band.
After a significant amount of debate, we eventually decided on a name: Kiss Junior.
The ensemble consisted of my friend Terry on guitar and vocals, his sister Tammy (who I had a terrible crush on) on tambourine, and me on electric organ. I had come into a small tabletop organ and—seeing that it was more portable than the family baby grand—took it to Terry and Tammy’s house for band practice. It had a half-sized keyboard and one four-inch speaker mounted on the side of the cabinet.
Terry had no idea how to play guitar; he didn’t even knowhow to tune it. He had received a cheap guitar-and-amp combo for Christmas. After noodling with it for about half an hour he’d figured out how to make it give feedback. That was where his guitar self-instruction ended. Further, Terry was completely tone-deaf, and even his feedback was arrhythmic. His playing and singing amounted to screaming lyrics and beating his guitar quickly during fast passages, then screaming lyrics and beating his guitar slowly during softer moments.
Our repertoire consisted entirely of Kiss songs. This complicated matters, because no Kiss songs contained arrangements for electric organ, tambourine, and untuned guitar. However, despite our handicaps, we fully intended to rock.
Whenever we’d get the chance, we’d gather in Terry and Tammy’s basement in front of an old bedsheet that Terry had decorated with a Kiss logo with a “Junior” slapped underneath it.
Terry would put a Kiss record on the turntable and drop the needle, and we’d flail away. We did this almost every afternoon for the entire summer. To us, Kiss Junior wasn’t just a salute to our favorite band—Kiss Junior was our preteen version of pure joy.
We had one fan, a slightly retarded boy who lived next door, Brian, who always smelled like pee and had an obsession with blowing up fruit and vegetables with firecrackers. Brian would come by whenever he heard us practicing and sit watching on the stairs with his mouth wide open.
We only performed for others once, at Tammy’s birthday party. Tammy had about eight girls from school over for cake, presents, screaming, and giggling. Banned from the house, Terry and I hung out in the backyard with a few friends, pretending not to care yet desperate to know what was going on inside.
At one point we were allowed in to get some leftover pizza and Terry saw an opportunity to impress the gaggle.
“You know, we have a rock band,” he offered. “And Tammy is in it.”
They stared at Terry, then at Tammy.
“You have to play for us,” one girl suggested.
Bait taken.
Tammy wanted nothing to do with it and tried to talk us and her friends out of it. But Terry was already corraling everyone into the basement and ordered me to set up our equipment. Before I knew what was happening, he dropped the needle during the crowd roar before the live version of “God of Thunder,” and we were off.
The hi-fi started belching out thumpy noise, Terry started screaming and banging his guitar, I hit tiny organ keys, and Tammy just stood there with her eyes fixed on the floor. Our assembled audience seemed somewhat frozen, occasionally wincing at the noise and wondering what they were supposed to make of this. After a minute or so, someone giggled, then a few others started laughing.
Tammy threw down her tambourine and ran upstairs crying. I stood there unsure if I was supposed to go comfort one bandmate or stay and perform with the other. My first thought was to run after Tammy. In my mind, just as I’d catch up with her, the next song would start, I’d belt out an impassioned rendition of “Beth,” and Tammy would fall into my arms.
But, as much as I ached to comfort Tammy, I knew Terry would either kick my ass for leaving or make fun of me for eternity because I had the hots for his sister. So I stayed. The show had to go on, I rationalized. Despite missing one-third of our band, Terry had no intention of stopping. After each song,
After a significant amount of debate, we eventually decided on a name: Kiss Junior.
The ensemble consisted of my friend Terry on guitar and vocals, his sister Tammy (who I had a terrible crush on) on tambourine, and me on electric organ. I had come into a small tabletop organ and—seeing that it was more portable than the family baby grand—took it to Terry and Tammy’s house for band practice. It had a half-sized keyboard and one four-inch speaker mounted on the side of the cabinet.
Terry had no idea how to play guitar; he didn’t even knowhow to tune it. He had received a cheap guitar-and-amp combo for Christmas. After noodling with it for about half an hour he’d figured out how to make it give feedback. That was where his guitar self-instruction ended. Further, Terry was completely tone-deaf, and even his feedback was arrhythmic. His playing and singing amounted to screaming lyrics and beating his guitar quickly during fast passages, then screaming lyrics and beating his guitar slowly during softer moments.
Our repertoire consisted entirely of Kiss songs. This complicated matters, because no Kiss songs contained arrangements for electric organ, tambourine, and untuned guitar. However, despite our handicaps, we fully intended to rock.
Whenever we’d get the chance, we’d gather in Terry and Tammy’s basement in front of an old bedsheet that Terry had decorated with a Kiss logo with a “Junior” slapped underneath it.
Terry would put a Kiss record on the turntable and drop the needle, and we’d flail away. We did this almost every afternoon for the entire summer. To us, Kiss Junior wasn’t just a salute to our favorite band—Kiss Junior was our preteen version of pure joy.
We had one fan, a slightly retarded boy who lived next door, Brian, who always smelled like pee and had an obsession with blowing up fruit and vegetables with firecrackers. Brian would come by whenever he heard us practicing and sit watching on the stairs with his mouth wide open.
We only performed for others once, at Tammy’s birthday party. Tammy had about eight girls from school over for cake, presents, screaming, and giggling. Banned from the house, Terry and I hung out in the backyard with a few friends, pretending not to care yet desperate to know what was going on inside.
At one point we were allowed in to get some leftover pizza and Terry saw an opportunity to impress the gaggle.
“You know, we have a rock band,” he offered. “And Tammy is in it.”
They stared at Terry, then at Tammy.
“You have to play for us,” one girl suggested.
Bait taken.
Tammy wanted nothing to do with it and tried to talk us and her friends out of it. But Terry was already corraling everyone into the basement and ordered me to set up our equipment. Before I knew what was happening, he dropped the needle during the crowd roar before the live version of “God of Thunder,” and we were off.
The hi-fi started belching out thumpy noise, Terry started screaming and banging his guitar, I hit tiny organ keys, and Tammy just stood there with her eyes fixed on the floor. Our assembled audience seemed somewhat frozen, occasionally wincing at the noise and wondering what they were supposed to make of this. After a minute or so, someone giggled, then a few others started laughing.
Tammy threw down her tambourine and ran upstairs crying. I stood there unsure if I was supposed to go comfort one bandmate or stay and perform with the other. My first thought was to run after Tammy. In my mind, just as I’d catch up with her, the next song would start, I’d belt out an impassioned rendition of “Beth,” and Tammy would fall into my arms.
But, as much as I ached to comfort Tammy, I knew Terry would either kick my ass for leaving or make fun of me for eternity because I had the hots for his sister. So I stayed. The show had to go on, I rationalized. Despite missing one-third of our band, Terry had no intention of stopping. After each song,
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