PARTYING WITH KISS

PARTYING WITH KISS

FEBRUARY 18, 1977—It’s been an incredible homecoming concert for Kiss at Madison Square Garden, but for us the excitement doesn’t end there: We have been invited to the victory party afterwards!

We arrive at the west side health club where the festivities are to unfold equipped with our bathing suits, as instructed, and there’s already a line of partygoers and well-wishers ahead of us at the door. Finally inside, we’re each given hand-printed scrolls describing the lush menu for the evening. Just above the menu, at the top of the scroll, are these words: “Dream the glory that was Rome. ‘The Recovery of Lost Time’ beckons across the years, inviting you to celebrate a feast to welcome four warriors home in glorious conquest. The world lies prostrate at their feet in adulation. The gods have been good in bestowing the KISS of success upon our warriors’ brow. Raise your glass—toast their fortune! Fill your plate—taste the morsels dedicated to their honor.” And though we can see the warriors aren’t here yet, we summon a togasuited waiter, order drinks, and offer our toast: “May the sun never set on the Kiss Empire!” Then we dash downstairs to the locker rooms and on to the indoor pool.

We dive in, and it feels like a nice hot bath—perfect relaxation from the cold winter outside. Up a few steps from the deep end is the club’s ballroom, and other partyers, moving frantically to the loud disco music inside, wave at us through the picture window that overlooks the pool. Another nip by poolside, served on a silver platter, of course, and we’re off to change and head upstairs to await the conquering army.

Kiss is yet to arrive, so we amble over opposite the ballroom to check out the eats. As promised, it’s a spectacular display! Lobster, caviar, clams on the half-shell, curried bananas, salmon mousse, stuffed mushroom caps, prime rib of roast beef, Caesar’s salad (of course), and, on the dessert table, a huge cake decorated in silver with the Kiss logo, and something called “chocolate decadence with whipped cream.” Being too fat for cream and too chicken for caviar, we ask a toga-togged chef behind the banquette to dish us up some roast beef. The first taste positively melts on the tongue!

We check the entranceway again—no Kisjs. So we look out over the crowded dance floor, barely able to hear ourselves think for the crashing beat. We recognize some rock writers and some record company operatives dancing.

Several very young kids—nieces and nephews of the band, we surmiseare trying to keep up, too. there also appears to be a lot of older folks in suits and ties and long gowns. We stare quizzically at one who looks familiar. He steps over momentarily to introduce himself, shouting over the din: “Hi! I’m Paul Stanley’s father.” He is just starting to tell us all about his son and how proud he is when the entranceway doors fly open and members of Kiss can be seen making their way into the room, stopping every two inches to shake a hand or kiss a cheek of one of the well-wishers that is crowding about them.

We hang back, watching for our opportunity to say hello—so do about a hundred other people. We can see Peter’s face above a tight knot of fans; he is wearing a red bandana around his head and looking very tired. There’s Ace, dressed to the teeth in a fine velvet jacket and white silk shirt, looking about as awake as Ace ever looks. We reach out to shake his hand, but the crowd once again eddies in front of us. We are giving up hope, when across the room we spy Paul, bobbing his head and looking very lively as he munches some lobster about a foot and a half above the surrounding gang of admirers. We angle in on him, but after several passes can’t get through the retinue.

We turn around, disappointed, to head back towards the dance floor when, all of a sudden, we are faceto-face with a big black tarantula! It takes a moment to realize the thing is embedded in plastic and that what we are looking at is a belt buckle. Our eyes begin to travel upward from the buckle—six inches, eight inches, fourteen inches...And then we shudder in amazement as we realize we are looking into the face of Gene Simmons, Bat-Lizard extraordinaire! We should’ve known with a belt like that!

“Hi!” he says to us, a trifle amused. “I’m Gene Simmons.” Then he reaches out his hand. We shake it, and say in response, “Um...ah...Hey, we really loved the show!” Gene smiles and says “Thanks!” Then he turns away, heading off into the crowd.

From that moment on, whether they served caviar or cheeseburgers, we counted this party as one-great, big success!