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Makeup to Breakup: My Life In and Out of Kiss, by Peter Criss
Download PDF Makeup to Breakup: My Life In and Out of Kiss, by Peter Criss
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Founding KISS drummer Peter “Catman” Criss delivers a riveting and candid account of his incredible life in music, from the streets of Brooklyn to the social clubs of New York City to the ultimate heights of rock ‘n roll success and excess.
LEGENDARY founding KISS drummer Peter “Catman” Criss has lived an incredible life in music, from the streets of Brooklyn to the social clubs of New York City to the ultimate heights of rock ’n’ roll success and excess.
KISS formed in 1973 and broke new ground with their elaborate makeup, live theatrics, and powerful sound. The band emerged as one of the most iconic hard rock acts in music history. Peter Criss, the Catman, was the heartbeat of the group. From an elevated perch on his pyrotechnic drum riser, he had a unique vantage point on the greatest rock show of all time, with the KISS Army looking back at him night after night.
Peter Criscuola had come a long way from the homemade drum set he pounded on nonstop as a kid growing up in Brooklyn in the fifties. He endured lean years, street violence, and the rollercoaster music scene of the sixties, but he always knew he’d make it. Makeup to Breakup is Peter Criss’s eye-opening journey from the pledge to his ma that he’d one day play Madison Square Garden to doing just that. He conquered the rock world—composing and singing his band’s all-time biggest hit, “Beth” (1976)—but he also faced the perils of stardom and his own mortality, including drug abuse, treatment in 1982, near-suicides, two broken marriages, and a hard-won battle with breast cancer.
Criss opens up with a level of honesty and emotion previously unseen in any musician’s memoir. Makeup to Breakup is the definitive and heartfelt account of one of rock’s most iconic figures, and the importance of faith and family. Rock ’n’ roll has been chronicled many times, but never quite like this.
- Sales Rank: #204618 in Books
- Published on: 2012-10-23
- Released on: 2012-10-23
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x 1.30" w x 6.00" l, 1.25 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 384 pages
Review
“[A]n entertaining autobiography….[Criss] keeps the focus on the rock and roll, which results in the best—and most honest—account of Kiss craziness during the band’s heyday in the 1970s.” (Publishers Weekly)
"A must read for all past andpresent KISS fans and fans of no-holds-barred rock ‘n’ roll tell-alls.” (Library Journal)
“KISS fans will love every word.” (Rolling Stone)
“Makeup To Breakup” is the best KISS book to come from a band member and much of that is due to the emotional undercurrent omnipresent in Peter’s story. You feel his excitement, you feel his pain and it’s so easy to read it’s almost cinematic….As it stands, it’s easily a four star effort. Well done, Catman. (legendaryrockstarinterviews.com)
About the Author
Peter Criss co-founded KISS in 1973 along with Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, and Ace Frehley. He left the band in 1979, embarking on a solo career. In 1995, he reunited with KISS, resulting in a phenomenally successful world tour before he left the band again in 2004. Criss appeared in the HBO series Oz in 2002, and he continues to write and record music. His most recent solo album, 2007’s One for All, reached #36 on the Billboard Top Independent Album list. Larry “Ratso” Sloman is best known as Howard Stern’s collaborator on what were then the two fastest selling books in publishing history, Private Parts and Miss America. Sloman’s recent collaborations include Mysterious Stranger, with magician David Blaine, and Scar Tissue, the memoir of Red Hot Chili Peppers lead singer Anthony Kiedis—both books were New York Times bestsellers.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Makeup to Breakup PROLOGUE
Have you ever tasted the barrel of a .357 Magnum that’s halfway down your throat? It’s a really unforgettable sensation, like a piece of iron dipped in oil, with sort of a coppery aftertaste. I got my first and (hopefully) last taste of one on January 17, 1994, sitting on the floor of my debris-strewn bedroom in Los Angeles.
