by Jody French
KISS is truly larger than life. The killer platform boots they wear on stage have them towering at least twelve inches over us. My heart is pumping double-time as I let Gene Simmons know what an unbelievable honor it will be to be standing on the same stage as them. Our dads stand frozen in ecstatic shock. They have dumb-founded smiles plastered across their faces. The boys and I stand with the familiar rock grimaces on our faces as we pose with KISS in all their painted glory.
After the photo, Tommy Thayer shakes my hand again and gives me an ultra-cool wink, and Paul Stanley actually gives me one of his signed picks to add to my collection. I’m almost speechless, but manage to choke out a goofy laugh and a, “Thank you sooo much—you guys are freaking amazing!”
KISS is very gracious, but also very much in demand. The superstar group is quickly whisked out of the white green room to go back to the mystical place that only KISS goes.
“DUDE…WE JUST MET KISS!!!” the boys and I yell as we jump up and down in place with our arms around each other like giddy grade school girls. It’s unbelievable—the coolest experience of my life!
After the meet-and-greet, the leery promoter, and his bushy eyebrows, leads us to the back of the stage, giving us time to finish setting up our gear. I’m still in a star-struck haze as I hop up on a riser to get my set list. I’m not paying attention to my step. The next thing I know, I lose my footing and find myself falling through the thick, black velvet curtain that keeps us hidden from the audience. I’m now smack dab in the middle of the sprawling stage. I’m mortified and frozen solid.
The scene from The Wizard of Oz where Toto pulls back the long, veiled curtain, revealing the Great and Mighty Oz, pops into my head. Dude…I’m definitely not in Kansas—or Oklahoma, for that matter—anymore!
My feet are cemented to the floor as I gawk at the thousands of fans in the arena. In the midst of feeling like a fool, and wondering what my escape plan is going be, I hear one lone voice with a foreign accent yell, "Hey, it is Forrrrest!”
I instinctively wave as I scramble to get back behind the amps. I frantically muddle through the curtain fabric, eventually finding the escape hatch. As I jump up, the crowd goes nuts. I can’t believe my ears. They’re actually cheering!
"Are you okay?" Dad yells over the crowd noise. He grabs my arm and helps me back behind the stage.
"I almost peed my pants!" I wail, my voice shaking.
"You’re gonna be just fine. Sounds like they already know who you are!" Dad says, chuckling. His expression turns serious and honest. "Son, I’m so proud of you. This is far more exciting than any football game I’ve ever been to.” He continues, in a tone that's meant to keep me calm, “Forrest, you boys are gonna knock 'em dead. Deep breaths, son!” My father’s warm smile and confident words give me much needed comfort. I suddenly feel confident and the feeling that I swallowed a brick begins to dissolve away.
Dad clasps my shaking hands in his large, steady ones, closes his eyes and says a prayer for a great show. For the first time, I notice large calluses on my dad’s hands from years of handling boxes for UPS and working at my grandpa’s farm. His calluses are just like the ones on Coach Bryan’s hands. I respect my dad more than I can say. “Do good!” he says. Dad gives me one last embrace and then walks me toward the stage ramp.
I can feel my heartbeat begin to readjust to a normal rhythm. I’m thankful for my strong father and his faith in me. I repeat my favorite Bible verse in my head: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I can do this.
I grab my trusty Gibson Girl Betty—I’m now ready to step, not fall, back onto the stage.
There’s no turning back. We’re about to seal our fate. Either we’ll rock hard or fall hard like a rock. The boys and I man our respective rock stations that are marked by silver duct tape “X”s. My legs feel heavy. My hands are weak. I take one last swig from my water bottle and toss it to Dad. My mouth immediately becomes sandpaper dry again. Deep breaths, I repeat silently to myself.
I make my way to the isolated microphone stand at the front of the stage. I feel dizzy. The crowd of over thirty-five thousand enthusiastic Swedes begins to roar. MTV cameras circle around my head, cords snake at my feet. I hear buzzing, whistling, clapping. It’s all a blur.
