KISS: 'I'm one-fifth of a sadistic cheerleading squad' � a classic encounter from the vaults
It�s 40 years this month since KISS released Alive!, the album that made them stars. A few weeks earlier, Creem�s Jaan Uhelszki had joined them � to be a member of KISS for one night only. Read her account, in this piece from Rock�s Backpages
By Jaan Uhelszki / The Guardian
I dreamed I was on stage with Kiss in my Maidenform bra � well, not exactly my idea of the perfect fantasy, but I was curious about life on the other side of the footlights. Armed with an abundance of determination and a tight pair of Danskins (Danskins 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?�
No answer, and then nervous laughter. Obviously, Larry thought I just wanted to know what it was like to mouth-kiss a vampire. Sure, they were eager for a feature on the band, but this scheme was a little bizarre. I pushed the point, and they told me disturbing tales of other fresh-faced females who were transformed into raging teenage nymphs after attending a Kiss concert. �But I don�t want to see the show, I want to be in it!� I persisted. Reluctantly, the Casablanca crowd conceded (only after making me promise not to call KISS a glitter band), assuring me I could join these contorted Kewpie dolls on stage for one number or four minutes, whatever came first, on the following Saturday.
On Thursday, I decided to drop in on the Detroit rehearsal to see what kind of atrocities I�d be in for. Soon after I arrived, I found some of the band lounging on the side of the stage, so I walked up and asked what they thought of the idea of me being a Kiss (Kissette?) for a night. They all looked at me vacantly, and I realised that NO ONE HAD TOLD THEM! I felt like a Rockette who gets told �no, thanks� at the open call before she�s had a chance to do her dance. Undaunted, I fumed at the executive-in-residence, and demanded he explain the plan.
I returned to a seat in the empty hall and watched the band rehearse, to �pick up some tips�. A stage hand divulged that bassist Gene Simmons had accidentally set his hair on fire while practising the fire-breathing segment of the show, which I admit made me squirm and fear for my own charred remains. My visions of stardom were quickly evaporating like warm Jell-O. During their break, Simmons came over and pulled out the few strands of singed curls, assuring me that �it was nothing�, but I couldn�t prevent myself from biting the Lilac Frost off my nails. I was beginning to have misgivings. I think Ace Frehley did, too, because he just stared over my left shoulder. But Peter raised a comradely drum stick when Paul Stanley pointed to the empty stage and stated: �Saturday night, that�s you up there!�
What am I going to pack to become a Kiss? I ponder over breakfast, wincing at the memory of last night�s show. What if that geekish bass player bites my neck, oozing red blood-goo on my shoulder? Anxiety knots my stomach so much that I can�t even force a single piece of Sugar Crisp down my throat, so I return upstairs to case my closet. One leotard (black), one pair tights (black), and one pair six-inch platforms (also black). I zip up my Samsonite and hurry out the door.
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