Just twelve hours earlier I had been lying in bed, watching TV. It was around three A.M. and I was cozy under the covers when I feel a little tremor. I’d been through quite a few “shakers” in California. Chandeliers rattling, traffic lights swaying. But this was different. The tremors started getting more frequent and I started to hear a rumbling noise, so I sat up in the bed and all of a sudden the whole place shook big-time and the TV flew off the dresser, tumbled down, and blew up. I was like, “Motherfucker!” Then the lamps fell over and I was like, “Holy shit!” Turned out this was the beginning of the Northridge earthquake, a massive catastrophe that killed thirty-three people and injured more than eighty-seven hundred.
I’m a Brooklyn boy: I knew about cockroaches and rats and zip guns, not earthquakes. So I started to panic. I heard glass shattering in the bathroom. I was hearing all this devastation, and just then another big jolt came, and my bed collapsed and the huge wooden armoire started dancing across the bedroom and then tipped over. Behind the armoire, on a nail, I had hung a bag that was filled with $100,000 cash. That was all the money I had to my name. I wasn’t going to put it in a bank—didn’t trust them—and I was in trouble with the IRS then, so I figured I’d keep the cash nearby and if someone was going to rob it, that’s a big piece of motherfucking shit to move. But now the huge armoire was lying on the floor and the bag was hanging from the nail, exposed.
My fear of death set in. Lamps were flying through the air. I got up and ran into the living room and I saw all my KISS gold albums falling off the walls and shattering. I also had a full cabinet of Steuben crystal that I had managed to pry from my ex-wife’s hands, and all that precious crystal busted up. All of a sudden, the couch flew through the air, the armchair went over, and I got thrown into the bathroom wall. I was thinking, “Jesus, I’m going to fucking die in some shithole apartment in Hollywood. I just don’t believe you’re going to take me this way.”
So I found my .357 Magnum, tucked it under the waistband of my sweatpants, threw my bathrobe on, pulled on some sneakers, grabbed my bag with the cash, and ran. I knew enough not to take the elevator, so I rushed down the steps. It was still dark out and people were screaming, running half naked out of their apartments into the street. Outside, it looked like a war zone. Cars were overturned; a water hydrant had blown up and there was water gushing out into the street. People were running around screaming that it was the end of the world. Then, like in a movie, I heard a rumbling sound and I saw the tar separate and the street crack open. Everybody was panicking, but suddenly I got strangely calm. I was scared, but once I had my footing and my money and my gun, I knew no one was going to take them from me.
I just kept walking around in circles; I didn’t know where to go. By then the sun was coming up and there was an aftershock and everybody screamed again. I had circled back to the front of my building, where hundreds of people had congregated. All the windows of the health-food store on the ground floor had shattered, and the food was all over the ground. Our underground garage had collapsed and lots of cars got totaled.
By late afternoon, they let us back into the building. I walked into my apartment and I couldn’t believe it. Everything I had of value was leveled. I had no bed. The rod in the walk-in closet had collapsed and my clothes were on the floor. The refrigerator had toppled over and all the food was going rancid. The kitchen cabinets broke open and there was sugar everywhere. In the living room, all my records were shattered on the floor. The top of my People’s Choice Award, which I had won for “Beth,” had broken off. My daughter’s pictures had fallen off the wall and smashed into a million pieces. Everything that I used to look at and cherish was destroyed.
I didn’t have electricity yet, so I lit a few candles. I was filthy, covered with the dirt and grime of the streets, but I couldn’t shower because the whole shower had fallen apart. Even if it hadn’t, there was no water. I couldn’t even run the sink and wash my hands. I walked back into the bedroom and sat down on the mattress on the floor. I had to brush away the soil from my flowerpots, which had all broken. It was dusk and a huge wave of depression rolled over me and I almost threw up. I felt like there was a hot poker plunged into the pit of my stomach. I thought I was taking a stroke. I couldn’t even breathe right: The air felt thin from the dust and the dirt in the apartment and the rotting food. The whole room stank from death.
