Makeup to Breakup (29 page)

The driver even got into it.

“Are we ready for warp speed, Captain?” he’d yell back.

“Absolutely, let’s leave this shithole,” I’d say, and we’d take off.

“Everybody in their quarters?” I’d ask.

“Yes, Captain,” I’d hear them all a,” Ace said. “w ” ayisnswer.

A lot of that was just bravado to hide my pain. I was still hurting and angry. I was missing Deb: I really loved her still, even though she had run off with my lawyer, and I loved my daughter deeply and I never got to see her enough. The IRS was still up my ass and I was in a band that was playing shitty little bars with pool tables and drunks shouting throughout the whole show, and then I was going to my tiny room at a Motel 6.

Some nights I’d go to the back room on the bus and lock the door, which meant no video games for the boys. I was amazed by how much beer I could drink and not get drunk, I was so depressed. I’d put on the Eagles’ “Desperado” and play it over and over and over. Then that feeling of doom would come over me and I’d obsess over what I had lost, especially Jenilee. The pain from the screws would start in my face, and many nights I cried myself to sleep, my face in the pillow so the guys wouldn’t hear me like that.

Sometime during that tour in 1995, I got the news that my dad had died. I’m certain it was from a broken heart. He had actually given up on life after my mother passed on in 1991. He was just lost without her. Even though my sisters took care of him, he didn’t care about eating or washing or getting out. I had gone to see him before the tour and I stayed with him for two weeks. He had been having some episodes of pleurisy that required constant monitoring and routine treatment, but he just wouldn’t cooperate with the doctors. It killed me inside to see him like that. I felt so bad for him. He was such a strong man in his heyday.

Tall Man and I took a plane to New York and made it to the funeral. This was the horror trifecta. My mom had died in ’91, my favorite uncle George died two years later, and two years after that, my dad was gone. I went back to the tour and I stayed drunk for a week.

I realized how much I had missed my father and how much I wished we could have communicated better. I was a cocky kid and I would visit them with the Mercedes and the hot blonde, acting like a big shot. I wouldn’t do that now. Over the years I began to understand his frustration, his own private suffering. He was totally dependent on my mother, and I think he felt guilty for that. So when she died, he lost the will to live.

Being on that bus with a bunch of kids who had such heart and spirit was what got me through those grueling twelve-hour drives. I saw myself in them, the same gleam in the eye we all had at the beginning of KISS. They were so thrilled to be a part of rock ’n’ roll, even at this level. Angel had family in St. Louis, and when we got there, they all came to the show and were so proud of him. He showed off the bus to his parents. I just fed off their youth and their positive outlook and their energy and their joy to be playing with me. That got me through the darkest hours.

I did have my idiosyncrasies, though. I could never really sleep on the bus. It was hard for me to sleep anywhere, but I hated sleeping on the bus, especially after I heard that Gloria Estefan and her group had that horrible accident when the bus driver fell asleep. I’d think of that and I’d be in my berth with my eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling all night. Sometimes I’d get some coffee and sit up front and bullshit with the driver all night. About an hour before we got into a town, I’d call Tall Man to my quarters.

“Tall Man, just get me to my room at the hotel and then come back right before showtime. You do the sound check, have my tech sit on the drums. I don’t want to see the place before I have to.”

Then I slept for a few hours. Around six the road manager would knock on my door and bring me food, usually some tacos that tasted like chicken marinated in sweaty gym socks. I was a picky eater.

“What the fuck is this?” I’d ask the road manager.

“It’s a burrito, Captain.”

“Do I look like a guy who would eat a burrito?” I’d throw it at the wall and make him go back and get something else.

Then Tall Man would come in with the scouting report.

“So how’s the club?” I’d ask.

“It’s not so bad, Captain,” he’d fudge.

“How many people are there now?”

“About fifty. But they expect it to be packed at showtime.”

“What’s the capacity?”

“Two hundred fifty.”

“That’s about how many people I used to take out partying after a KISS show,” I’d lament. “Tall Man, I can’t do this.”

“Come on, Captain, we can do it.”