I scream, "Hur mar du Stockholm?" the Swedish phrase for, "How are you, Stockholm?" into the mic and raise both fists in the air to show I’m totally fired up and ready to rock.
The roar is deafening. It literally makes my chest rumble. The old adrenaline kicks in, and the blood in my veins pumps like premium gasoline. I stand for what seems like an eternity, waiting for Cody to click his drumsticks and cue up our first song. All I hear is the noise of the crowd and the thud of my heartbeat in my brain. I turn to face Cody. He’s frozen behind his drum kit like a deer in headlights.
"Let's rock this mother, Cody!" I scream over my shoulder. To my great relief, he snaps out of his paralyzed trance. Cody cracks his wooden sticks together and crashes the cymbals.
"Are you REEAAAADY TO ROOOCK?" I wail into the microphone.
It’s all history from there. My blood pressure regulates, I find my groove. The music flows out of me with ease and liquidity. My vocals are heavy and on key. I feel my fingers tread fast and sure on the strings of my guitar. It’s like an out-of-body experience for me as I draw energy from the massive, partying crowd. We’re all in this together. I can feel the recycling of excitement between the audience and my band. The Swedish fans adore us.
The last song of our set is a cover of Pink Floyd's, “Brick in the Wall.” At least twenty thousand Swedes chant with me, singing along with their hands in the air. I’m commanding a rock-n-roll army—me, a sixteen-year-old kid who, this time last week, had to fight for a chance to get a word in edgewise at my school cafeteria lunch table. In stark contrast to the crazy chaos of the thundering music, a multi-colored hot air balloon drifts lazily over the stage. Surprisingly, as cool as a cucumber, I lift my finger to the clouds.
“Say hello to the people in the sky!” I converse with the crowd as they roar even louder. I feel so right at home, here in my thirty minutes of rock-n-roll heaven.
Our last song winds down like the final lap of a NASCAR race in North Carolina. All that’s missing is the smell of burned rubber. I bolt straight up, jetting several feet off the ground. I float with my guitar. The neck slices through the electrified air as I land. I jump two more times as Cody gives the final blow on his drum kit. Randy and Jake squeal out their last note for continuous reverb. My boots land back on stage in perfect, synchronized time to the last metal-tinged crash of Cody’s Gretch cymbals. We’ve officially courted the crowd.
And next I utter my final words of the set before the boys and I wander, sweaty and spent, off the stage: “UP NEXT…KISS!!!!!!!” I can now die a happy boy.
There’s no doubt in my mind as I hear the crowd chant, “Cellar Door’s Gone—Cellar Door’s Gone,” this is what I’m destined to do for the rest of my life. The victorious feeling pulsing through my body can’t be bottled. You can’t smell it. You can’t taste it. A million dollars can’t buy it. But it’s real. It‘s palpable. And at this moment, it’s all mine.
The boys and I collapse into our families' arms. Frank is in full meltdown mode. I’m afraid for a moment that we might have to call a paramedic for him as he clutches the brass buttons on his fancy black coat.
“That was THEEEE STUFF, boys!” Frank huffs, out of breath from excitement. “Now let’s get you lads to the merch tent.”
As I jog with my dad past the chain link fence that separates us from the crowd, a pack of young girls gathers, screaming my name. They tug at my shirt and grab at my hair.
A long line of newly-made fans snakes around until it reaches our merch tent. Beautiful Swedish girls blush as they ask for our autographs in their best English.
In the middle of the confusion, Dad looks at me in disbelief. He cups his hands over his mouth, forming a makeshift megaphone. "Hey, bud…if you need a
backup singer, I'm available," he jokes, his eyes twinkling.
"Easy there, Mick Jagger," I tease. Dad smiles and gives me a Vulcan grip on the neck.
The show promoter comes over to shake our hands. He’s blown away by our performance. I can tell he’s been nipping at the vodka bottle in the green room, as his words are slurred. The tipsy promo man tells us that he would be honored to work with us again anytime.
He grabs my hand and asks his final question. “Are you boys really from Cowtown, Oklahoma? That is priceless! I love it!" The promoter howls. He continues to belly laugh as he teeters back and forth, ultimately disappearing into the thick, bustling crowd.
