping off my 35 inch hips, and finally had to be taped to my tights with gaffer’s tape. Readying for a gig with Kiss fell short of my expectations; I expected some gruesome ordeal, but instead we took turns mugging in the mirrors, exchanging gossip and advice. But then the “worst” was yet to come. Stagefright. “I got a run in my tights?” I whined.

I was getting a little trigger happy, and maybe even stage struck, but just in case 1 motioned fell over to me. “1 have every intent on going through with this, but when it’s time for me to go on stage, don’t give me a hand sign, just shove.”

The waiting seemed to take forever. I had already shredded four Kleenexes, I had to go to the bathroom, and the makeup was beginnning to itch unbearably. As 1 raised a lone fingernail to scratch,

Bill Aucoin was at my side, like a trained pro, grabbing, my hand, “That’s a no-no.” he said, and fanned my face to relieve the irritation. “You’re on next!”

TURN TO PAGE 16

★ ★ ★

From stage left I peeked at the crowd, and was horrified that the stage was only inches off the floorwell, 24 inches. This struck me as odd, since this is a Kiss concert and everybody knows their reputation for riling up an audience, whether it be amorous ladies intent on wrapping their arms around Ace’s mike stand, or just uncounted masses of genderless groupies whowant to cop a feell

Countdown. Then the shove, and I’m on stage, moving like I’m unremotely controlled. Forgetting completely that I am in front of thousands of people participating as one fifth of this sadistic cheerleading squad, bobbing and gyrating instinctively, I no longer hear the music, just a noise and a beat. On cue I strut over to Simmons’ mike and lean into it and sing. Singing loud without hearing myself, oblivious to everything but those four other beings on stage. Gene whispers for me to “shake it” and I loosen up a little more, until I feel like a Vegas show girl going to a go go. Suddenly it strikes me: I like this. And I venture a look at the crowd, that clamouring, hungry throng of bodies below me. All I can think at that moment is how much all those kids resemble an unleashed pit of snakes, their outstretched arms bobbing and nodding, as if charmed by the music. I wonder if they will pick up on the hoax? But they keep screaming and cheering, so I might just as well be Peter Criss, unleashed from his drum kit, as anyone. The only difference is, I am the only Kiss with tits,

I push my unplugged guitar to one side and do an aborted version of 'the bump, singing into Paul’s mike this time.

“I wanna rock and roll all night, and party every day!

“Oh yeah!

“I wanna rock and roll all night, and party every day!”

And right on cue, to add that last dash of drama, Junior’s beefy arms ceremoniously lift me and the guitar three feet off the stage, and I look like a furious fan who almost managed to fullfiil her fantasy, but was foiled in the end. But you know something? I feel foiled; I wanted to finish the song. My song!

* ★ *• 1

We trekked back to the dressing room and now, after the ordeal, my legs went marshmallow. Wanting to appear blase after my big debut, I grabbed a wooden chair and draped myself over it.

“It was hysterical!” laughed Paul.

“I knew you were gonna be on stage, but then I forgot about you, then all (pf a sudden I look and see you dancing, looking like Minnie Mouse.”

“You’re a perfect stage personality,” said Gene. “All of a sudden you were hogging the mike. You took over, stealing scenes like a pro.”

★ ★ ★

The party was over, the fans, dispersed, but the five of us were armed with five boxes of Kleenex and four bottles of cold cream.

“You know, if we don’t get rich, I’m gonna need a padded cell,” confessed Peter.

“Didn’t you hear, Peter, we’re the next Beatles!” laughed Paul.

The next morning, as we sleepily wandered to the coffee shop to await the limousines, each member of the group greeted me, not with “Good morning,” but a mimic of my stage shimmy. “You deserve it,

Jaan, you told us you were shy. I never thought you could be such a ham,” explained Bill.

As we said our goodbyes, Gene Simmons said over his shoulder: “Whenever you feel like putting on that make-up again, give us a call.”

® 1975 CREEM Magazine, Inc.