The Night Evil Came Home

I saw little of KISS after that moment on the playground in 1981. By the time I had entered high school my feet were planted firmly in ‘guitar’ driven hard rock. I touched all the major bases. Boston, Metallica, Motley Crue, Whitesnake, but most of all I loved Van Halen. I spent my math class afternoons dreaming of the day I could purchase my very own Kramer guitar. I wanted to be the next guitar hero. I lacked only two things, the patience to practice, and the talent to learn.
The music scene by the fall of my freshman year had begun to grow somewhat dull. Nikki Sixx had just overdosed, so Motley had all but disappeared from the pages of Metal Edge. Rock radio was becoming inundated with carbon copy hair rockers like Tuff, Firehouse and Slaughter. All the while, my one and only hero, Mr. Edward Van Halen was finding himself smiling on the covers of Keyboard Magazine. The one place I never expected to find the guitar God who had electrified my pre-teen years.
Luckily I found solace in my social life, or the lack thereof. That year I had began to hang out with two guys from the neighborhood who were both older and wiser than myself. Danny, the ringleader of the bunch who had graduated two years earlier, and Brett, my next-door neighbor, whom at the time, was currently a junior. Danny and Brett enjoyed all of the same outlets to which I took pleasure in. Together we loved gory horror flicks, cheap Mexican food, hair metal bands, and gathering in Brett’s basement for hours on end, stuffing our faces in front of the boob tube.
The sweetest plus of my newly found gang was our transportation. Danny owned a 1981 metallic blue Camaro. It was fast, loud, and had a killer cassette deck. That may sound a little cheesy now, and I’m sure we looked like a couple of dorks, cruising down the belt, our hair blowing in the wind, but you have to realize…in 1988, this was not a bad car to be seen in on weekend nights. Not bad at all.
Now, I mention weekends like we were hitting the town, cruising for chicks, and living the high life. It was hardly that satisfying. We were nerds. We knew it, and we coped the only way we knew how. We simply made our own fun. It may have not seemed like a lot, but it was ours. It was pure. It was entertaining. It was our escape.
Saturday nights became our special night, because that was the one night of the weekend, guaranteed to always end with a bang. For that was the night that teenage metal heads around the world could find their fix on MTV’s, “Headbangers Ball”. The one night of the week guaranteed to find Danny and myself, housed up in Brett’s recreation room.
Brett’s house was the perfect getaway for an angst-ridden teen in love with music. His basement was dark and cozy, and seemed to be miles away from his parents. Every Saturday night, Danny and I would make our entrance, stopping to make small talk with his Dad, while Brett changed his clothes. Brett’s mom would be sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette in one hand, phone receiver in the other, normally wearing silky pajamas. This wasn’t always such a bad thing either. In the days before “Stacey’s Mom” or ‘MILF Hunters’, there was no other description…except that, it was safe to say, Brett’s mom was hot. Danny and I would stand nervously in the family room, glancing back and forth at his mom, like two kids cheating on the SAT’s, until Brett finally made his appearance and we could make our way downstairs. A Saturday night ritual, held like clockwork…every weekend.
Brett’s basement housed everything a young kid needed for his escape from the real world and high school life. From its deep wood paneling, to the orange shag carpeting, with a fully stocked bar on one end and a play-pit sofa couch on the other, a man could find all of the necessities of home. A television, a VCR, a stereo, a refrigerator full of Pepsi’s, and if ever the mood should strike you, a videotape cabinet full of porn. Glory, glory, halleluiah.
The rest of my story takes place within the walls of this basement, or at least finds it origins there. It’s the one place I always return to in my mind, every time I hear a cut from DYNASTY or see a live clip from the 77’ Tour. It probably closely resembles the basement, garage, or bedroom in which you first discovered rock and roll. It’s the sweet little memory nestled in the back of your mind. The one you go to when things get rough and you find yourself needing that escape.
I could easily pinpoint one major event that lead to my fascination with KISS, but like most things in life, it has little to do with one event and more to do with the process as a whole. I learned everything I know about KISS from Danny, and the beginnings of that lesson were taught to me in Brett’s basement watching KISS – EXPOSED. I have toyed with the idea starting this site with a review of EXPOSED, since that semi-served as the genesis, but then I would find myself, bumbling around attempting to pick up the pieces. So, as you have it, I’m starting from the beginning. I’m staring with KISS, released in 1974 and working my way to the present day. I was born the year the first KISS album was released, and didn’t purchase my first KISS album until SMASHES, THRASHES AND HITS. Never the less, the experience changed my life, as I’m sure it changed yours. That, my friends, is why I want to share it.
What is my purpose here you ask…boredom, entertainment maybe nostalgia? It could be any one of those. Perhaps all three. What we have here is a common link, a love for one of the all time greatest rock and roll bands in America. We came here in different ways. However we all share that same experience, of that one magical moment. The night that evil crept into our bedrooms, and seductively swept us away.