So I’d have him get a couple of Rolling Rocks and I’d get ready. I’d put on some tight jeans with glitter and snakes down the sides and I’d pick out a killer shirt and vest and a nice scarf. I’d punk my hair up and put on some eyeliner and good old Number 15, a makeup from the old vaudeville days that gave you the best complexion a man could have. Then I’d put a little rouge on my lips and some on my cheeks. I’d look in the mirror, down another beer, and we’d get back on the bus.

We’d pull up to the dump and they’d always have big banners advertiswing
Budweiser or Jack Daniel’s alongside old posters of bands that once played there. There’d be tons of vehicles parked in the lot, mostly pickup trucks. I’d walk in the back entrance and make my way through the kitchen and I’d hear the noise get louder and louder and then we’d enter the main room and take the stage.

I didn’t even want to look at the people in the audience, so I’d walk in with my head down, wearing big, round, dark glasses. I’d get behind the drums and when I finally raised my head and looked out, I’d see a sea of KISS fans. And they’d all demand to hear KISS songs. But we played all originals for most of the set until the end, when we’d all come out to the front of the stage with acoustic instruments. I had a really cool percussive box that I’d play. We’d do “Hard Luck Woman,” “Nothing to Lose,” “Strange Ways,” and then we’d end with “Beth.” We’d win them over and they’d cheer for an encore.

One night we were playing someplace in Quebec, and when we started into “Beth” there was a wave of energy from the crowd that almost knocked us on our asses. We finished late that night, there was a blizzard, and we had a ten-hour drive back to New Jersey, so we walked right off the stage and onto the bus. It was like, “Let’s get out of here, no autographs.” But that crowd came out of the club, surrounded the bus, and started rocking it back and forth. “You think you’re leaving? You’re not going anywhere,” they seemed to be saying, so we stayed for a while and signed all their stuff.

We played some great places too. In New York, we did a show at the Limelight, which was an old converted church. We to_b” ayisre the roof down and got great write-ups in the newspapers. But then there were places like the Sandbox. We were wondering about that name when we pulled into Wheeling, West Virginia. I was dropped off at the hotel and slept and ate my meal. Now it was time for Tall Man to report.

“How’s the place?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you or you won’t go. You’ll get right back on the bus and drive to the next gig.”

I was still wondering about the name when I entered the club through the kitchen. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The club was literally a sandbox. They had filled the entire floor with sand and they had tacky paintings of palm trees and the sun on the wall. The stage was made out of plywood
and it was so wobbly that Tall Man got hit in the face by his own microphone. After the second number, everyone was up and dancing. The sand and dust was kicked up and permeated the air. I wanted to throw my sticks down and leave. Talk about being humiliated, about feeling like a piece of shit after you’d been in the one of the biggest bands in the world? Now you’re playing the Sandbox. And the next gig was at a place called Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I was miserable.

Which often times led to what we called the Greyhound Treatment. The Greyhound Treatment was usually reserved for incompetent road managers, sometimes sound guys. We’d instruct the bus driver to find the nearest Greyhound station, have the guy pack his bags, and we’d pull up, open the doors, out he’d go, the doors would close, and we’d move on.

One guy who got Greyhounded was a tour manager with a shaved head whom we nicknamed Fester. We were staying at a hotel in the Midwest that had balconies. I was upstairs and the guys were beneath me. We had finished the gig, there was no food, and I was starved.

“Where’s the fucking food?” I yelled down off my balcony at Fester. “Food and sleep. Food and sleep, that’s all we want.”

It was about two in the morning and Fester went out to get some food. He came back at four and reported to Number One. He had scrounged up two microwave TV dinners.

“You’re really going to take that upstairs, man? Are you serious?” Tall Man warned Fester.

Fester brought it up to me, and the next thing Tall Man saw was two microwave TV dinners Frisbeed off my balcony. Fester was on the Greyhound the next morning.

When we toured for
Cat #1,
our lead singer was Mike Stone. He was a great singer. He wore a cool mohawk and always had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. But he left for a deal that fell through and then he hooked up with Queensryche.