Dad approaches the table as I sign my last poster. He picks up a black Cellar Door Is Gone t-shirt from the disheveled pile and holds it up to his chest.
"Looks like you have my size after all,” he says, as he pulls the hip tee printed with my band’s logo over his orange polo shirt.
"Dad…I couldn't have done any of this without you. I'm so glad you came with me."
I hug my dad so tightly that I think I might pull him right through me. His return embrace is just as strong.
"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, son,” Dad replies sincerely, "not for the world.”
Knowing that my dad supports my dream lifts a worrisome weight from my shoulders. His words of acceptance mean everything to me. The wedge between us has been chiseled away.
All four of us boys compress ourselves into the van for our return trip to the hotel. We still feel steamy from our rock-n-roll workout. Randy pipes up, and to no one’s surprise, he asks if we can go back to McDonalds for cheeseburgers and fries.
Cody’s monotone voice drifts from the back seat of the stuffy van, as dry as a bone. He jokes that Swedish food is like Chinese food.
"Dang pickled herring…eat it, and you’re hungry again in an hour!"
Our appearance in Sweden is deemed a huge success. Sweden loves Cellar Door Is Gone, and Cellar Door Is Gone loves Sweden. It has been a once in a lifetime experience for us all. Now, it's time to board the jet for the slow ride back to Cow-Town.
Dad and I are both exhausted and exhilarated. Our grueling flight will be touching down in Tulsa just an hour or so before my team’s State Championship game. I’m drained and cranky. The thought of not playing in the game suddenly begins to eat at me. Pangs of regret start to needle me.
Mama is waiting for Dad and me as we make our way through the terminal. She is decked out in her Coweta Tigers orange and black, and of course, her Cellar Door Is Gone ball cap. Tears stream out of Mama’s big brown eyes as she grabs us up in a tight welcome home embrace. From the strength of her grip, I can easily tell how glad she is to have us home.
“We missed you guys so much!” Mama gushes. Her tears melt into a huge grin when she sees that Dad is actually wearing a Cellar Door Is Gone t-shirt. Mama squeezes Dad’s hand and hugs him close in affectionate approval.
Jake, Randy, Cody and I all share a Cellar Door Is Gone group hug and round of nuks. They even say they’re going to the game. We all can’t wait to share the details of our trip with our friends at school. But I doubt I’ll see them there. Like Randy says—they’re rockers not jocks.
My emotions are bottoming out from lack of sleep. “This sucks.” I mumble. I realize immediately that it was the wrong thing to say, as Mama snaps her head around.
“Excuse me?” Mama says in a questioning tone as she takes two casual steps back to stand by my side so that all of her words will land directly into my ear.
“I’m sorry, but it’s just not fair that I have to miss playing in the game.” I try to defend.
By the look on Mama’s face I know it’s not sympathy that I’m about to receive. I’m about to get reprimanded big time.
Mama stares straight ahead and begins to speak as though she’s discussing the airport décor. “Young man…where have you been this week?” she asks.
“Sweden.” I respond in a “no duh” kind of way.
“And just what did you do there?” she continues with great annunciation.
“Played a show.” My answer is not the detailed response that Mama was shooting for.
“And who did you play a show with?” Mama asks through her teeth.
“KISS,” I concede.
“Hmmm…” Mama says. “Well…that happens every day, huh?”
I begin to feel pretty ashamed of myself. “No ma’am, it doesn’t,” I mumble.
“Forrest, we are going to the game as a family, and you are going to be there for your team—okay?” Mama asks.
“Got it!” I return boldly. My words have dual purpose, as I grab the handle of my guitar case just before it gets sucked back into the black hole of the luggage carousel. Betty is safely back in my possession. I feel whole again.
“Good.” Mama finalizes the discussion.
“Hey, Mama, check this out.” I unfasten the laminated KISS, all-access backstage pass that hangs from my wallet chain.
“Pretty dang cool.” Mama smiles as I hand it to her.
“Dad has one, too,” I continue.
