(TV) A Trifle Off-topic? Kiss & Aerosmith

["Casey, Leo J" <CaseyL@VOLPE.DOT.GOV>]

With the recent posts on Arthur Lee's Love, Sonny Sharrock, 
Toto[!], et al, I thought I might be given some leeway for 
posting this. 

Actually, I think I can first supply a tenuous TV connection to 
the recent Boston Globe concert review of Kiss and Aerosmith to 
make it somewhat On-Topic. (The Globe reviewer is quite 
a writer and his hilarious observations are right on the money.)  The 
concert review itself appears below the following Verlaine 1977 quote.   

Verlaine: "In the 70s, the trend in rock 'n' roll is for somebody to 
totally pattern themselves after someone else. Then they play 300 
nights a year and make a lot of money, because the people who 
see you will go buy your records. I'm talking about 
***Aerosmith or Kiss***.  Everybody's out trying to be 
commercial. I'm not trying to be anything, really." 
Verlaine grins, then picks at a fingernail with his steak knife. 
"We're not some fantasy-oriented band - like Kiss goes out and 
projects their...insect fantasy. But we're not out to project what 
might be considered common, everyday life, either." 
[Interviewer:] " Does this mean they're out to project some 
kind of extraordinary life? Verlaine smiles, "Just remember - you said it." 

[The following does not exist anywhere on Globe Archives' website, 
so I'm typing it out in its entirety.] 
"Kiss Rumbles; Aerosmith Roars" by James Parker, Nov. 29, 2003  
Boston Globe 
"Rocksimus Maximus" is the name of the tour -- the Kiss/Aerosmith doubleheader 
that landed at the FleetCenter on Thanksgiving eve -- and the sly promise 
of overblown rock action was more than fulfilled. 

Of the two dinosaur bands, Kiss wisely went on first.  Most  of the familiar 
Kiss elements were in place: The fireworks and flame-throwers blew; 
the band rose repeatedly into the air with a solemn grinding of machinery; 
Gene Simmons, bass monster, stomped and leered the ancient plunging tongue 
pressed into service again and again; and Paul Stanley, guitarist and 
pseudo-androgynous beefcake, tweaked his own nipples and indulged 
in chin-stroking surveys of the groupie-crammed front rows, now and then 
screaming, "I love you, Bah-staan!" in his tattered countertenor. Next to these 
megahams, new guitarist Tommy Thayer (a replacement for the rogue Ace Frehley) 
cut a remote, almost demure figure, flitting about darkly in his space-age bodysuit. 

The most interesting character onstage, however, was little Peter Criss, 
sitting dumpily behind his drumkit, wearing his Cat makeup and playing 
with the quiet, unenthusiastic determination of a man folding his wife's laundry.  
For an encore Criss waddled gamely into the spotlight, sat down on some 
sort of upturned flight case, and sang "Beth", his sweet song about being 
lonely on the road.  Then he distributed roses.  Pyrotechnical devices 
may roar, but the domesticity of this small man is the real theatrical 
masterstroke of the Kiss pageant.

As for the rest of it -- well, Yeats asked years ago, "Why should not old 
men be mad?" Why not indeed?  Let Kiss roll on, let this thing go on forever. 
The band's age and obvious redundancy are now part of the magic. The 
spectacle of these men hooting and roaring in half-ruined voices, disabled by 
their platform shoes, mincing and mugging for the dwindling Kiss army 
-- that ragged conglomeration of children, diehards, and heavy-metal ironists 
-- will only intensify with the years.  God bless them. 

When Aerosmith hit the stage after this, clean and swift and nimble, and 
grouped close together in musicianly conspiracy, it seemed basic and 
invigorating.  It seemed real -- after Kiss, it was almost punk rock.  
This wasn't billed battle of the Bands, but let's say it anyway: Aerosmith 
is better. 

The Boston Bad Boys have the songs, for a start.  Oh sure, Kiss has 
"Black Diamond" and the gorgeous "Lick It Up", but the larger portion of 
Kiss music, looked at coldly, is not superb.  It chugs and blusters, 
padded with absurdity. The Aerosmith back catalog is a classic-rock arsenal. 

Aerosmith was also louder and played harder.  The set mixed classics 
("Toys in the Attic", "Walk This Way"), blues covers, and the careerist 
power-pop of the newer albums, stuff like "Jaded" and the 
god-awful "Livin' on the Edge" -- a sudden, knelling low point 
that saw Steven Tyler, eyes closed in prophetic transport, crooning 
"There's something wrong with the world today/I don't know what it is" 
while images of jihadists and burning towers glared fatuously from huge 
video screens. 

But "Sweet Emotion" heals all wounds.  Ice storms of silver paper were blasted 
into the air, and the vast, unlovely FleetCenter -- half shoe box, half airport 
-- became briefly, a wonderful place to be.  
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