Goin' Blind

The first time I ever set my eyes on a rock and roll band named KISS, I actually knew nothing about music. At the time, I was a cartoon watching, comic book reading, 1st grader, which in reality had plenty to do with the rock and roll band named KISS.
There was a girl in my first grade class whose family didn’t really have a lot of money and she continually brought her lunch to school in a ratty, grease soaked lunch sack, obviously using the same one day after day. My teacher, seeing a student in need, decided to help, and purchased the young lady a metal lunch pail.
It was the KISS lunchbox. Bare in mind, the year was 1981 so the demand for a KISS lunchbox was more than likely at an all time low, and the bargain bins were no doubt overflowing.
The next day during recess the young lady propped her lunchbox against the brick retaining wall outside of our first grade class, like all of the other students, and walked off to play kickball with the others.
Silently, lurking in the distance, I stood…heavily eyeballing the new lunchbox that had just arrived in Mrs. Harmsen's first grade class.
I slowly walked over and picked her lunch pail off of the ground, holding it inches form my face. My stare was as cold as a winter’s day. I could not keep my eyes off of the picture.
Who were these guys? What are they all about?
They had every incarnation of my own personal heroes, “The Justice League of America”, only these guys were evil, and much more sinister.
Their silver armor glimmered off of their bodies in spectacular glory. Their personas seemed to leap off of the metal top, crashing into my psyche with thunderous power.
I quietly opened the container to get a look at the thermos when suddenly; it was snatched from my hands.
It was the owner and my days of holding the KISS lunchbox were over, sadly forever. (This is one item, I have still yet to call my own).
She yelled at me for a few minutes (she was a little rough for wear) and told me to keep my hands off of her ‘personal property’. I was a shy, cowardly kid, so I did what I was told and walked away with my tail between my legs. Looking back, she more than likely thought I was going to make fun of her for owning a lunchbox that the teacher had to purchase, but in all actuality all I wanted to know was who these four men named KISS were…and find out, what drew me to them, in such a profound way.

