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KISS, I hear you calling From: The Toronto Star by Tim McKenna 
There are some things a dad should do for his daughter, but I began to doubt that chasing the gods of thunder through a Pennsylvania rainstorm was one of them. The gods of thunder are, of course, the '70s rock band KISS and Pennsylvania is a long drive from home. But my daughter and I were on a mission to see the iconic band. I am a 51-year-old family man with an unimpressive knowledge of rock music. Lexi is my 14-year-old daughter who is a late but fervent addition to the KISS army. She knows their history and all their songs. She reads about their shows online and was disappointed they won't play Canada on this tour. She is mostly silent and sensitive. She is centred between two extroverted sisters whose bedrooms are filled with sports trophies. Her hot-pink room is decorated with a leopard skin duvet, a feathered lampshade and her bass guitar. They don't give trophies for the things she likes ... she never asks for much. My life lacks spontaneity. I can plan my week by the shifts I work and the soccer, basketball and music lessons I drive to. A new adventure, like attending a KISS concert six hours away from home seemed like a good idea. I even agreed to paint my face like Gene. Hey, once I committed to go, I might as well go all the way. My doubts on that Friday afternoon in July, were not just about the driving conditions. The concert was to begin in four hours and the Keystone State's Endless Mountains seemed to stretch almost back to my youth. Unfortunately, my youth was pretty much KISS-free. I do know that GENE SIMMONS and PAUL STANLEY wear horror makeup and super-size-me heels; everyone knows the songs "Rock' n Roll All Nite," "Shout It Out Loud" and "Beth. You don't have to live in "Detroit Rock City" to know all that. I've never been to a KISS concert however. Do fans still paint their faces and smoke dope? Do women — now middle-aged moms, I guess — still expose their breasts like they once did or just encourage their daughters? Is there a mosh pit and how do I stay away from it? Would Lexi be embarrassed attending with me? I tried to focus on the highway ahead hoping the wipers would take these doubts along with the rain. This expedition was obviously not my idea. I didn't even think it would be my idea of fun but there are too few opportunities when a child invites a parent onto their turf. Montage Mountain is a winter ski hill and summer outdoor concert venue deep in the coal mining hills of Pennsylvania, near Scranton. The long lines of traffic were accorded lanes — left for the baseball game and right for the KISS show. No one driving near us had their faces painted. Some were riding Harleys; some were driving SUVs with baby seats and a shrieking minority popped their heads and booze through a limo sunroof, but no one else had their faces painted. I needn't have been so neurotic. There were a few other painted faces: a 70-year-old grandmother; a woman in earth-tone capri pants and a pearl necklace; and kids about 8 years old. Our makeup must have been good because an inebriated 40ish woman told us, "Awesome makeup man!" The crowd was primed first by a local band whose name I forget. Then by Poison, an '80s hair band, I'd never heard of. By the time we heard the traditional intro, "You want the best. You got the best. The hottest band in the world ... KISS," much of the crowd was thrusting the devil-horn salute through a pungent cloud. From the first note of "Love Gun," their opener, Lexi was in her own world. She sang every song, she took in everything on stage. She danced in the aisle. She was consumed — she either didn't mind or didn't remember her dad was next to her waiting for another song he recognized and searching for his earplugs. A pulley wheel hung over a platform in the centre of the audience and a rope drooped from there to the stage. Lexi figured PAUL STANLEY would ride the system from the stage to the platform — about 50 metres from us. She wanted to run down to it. "Lex, we can't get through the line of security," I said. She grabbed my hand and we ran through the security line and underneath the platform as Paul began his ascent. Others fans followed — too many to remove. Paul sang "I Was Made For Loving You" from about 10 metres away. He seemed to be singing to us. At the song's end, my little girl turned to me and smiled — her eyes filled with tears. I turned away quickly. My makeup was starting to run. I tried to understand why she had become so emotional. This was bigger than shows she had seen; the loud music, the flashpots, the songs of love, and the still very sexy and shirtless PAUL STANLEY were a potent mix. Then I remembered a summer 40 years ago. Lexi would not have recognized her mother then. She was crying and screaming for the Beatles with 10,000 others at the Toronto airport. On the drive home we listened to KISS CDs and talked about the show. She said she likes them because their fun, loud and "so unreal." Maybe it's the kids' lives that have become so unreal. Their lives are often over-structured in a too-competitive society. They feel they have to conform to others' high expectations. Maybe three hours of over-the-top shock from KISS lets them know they are still real. Lexi thanked me as we neared the Lewiston-Queenston bridge — the border crossing to our regular life. "Thanks you sooooo much for taking me," she said. Sharing this with you was my privilege, I thought. "No, thank you," I said. |
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