I thought to myself, Why should I keep going? I was in the middle of recording a new album, but fucking whoop-de-do; I was on TNT, a clown label. Then I started talking to myself, like in that Peggy Lee song “Is That All There Is”: “What do you really have to live for? Your two marriages have gone to shit. You hardly see your daughter. You got a hundred grand, but you were worth twelve-some-odd million at one point in your life. If this had happened when you were in KISS, your manager Bill Aucoin would have been there with fifty cop cars, twenty ambulances, and a helicopter. When you’re on top and you’re making everyone rich, they all love you, babe. Life is wonderful. But now you’re really just a has-been. No one cares about you, especially in Hollywood.”
I looked around the room. I once had money to burn. I’d fly to Barbados for the weekend. I lived in a twenty-two-room mansion and had my pick of four luxury cars. And now I was sitting on the floor in the middle of the debris of my former exalted life. It was then that I realized that I didn’t want to live. Life had been just a fucking nightmare, nothing but ups and downs and drugs and fighting, and I was sick of it all.
So I pulled out the .357 Magnum and put it in my mouth. The barrel is about six inches long, and I easily put three inches in. The gun is an inch in diameter, so I began to gag a little. When I hammered the gun back with my finger on the trigger, I started shaking. I knew if I slipped, it was all over. I also knew that I had straight flat-head bullets in the gun, so if I pulled the trigger, my brains would wind up somewhere across the street. I was a lucky bastard: I had cheated death a few times, but that wasn’t going to happen with a .357 Magnum in my mouth. That gun would literally take a man’s head off. If you shot an elephant in the head, it would go down. That’s why Clint Eastwood loved it. It’s the most powerful handgun in the world.
They say that in situations like this, your mind just starts racing, and you see your whole life before you. But for me, everything seemed to be in slow motion. I had cried wolf many times in my life, especially with KISS. I was known for quitting the band a million times. But this was different. This was far from a bluff, because there was nobody there that I was bluffing. Just me and the rubble.
Then I thought about my mother. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t bless myself with holy water and then get in my car and rub the medal of the Virgin Mary that she gave me and say a Hail Mary for my mother. And then I kiss her Mass card that’s right there on the dashboard.
My mother had died three years earlier, on New Year’s Day, 1991, and I still hadn’t gotten over it. I had been very close to my mother; we had a very strange, deep relationship. We were more than mother and son: She was my closest friend. I was still hurt and grieving her. I had been concerned my whole life about letting her down. I always realized how hard she had worked for me to be something, how much it meant to her that I became something. And if I offed myself, how could I ever meet her again in heaven?
And what about my father? He was still alive; he’d be devastated. And I thought of the KISS fans, the greatest fans in the world. And then my eyes wandered a bit and I looked over at the fallen armoire, and next to it was a picture of my daughter. It was my favorite picture of her: Jenilee was about ten when it was taken, and she looked like a saint. And, miraculously, the glass wasn’t cracked, it wasn’t broken—the frame was standing up defiantly in the midst of all the rubble. That’s when it just clicked. I had been going through some real bullshit, but no matter what, I still had my kid, man.
Suddenly there was an immense feeling of faith in that room. I began to believe that God didn’t want to take me in the midst of this massive lunacy—that he had more in store for me. But the depression was so dark and so deep and the pain so acute; I was in the middle of a tug of war, almost like a battle for my soul. I could feel the force of the power I had holding back the trigger with the gun in my mouth. I had the power of life and death, right there and then. And I was in full control of me dying or living. It was very, very heavy.
But how could I do this to my little angel in the picture? So I pulled the barrel of the gun out of my mouth, put it back in its holster, and then locked it back up. And I resolved to go and finish the album and take my young band on the road and see what the future would bring. I cheered myself up and took my pillows and made a bed out of the mattress on the floor and slept right through the night. And then I woke up the next morning and got on with my life.
