Gene Simmons “Asshole”
There’s a famous Maya Angelou quote that I’ve heard in armchair psychology which goes: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Now, this could be read a number of different ways. The generous interpretation might be something about empathetic, unbiased acceptance of others. But, I don’t think that’s the author’s actual intention, or at least that’s not how it’s been adopted. Any time I’ve heard somebody cite that quote the implication is more pragmatic and less trusting. The prevailing take is closer to “believe people’s actions not their words.” It’s a warning — a reminder to not kid yourself. Read that way, it’s about self-deception, but more so about self-protection — about safeguarding ourselves from charming monsters.
Rock and Roll is full of charming (and uncharming) monsters. Men with charisma and talent and wealth which disguises bad behavior and rotten cores. In many of these cases, the misbehavior becomes the undoing before the rot makes its way to the surface. Think R. Kelly. Then there are instances when the rot is unmistakable. Think Phil Spector. But there are of course many more exceptions — men whose extreme wealth or special powers insulates them from sober evaluation. Men who’ve shown us who they really are but who have more effectively convinced us of something else.
Gene Simmons doesn’t fit any of those molds. He’s not the scandalized Rock Star undone by fatal flaws nor is he the untouchable, untainted prince who’s actually a monster. He’s the exception to the rule — the guy who, from the very beginning, showed us exactly who he is; who has been honest, consistent and insistent about who he is. He’s “The Demon” — the charming monster in platform boots and makeup who wants to get rich and get laid. Period.
Further, he’s proven himself inordinately capable of getting what he wants. And that is in spite of the fact that he arrived in America at the age of eight, the son of a single mother and the grandson of a Holocaust survivor. In spite of the fact that he was born not as Gene Simmons but as Chaim Witz and that he grew up first in Israel and then in the outermost of New York City’s outer boroughs, Staten Island. In spite of his goofy smile and uncombable mane of hair. In spite of the fact that he didn’t drink or take drugs. In spite of the fact that he was probably a better typist than a musician and a better capitalist than a Rock Star. But for fifty years, since he became “Gene Simmons,” he has not changed. He is the same guy who showed up in makeup, breathing fire decades ago.
Now, Simmons was obviously not the first Rock Star to be obsessed with money and sex. But he is perhaps the one who started with the least and profited the most. And it’s not talent or charisma that got him from there to here. Rather, it was the ardor of his faith in three basic tenets that most defined his success. His undying belief that Rock and Roll is:
more product than art
more cartoon than reality
more theater than concert
There — that’s it. That’s what made Gene Simmons inordinately rich and purportedly desirable. His core beliefs are as simple as they are brilliant and true. Simmons came of age at a time when music was dominated by singer-songwriters and bands lauded for their authenticity and artistry. But as much as KISS was a construct, so was the pomp and circumstance post-Dylan Geffenism — the elevation of what is, at its core, Pop product. Simmons knew this, embraced it and exploited it. Similarly, he understood that some common thread existed between what attracted young men to comic books and science fiction and what attracted them to Rock and Roll — the possibility of the impossible. And, most of all, he knew that fans didn’t pay to hear musical excellence so much as they paid for the spectacle and the performance.
These principles were so right and so true that they vaulted KISS to mega-fame and mega-wealth despite their relatively middle of the road Hard Rock. Despite that, aside from two ballads and one gimmicky concert track, radio stations didn’t play their music very much. And despite that they never had a single album reach the commercial stratosphere of Fleetwood Mac, Led Zeppelin or The Eagles. As a comparison, it would take ten “Destroyers” to equal the sales of one “Rumors.”
For about a decade, from “Dressed to Kill” through “Animalize,” we all knew what Gene Simmons was. We mostly loved him for it and we mostly forgave all the other stuff. What he was made millions and then tens and then hundreds of millions of dollars. It put his painted face on lunchboxes and action figures and posters. It landed him a relationship with Cher, who he then dumped for Diana Ross. Diana Ross! Then, a few years later, he dated the most famous Playboy Playmate, who he eventually married while still finding time to sleep with another five thousand women before, during and after all the headlines and fireworks.
