A Time to Talk: I wanna rock and roll all night — and sleep in the next day

Brian O'Neill

A Time to Talk

The bench press at the gym is an infallible measurement of one’s motivation. Today, gravity was winning, so I turned on my iPod for inspiration.

A sound like a Whoopie cushion caught in a blender reminded me that my teenage son had recently downloaded songs.

I cued the next song and “Detroit Rock City” singed my ears on its way to my veins. I threw the weights up and cranked out a few more reps.

I recognize our tastes may differ. Whatever your preference, music exists as a conduit to freedom and power, electrifying our experiences with texture and contrast.

Consider memories such as your first dance, your first date or the time that you threw up at your cousin’s fifth-grade party, which you remember because your aunt had “Alvin and the Chipmunks Dance Polka!” on the record player. You will never forget that song.

I thought about my memories of Kiss as I set the weights down. Growing up in the late 1970s and early ’80s, my friends and I worshiped such heavy metal rock bands and their long-haired gods.

Van Halen. Boston. Sammy Hagar before he joined Van Halen. The rock version of Diet Cola.

But on the throne of rock, as it were, sat Kiss.

Why? Their music was heavy and distinct, their lyrics puerile and shallow, and their lead male singer sounded like a girl.

These, however, were basic requirements for the genre. It was their attitude that set Kiss apart, with their 8-inch heels, hair teased out to the shape of a tumbleweed and makeup that would make a geisha blush in embarrassment.

Also, the women on the album covers were so sexy that excessive gazing caused our pubescent hormones to rupture, and we would spontaneously break out in acne.

It was worth it.

When my brother and I were 12 and 13, having saved our hard-earned paper route money, we got permission to attend our first concert, and we chose Kiss. We bounded up the stairs for what seemed hours until we finally collapsed into our last-row seats (the paper route was not lucrative).

The arena was already dark, and a thick cloud hovered around us. Though I have never been a fan of second-hand marijuana smoke, it made my Twinkie the best I have ever tasted.

The concert, in short, was incredible. Gene, Paul, Ace and Peter were as nimble as gymnasts and the special effects — including a laser beam battle between guitars — blew my mind.

The band rocked for hours, and we left with our hearts soaring and our ears useless.

Years passed. I got out of school, got a job and forgot that era — until one Saturday night.

I left the police station with an assignment as backstage security at the Tacoma Dome. I was pleased when I found out that the band was Kiss, but my mind was on work, not the past.

Then the lights dimmed, the crowd started chanting and suddenly I was no longer a cop on duty. I was a 12-year-old boy who saved his money to sit in the nosebleed section just so he could fry his eardrums at his first concert.

The music completed my journey back to the dark side of puberty. The explosions were smaller than I remembered, but the fire that started in the rafters of the dome more than made up for that. As the fire department threw up ladders to battle the blaze, the band members huddled next to me to watch.

I glanced furtively over at the band, trying hard not to burst into flame. Gene Simmons, he of 12-inch tongue fame, had an oval-shaped cutout in his spandex pants and the protruding skin looked like a bucket of cottage cheese. The guitarist, Ace Frehley, was so short I assume their trademark 8-inch platform heels was his idea. Paul Stanley still looked, and sang, like a girl, and the drummer, Peter Criss, was yawning.

These were my memories as I sat down again at the bench press. As “Christine Sixteen” shredded my ears, I struggled to lift the bar. My muscles quivered and I sat back up, looking in the mirror.

Kiss wasn’t the only one getting old.

But wait, I thought, looking closer into the mirror. With a grin, I realized I was getting a zit.

A Time to Talk columnist Brian O’Neill can be reached by e-mail at btoflyer@comcast.net.