We replaced Stoney with a singer-guitarist named Jason Ebbs. He got the job because we needed to go out and there was nobody else around. Jason would play and sing out of tune, but he was a good-looking guy with dreads, a real chick magnet, so we hired him. One night Jason played the entire set out of key. I kept telling him to check his tuning, but with
each song it got worse and worse. When the set was over, he was standing near the stage talking to some chicks and I walked over and hit him in the back of the head.

“You will never play out of tune onstage with me again,” I screamed. “You’re fired.”

We got on the bus that night and there was stone silence. Everybody was tiptoeing around because I had turned into this monster. One by one, the guys came up to me and told me I was being hard on Jason,” Ace said. “igd ever . They were right. I have a big heart, so I kept him on. He never played out of tune again.

There were always groupies around, but I let the boys have them. I really wasn’t too sexual at this point. When I was out on the road right after my split with Deb, I hated all women. I had a hard and fast rule: No women on the bus. But sometimes I’d loosen up. After every gig, the girls would line up alongside the bus. Once in a while, I’d pick out about ten of them and bring them onboard. They’d be sitting there giggling and Tall Man would break out the beers and the girls would all get fucked up.

Then we’d say, “We’re pulling out tonight for a ten-hour drive. You could come, but I don’t know how you’ll find your way back.” And they’d say they wanted to go, thinking that they were going to have a good time with me. We’d sit there and I’d be grabbing their titties and biting them on the neck and making out with a few of them and getting them all crazy, and then I’d say, “I’m going to bed. I’ve had it.” The girls would be in shock, but then the boys would jump on them. Tall Man was tall and thin, with beautiful blue eyes and long dark hair. Angel was like Robert Plant, with big blond curls and the face of an angel. Our lead singer was always good-looking. So I’d lie back there and hear them fucking all night.

When we were staying in hotels, it was a different story. Tall Man would grab a stack of business cards from the hotel where we were staying and he’d hand them out at the gigs to the best-looking girls. Then I’d make my appearance in my Captain’s hat and the girls would all go, “Oooh.” Then I’d play around for a while, but I’d go back to my room alone.

We were on hiatus at the beginning of the summer of 1995 when I heard that KISS was doing a convention tour and they were going to
be in L.A. For years, fans had been organizing unofficial KISS conventions where they’d meet and sell their KISS collectibles. After a while, Gene and Paul decided that they should be making all that money, so they organized a KISS Konvention tour. For a hundred-dollar admission fee, a fan would get a laminated pass and access to the booths that were selling all the KISS merch. Of course, Gene and Paul would get a cut out of anything sold there. There would also be a two-hour appearance where the band would take requests and play songs and answer questions from the fans. Right away, I realized that the band couldn’t be doing well if they had to co-opt the fans’ gatherings. Gene and Paul decided to remake all their merch and sell it again. They even had their road manager call me and ask if they could sell Peter Criss drumsticks. I wound up ordering five thousand pairs of drumsticks, and they sold like hotcakes. I was getting checks for a few thousand dollars every month from the conventions. I thought, If I’m making a few thousand on some drumsticks, what are they making?

There was going to be a convention in L.A. on June 17, and I wanted to take Jenilee so she could get a better appreciation for what her dad had done. I asked a journalist to get me in, and he had called Gene, who promptly called me.

“Peter, you don’t have to ask somebody else, you’re part of the band’s history. This should be your place, too. We’ll send a limo to pick you up. You’ll be treated like a king, because you are. Whatever you want is yours. Why don’t we have lunch tomorrow at the Sunset Marquis and discuss it?” Gene could really bullshit you.

I had just come off a Criss tour and I was playing really well and my voice was great. I’d just bought a Mitsubishi 3000 and,” Ace said. “Caed him I was living in Venice with Lynn. I felt good about myself for a change. So I pulled up to the hotel and Paulie was standing there in his leather pants and tight velvet shirt, opened to the waist, and cowboy boots. I think he wanted me to see how good he looked right off the bat.

He was kind of surprised to see me driving such a cool new car, but we exchanged pleasantries and walked into the hotel. Gene ran up to me all dramatic, as if he’d missed me all his life. He picked me up, held me in the air, and hugged me. I was thinking, Fucking bastard, I’d like to stick a
knife right in the fucking side of his neck—because I still didn’t like them, and I thought they were up to something as they always were.