But by the time the Nineties rolled around, and regardless of the fact that he had not changed one iota (he even put the makeup back on), public opinion of Simmons began to shift. His politics were officially complicated. His youthful confidence presented as arrogance in middle age. His philandering was far less charming. Plus, KISS’ last hit was an accidental one — a Michael Bolton ballad from 1990. “Carnival of Souls,” from 1996, was an unmitigated disaster. And while their 1998 reunion album, “Psycho Circus” helped sell gobs of concert tickets, it was also revealed to be a reunion in name only and for profit only. Ace and Peter barely played on the record and were summarily dispatched as soon as the tour ended.
Since “Psycho Circus” — twenty-five years ago and counting — KISS has released exactly two studio albums, both of which disappeared as quickly as they appeared. During that time, Simmons has been a licensor of merchandise, a part time record label owner, television and film producer, an occasional actor and, of course, a reality TV star. On the one hand, he’s somebody who cable news can call on for a provocative quote and a funny face — a wry, post-middle-age braggart who used to wear makeup in “that band.” On the other hand, he’s still the same exact guy who’d gotten famous in 1975 — a joker, a demon, a ladies man, a womanizer, a capitalist. But, it’s no longer 1975. And, as it always does, the zeitgeist has moved on. We had all always believed Simmons when he showed us what he was. It’s just that we had a bunch of different names for it back then — larger than life, macho, brash, candid, cocky. By 2004, however, it was all a lot clearer. Gene Simmons was an asshole.
Apparently Simmons did not disagree. And so, that year, when he released an album entitled “Asshole,” when he and Paul Stanley could agree on nothing, when he, Peter and Ace could not stand each other, when the cartoon demon was out of touch and unfunny, I only assumed that Simmons’ second solo album (and his first since 1978) was a self-aware, tongue firmly in cheek acknowledgment. That he was attempting to beat critics to the punch, co-opting the term because he liked to own things, but also because he at least partially agreed with the assessment.
For however accurate it is, “Asshole” is also a horrific name for an album. It’s snarky & insincere, not to mention lazy. But it is a title befitting its cover — Simmons dressed in a black suit and white tie, hair dyed jet black, surrounded by much younger, much less robed women in what seems to be a brothel slash recording studio. The image and title are meant to repel, or minimally to provoke. It reeks of early Aughts, pre-Twitter, peak TMZ trolling when attention was currency but there was no platform yet designed to weaponize the quick thrill economy.
And so, back in 2004, “Asshole” was just something to chuckle at or to sneer at. But it seemed to me at least that “Asshole” was not something people would actually listen to. Really — who would want to spend an hour with “Asshole”? Right? Right. Except for two things. One — strictly speaking, Gene Simmons was never an asshole. An asshole, according to dictionaries, is someone “stupid,” “annoying,” and “dislikable.” Those last two adjectives are open to debate but the first one is not. Assholes are by definition stupid. And Gene Simmons is many things, but stupid is not among them. And two — I sort of wanted to listen to “Asshole.” Not in 2004, when I was busy with Arcade Fire and LCD Soundsystem. But years later, after “Family Jewels” had its run and after he’d insulted Muslims, Terry Gross, depressives, his wife, his former bandmates and most anyone else he bumped up against. I was curious why Gene Simmons, who had been so consistent about who and what he was had decided to take on a new name.