Meeting The Devil In The Woods

To say, I grew up in a fairly Christian home, would be putting it mildly. As a youngster, growing up at 2523 Carter Avenue, in St. Joseph, Missouri, most things were prohibited. If it wasn’t pure, it did not belong in the Howard home. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. No fun of any kind. Along with these restrictions, came a great deal of censorship. Everything from television, magazines, and even movie rentals, were previewed, edited, and thoroughly cleansed before reaching the innocent eyes of the Howard children. It was comparable to living in a twenty-four hour Vacation Bible School.
For the longest time growing up my mother was a stay-at-home mom. My father worked nights at the Post Office so he was asleep when I left for school in the morning and leaving for work when I arrived back home at the end of the day. So, that left a lot of down time for good ol' fashion, made up entertainment. The bad thing was that my sister and I had a completely different view on what ‘entertainment’ was than my mother. She liked playing UNO, listening to the “The Fiddler On The Roof” soundtrack, and watching old Jimmy Stewart movies. My sister and I wanted our MTV. MTV? Heaven forbid…that was the Devil’s music.
In the Howard house, sex was taboo, alcohol was sinful, and rock music was dangerous. All thanks to Pat Robertson and The 700 Club, life on Planet Howard had become very dull.
My mother was on guard to save everyone. On the occasion my father brought home a twelve pack of Schlitz beer my mother would scotch tape, typed-written Bible versus to the cans, warning my father of the dangers of alcohol.
On a weekly basis the TV Guide was inspected and condensed of all images containing any sexuality or vulgarity. I was the only kid on the block with a G-Rated version of the TV Guide. Any, ‘Movie Of The Week’ ad portraying a young starlet, scantily clad in a bathrobe…out came the scissors and away she fell into the wastepaper basket where all things sinful should go.
My father’s vinyl records even made the ‘hit list’, especially after it became apparent that a young Howard (namely myself) had become quite infatuated with the tanned beauty on the cover of Herb Albert’s Tijuana Brass – WHIPPED CREAM AND OTHER DELIGHTS.
That being said, you can imagine the delight when a nine-year-old grade school boy was suddenly introduced to four disciples of the Devil, in the form of a fresh heavy metal band called, Mötley Crüe.
Up until this point, I had mainly been listening to ‘radio friendly’ bands like Duran Duran, Men At Work, and The Culture Club…bands that taught me a little about music, but nothing about rock and roll. However, everything changed that year when my good friend, Shawn Wylie opened his birthday presents and received the brand new cassette tape from Mötley Crüe – SHOUT AT THE DEVIL.
One fateful Saturday afternoon, Shawn and myself, armed with a boom box, batteries and flashlights, ventured down into some nearby woods to feast our eyes and ears on the evil sounds of heavy metal wickedness.
As we sat in the damp darkness of the woods, fallen leaves surrounding us, the rumble of this band began to literally shake our world. We had never heard music like this before. This music made us feel alive. It made us feel young and powerful. We were turned on.
Staring at the cassette sleeve jacket we became captivated by the Motley ‘look’. Their snarl captivated us while we were sucked in by the energy they portrayed. Our hearts burned with the desire to one day save up enough money, slap our names to a self-addressed stamp envelope and become members of the S.I.N. club. Perhaps then, we could finally locate the backwards messages we were warned about inside the jacket sleeve.
For the first time in our young lives a rock band actually kicked ass. This was the music we would remember the rest of our lives. This band had become our Beatles. This was the band that would soon take over our lives.
Months passed, and our longing for ‘everything Crüe’ deepened. At school our folders began to bare sketches of pentagrams (only on the inside…for fear of mother), while we both perfected the art of slicing the top of our Trapper Keeper’s open with an Exacto Knife, making it able to slide in our favorite photos of the worlds coolest new rock and roll band.
Collectively, Shawn and I saved our money and spent our allowances purchasing spiked wrist bands, hat pins, and fingerless gloves, branding the Velcro strap with the word “CRÜE”, pledging our allegiance to our new found gang.
I had discovered a style of music that meant more to me than anything on earth. A kind of music combined with a manner of showmanship that I would grow to call my own. One day I would discover the forefather’s of this genre and the circle would become complete.

Finding My Talisman

Something very special happened to me when I was 14 years old. It was during the second semester of my freshman year in high school. It was the first time I discovered the magic of rock and roll. That year I was introduced to the music that would forever soundtrack my life. Music that would lift my spirits, give me hope and help me dream of a life outside the small town of St. Joseph, Missouri.
These events took place in my life, as I am sure they took place in yours. Although they did not exist at the same time, or played out under the same circumstances with the same cast of characters, more than likely, we all went through the same transition. That odd moment when we stopped being that lonely, awkward, shy kid, in the back of class and became that lonely, awkward, shy kid, in the back of class…with a purpose.
These were magical moments in our lives. Here’s to remembering them.