In his essay collection The Disappointment Artist, Jonathan Lethem writes about his insecurity over analyzing the legacy of literary hero Philip K. Dick, an author whose best work had already been chronicled and whose worst work is relatively awful. Early in the piece, Lethem sums up his feelings with a lyric from Bob Dylan: “I’m in love with the ugliest girl in the world.” I strongly relate to this sentiment, particularly since that’s what Gene Simmons literally resembled in 1986.
Kiss do not make it easy for Kiss fans. There’s never been a rock group so easy to appreciate in the abstract and so hard to love in the specific. They inoculate themselves from every avenue of revisionism, forever undercutting anything that could be reimagined as charming. They economically punish the people who care about them most: In the course of my lifetime, I’ve purchased commercial recordings of the song “Rock and Roll All Nite” at least 15 times (18 if you count the 13-second excerpt used in the introduction to “Detroit Rock City” on Destroyer). Considered alone, this is not unusual; there are lots of bands who capitalize on the myopic allegiance of their craziest disciples. In 2009, Pavement announced a reunion tour and asked their most dogged fans (myself included) to purchase tickets a whopping 53 weeks in advance. Every decision was premeditated for maximum fiscal impact. “Instead of one announcement mapping out the entire tour itinerary,” noted the Washington Post, “concerts have been announced one by one, in a fine-tuned sequence seemingly designed to maximize profits in every possible way.” It was savvy business (and almost no one complained). Yet Pavement would never brag about this level of calculation. They would rationalize their actions, or they’d remind the media that they never explicitly said they wouldn’t add extra shows, or they’d chuckle about the swindle only when no one else was around. Pavement would always take the money, but they’d simply (a) say nothing, (b) feel bad about it, or (c) pretend to feel bad about it.
But not Kiss.
Whenever Kiss cajole people into paying more money than the market demands, they tell everyone they know. They give instructional interviews about how future bait-and-switch endeavors can be designed, and they adopt the newest dodgy model for all prospective undertakings. Moreover, they’d insist the exchange was mutual. They would say the experience they offer is singular and nontransferable, and that anyone who isn’t willing to pay for the Kiss experience isn’t a Kiss fan (and therefore does not matter, or perhaps even exist). It’s the guiding principle behind everything Kiss does: To “qualify” as a Kiss supporter, you have to be a Kiss consumer. And this is nonnegotiable — it doesn’t work any other way. If you try to enjoy Kiss in the same way you enjoy Foghat or Culture Club or Spoon, you’ll fail. You might like a handful of songs or appreciate the high-volume nostalgia, but it will inevitably seem more ridiculous than interesting. To make this work, you need to go all the way. And this is because the difficult part of liking Kiss — the manipulative, unlikable part — is how you end up loving them.