Face the Music: A Life Exposed by Paul Stanley Page A

made. I also figured out where the wires were that lit up the bulb in the rooftop “for hire” sign. I learned how to twist it apart without looking under the dashboard. That meant I could take a fare off the meter without risking being caught by a taxi inspector who might see passengers in a cab with the “for hire” sign still lit up—a giveaway that you didn’t have the meter on.
    Gene and I rented a rehearsal space on Hester Street in Chinatown, just above Canal Street, in lower Manhattan. The building was what we called “tender wood”: if you lit a match, the whole thing would have gone up. But it was great because we could leave our gear there instead of lugging it around all the time. The full band—me, Gene, Steve Coronel, Brooke Ostrander, and drummer Tony Zarrella—rehearsed there three times a week. But Gene and I were there a lot more than that.
    Although I hadn’t initially been too impressed with Gene’s songs, as we gelled, we started to write very effectively together. It was exciting to have a collaborator, someone creative and intelligent to volley ideas with. A writing partner! I didn’t feel alone anymore.
    Gene was also a terrific bass player. He could play intricate, interesting runs and sing at the same time—something most people couldn’t do. And his ability to come up with melodic parts to complement chords was a huge plus. Still, although I valued the partnership, I didn’t necessarily value the way he dealt with things. He showed up late to rehearsal a lot of the time and never apologized. It wasn’t unusual for me to wait more than an hour beyond our scheduled meeting time at a subway to go together to the rehearsal space. He was very much about himself.
    It could be maddening, but I paid him back sometimes. We often ate at a cheap Chinese restaurant on Canal Street where you could get a scoop of whatever dish you selected from the menu over rice or noodles for $1.25. One afternoon Gene and I ordered plates of food and cans of Coke. The place was empty. When Gene went to the bathroom, I grabbed the squeeze bottle of hot mustard and squirted a big dollop into his Coke. When he returned, he put the straw to his lips and took a big swig. I just waited. All of a sudden, his eyes bugged out of his head and started watering, and he screamed, “Oh my God!” He was three years older than I was, and I played pranks on him like a pesky little brother.
    Our funds were limited to a few dollars each back then—at most. One day we wanted to get some food while we were practicing but didn’t have any money between us. So we took our guitars and went out onto Hester Street in front of the loft and played Beatles songs. The bucket filled up quickly, and we had our meal ticket. We made so much money that day we figured we’d try again. But the next day, almost as soon as we started to play, the cops chased us off. That was the end of our busking career and our dream of unlimited moo shu chicken.
    I realized early on that Gene had been taught to value and appreciate money. Sometimes it worked out nicely—I often gave him my old shoes, for instance. Other times, I stirred up shit. I threw pennies into the street in Chinatown because I knew he would run out and retrieve them. I used to just stand on the curb and fling them. And he would run into the gutter to get the coins.
    Whatever the disparities in our lives, Gene and I found common ground. We shared some touchstones—we both came from Jewish immigrant families, we both lived in Queens—but I think it had mostly to do with our style of work. He and I both gave 100 percent. The other guys in the band didn’t seem driven in the same way. Tony, the drummer, was in the band for one reason only: he was a dead ringer for Geezer Butler of Black Sabbath. He wasn’t much of a drummer, but he had a huge set of Ludwig drums and looked the part. He viewed himself as some sort of intellectual. He once came to rehearsal with a drawing that he thought