Most helpful customer reviews
3 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
With Peter Criss, what you see is what you get
By John Emm
Peter is Peter. If you're a fan who's read a lot about the band over the years, nothing much in this book will surprise you. I appreciated the chance to read it from Peter's point of view, but I was not shocked, nor disappointed, to have my suspicions re-confirmed that he is, after all, a poorly-educated street kid with a hot temper who goes with his gut, whether or not it's a good idea at the time.
He does take the opportunity to throw dirt on his former bandmates, but before too long one gets the feeling that Peter Criss has a somewhat foggy recollection for the details, and this has to cloud the reader's acceptance of his criticisms of Simmons and Stanley as well. We've all heard that Gene and Paul dominated the proceedings, and it's no surprise to read that Simmons is money-and-sex-mad, controlling, and often demeaning to others. It's no shock to read that Paul Stanley can be prissy and overly sensitive, or that he's a bit of a Prima Donna.
I think the thing that made one of the strongest impressions on me, was how casually Criss can bounce between his love of his former colleagues and his anger at their behavior. Some reviewers have complained that this shows Criss' lack of objectivity, but I came away feeling that Criss genuinely loves the guys and is capable of tremendous anger and resentment at the same time. Many of us have such relationships somewhere in the family.
By the end of the book, Criss remains coarse and sometimes off-puttingly tacky--I hate using the word "tacky" but I'm trying to convey Criss' naive tendency to throw awkward or inelegant language and references into otherwise significant passages. In attempting to show his appreciation for the technical expertise of his cancer surgeon (Criss was treated for breast cancer), Criss says something like, "My doctor did a great job--he removed my nipple and reattached it so well that I can rub it and still get a boner." This is Criss through and through, and that level of wordliness seaps through page after page.
With Peter Criss, it's take it or leave it. It wasn't a waste of time, reading this book. No deep observations either. Just another voice from the original foursome, and it's a voice that is entirely consistent with everything you ever heard about him from anyone associated with the band.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Like Hearing Peter Tell You His Story
By Lounge Guy
I thoroughly enjoyed the book. Growing up as a KISS fan, I had no idea that all that stuff was going on behind the scenes. I kinda' wish I DIDN'T know now! The Catman was always my favorite guy in KISS. Some other reviewers were bashing him for various things from discussing details of genitalia at length (sorry for the pun), trashing other members in the band (sorry again!), etc., but I think he is just saying what's on his mind and he doesn't give a crap who he offends. I found it odd how he could say horrific stuff about the other guys and then say something very nice about them (over & over), but I think it's just because that's like any family... They can fight like cats & dogs, but deep down, there is a love for one another. I think one story he hinted at but was subsequently omitted involved an ex-wife keeping his old photos and releasing a tell-all book including the photos. All in all, it was a very good read. I'd be interested to hear the other guys' sides of the story.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Best of the "KISS" Autobiographies
By Kristi A. Jones
I say "best" not because Peter Criss happened to be my favorite of the band members as a 12 year-old kid, but rather because of the way he tells the story. I have read everyone's book, except for Ace Frehley's (just started that one) and I found that Peter's book comes across as more honest, because he leaves the 'warts and all" in there. Paul Stanley's book seems a bit "frilly" and a little self-important. Example, Paul Stanley seems a bit averse to using the not-so-pretty slang words for sex, etc. whereas Peter Criss does just the opposite, even though it makes him sound rougher around the edges and maybe even less intelligent. I actually respect his language more, because it feels honest. That being said, I would imagine all the KISS members have taken certain liberties with their own books to make themselves sound better than they actually might have been. Heck, where Gene Simmons is concerned, that would be an understatement, since he loves nothing better than telling himself and everyone else just how fantastic he is. Peter's book is well-written, flows reasonably well, and I really enjoyed it. It's worth the time, if you are a KISS fan.
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