On the surface, the answer to that question is simple: he was attempting to profit from the subversion of our assumptions. To confirm our suspicions but more so to show us that he really does get it — that he is in on the joke. In theory, “Asshole” does a modicum of apologizing while mostly absolving Simmons of whatever offenses he has committed (as in “fine, I’m an asshole”). Except, in reality, the album does very little of that. In fact, almost none of that. Across thirteen songs, Simmons primarily suggests that he’s a romantic while he confirms that he’s also still hornball. And on the title track, the one time he has a go at himself, he’s actually singing about someone else. It’s a craven, unnecessary song — a Blink 182 imitation — salvaged only by the fact that he cuts the bile with the suggestion that “maybe I'm an asshole too.” In other words, Simmons is positive that the other guy is a shithead. But for the purposes of the joke, he’s open the the idea that maybe he’s not so different from that shithead.
Though he was the primary songwriter and defacto frontman for a Heavy Metal band, Simmons was never particularly great at Heavy Metal. KISS’ best songs are their ballads and their down the middle hard rockers. And so, when “Asshole” tries its hand at Metal, as it does on “Sweet and Dirty Love,” "Weapons of Mass Destruction” and “Carnival of Souls,” it completely underwhelms. Gene’s voice, while flexible and tuneful, is more gravelly than ferocious. And his version of Metal is not fast or heavy enough to bite, and not glam enough to shake.
“Asshole” is less a statement of purpose than it is a collection of dressed up old demos, an odd cover and a bunch of tracks assembled out of shiny new doll parts. And the best songs on the album were not even written by Simmons. His cover of “Firestarter” is surprisingly loyal and, though it does not approach the searing fury of The Prodigy’s original, it does work in an “oh I get it” kind of way. “Beautiful,” written by two people I’ve not heard of but who are not named “Gene Simmons,” is a standout for how it pairs lab-produced, Nordic Pop with a version of Gene that sounds a lot like Beck channeling Ray Davies. I have no idea what the song is trying to tell me — it might be about body shaming or gender fluidity or plastic surgery. But it serves as a reminder of Simmons' knack for melody and his surprisingly supple voice.
The best, most unlikely, least asshole-ish song on the record, however, is "Waiting for the Morning Light,” Simmons' collaboration with (no joke) Bob Dylan. Responding to an out of the blue, fanboy call to work together, Dylan spent part of a day working with Simmons on one single melody. And, whatever and however it happened, it worked. "Waiting for the Morning Light" is a wistful ballad about holding out for hope, full of “AM Gold” vibes, drenched with “oohs” and “ahhs,” and wonderfully sung by our charming demon. It’s by no means a great song — not a hit, not a classic deep cut — but it sure as hell is a nice one.
Elsewhere, Simmons strains to keep up, awkwardly imitating the styles of others while pretending he is doing something novel on his own. "Now That You're Gone" is a Pink Floyd knockoff. "Whatever Turns You On" is a Sublime imitation. And on "Black Tongue,” Simmons literally uses a riff he bought from the Frank Zappa estate and enlists a bevy of Zappas to help him (almost but not fully) turn that riff into a song. And that’s kind of what “Asshole” is — a bunch of not terrible gimmicks, professionally strung together by a guy who wanted attention more than he wanted to make a record. In 2004, Gene Simmons still had plenty of very good, very commercial ideas. It just seems that none of them were musical.
Whatever has been lurking inside The Demon all these years, “Asshole” gets me no closer to naming it. If he’s not an asshole, what is he then? Is he a troll? Is he whatever our former President was — the one who wore all that makeup and had the elaborate hairdo situation and who hosted a reality TV show? You know — the one who had lots of skeletons in his closet and quietly settled lots of lawsuits out of court?
Ultimately, I don’t think that’s the case either. For one thing, Simmons’ is evidently bright and talented whereas there’s much less evidence that our former President is. Also, Simmons has something of a sense of humor, a dash of self-awareness and he sucks at Twitter. So, I don’t think he’s Rock and Roll’s Trump. On the other hand, he is a radical capitalist who believes in free markets. He is a clown. And he is a demon. He’s a demon clown. But, I feel like I’m reaching here with this analogy. Maybe I should just take him at his word. He probably is an asshole. It’s probably Miriam Webster who’s wrong.