“Yep, I was a V.I.P.” Dad smiles.
“You guys better have taken hundreds of pictures,” Mama lectures, pointing her finger at Dad. “Now let’s get a move on, boys. The game’s already started,” Mama declares. “Everyone in town is dying to hear about your KISS show. You know Forrest, you and the boys are hometown heroes.”
I grab our last piece of luggage from the baggage carousel and forge on like a soldier. I’m ready to go root my team on.
As I enter the buzzing stadium, I’m swamped with townsfolk shaking my hand and patting me on the back. If I’m asked how the trip was once, I’m asked fifty times. I can only repeat in simple words that it was the coolest experience of my entire life.
The continuous showering of heartfelt good wishes is wonderful, but I still feel a bit of jealousy that I’m not out on the field. I quickly shake it out of my head, though. I’ve just lived the dream of a lifetime. I need to cheer my brothers out on the field to victory.
I grab a large Coke at the concession booth, that I get for free from the booster club moms, and make my way through the crowd into the noisy stands. It’s the third quarter of the game and the score is tied: twenty-seven to twenty-seven. I suddenly realize that I’ve never been to a school function in my “rock-n-roll uniform.” I feel out of place in my skin-tight, jet black jeans, silver stud belt, wrist bands, and weathered, black leather jacket as I begin doing the old "excuse me…pardon me…excuse me," throughout my assent up the overcrowded metal bleachers.
I gingerly make my way past Mr. Franklin, an elder from my church. The frail gentleman stands up to let me pass. He adjusts his orange Coweta Tigers ball cap and gives me a slight sideways glance. For a moment I think that he might be judging me because of the bold look I’m sporting among the sea of conservative school spirit attire. I stand out like a sore thumb—a sore thumb in a black leather glove.
To my surprise, he has just the opposite reaction. "Come on by here, Rock Star!" Mr. Franklin states boldly, as he pats me on the shoulder. "How was the trip, young man?" he questions, extending his boney, feeble right hand.
"Unbelievable—it was just amazing!” I return, nodding in respect.
"Oh, that's just wonderful! Ruth and I are so proud of you boys. You've been blessed with a lot of talent…and opening for KISS…well that's just the bees’ knees! We're all alookin’ forward to ya playing at the church again real soon. We sure miss ya on the football field tonight, but the team’s doin’ a fine job, just fine. Well, I’ll let ya get to your seat. Take care, son."
I’m so grateful for his kind words. The generation gap is closed a bit tighter tonight, thanks to KISS and the Coweta Tigers.
Megan jumps up and down and waves wildly to me in the jam-packed bleachers. "Heeey, bub!” Megan yells over the cheers of the football fanatics. She gives me a big sisterly hug before I take a seat in the ice cold bleachers. I pull my f
itted jacket collar closer around my neck to block the biting wind. I’m grateful for the orange and black plaid afghan that Megan has laid down. I take a seat next to her on it.
“Oooh, look at you in your leather! You look soooo hot, bub!” Megan beams, half teasing. “So how was it?” she asks, shaking my arm.
“Oh, man, Megan. Words can’t even describe how amazing it was. Meeting KISS was freaking incredible, and Sweden was soooo beautiful. Me and Dad wish you and Mom could’ve been there, but we took tons of pictures.” I wrinkle my nose. “The only thing I would’ve changed was the food. I’m totally ready for some good old Split Rail BBQ and Taco Bell for sure!”
I settle in the stands with my family and join the spirited home crowd in cheering on the Tigers. Kyle is having the game of his career, but D.J. is a little off. I could swear that he’s giving me dirty looks from the sidelines. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I think I am receiving way too much attention for his liking as usual.
“Foooorest…hey, Forrest!” Heather’s shrill voice drifts up sharply from the field. She’s spotted me. Heather blows me a kiss and waves to me like a beauty queen in a parade.
I have a flashback of our elementary school talent show when Heather’s talent was demonstrating a “pageant wave.” Ironically, her cheerleading skirt is almost as short as the little, sparkling pageant dress that she wore in second grade.
“Well, well, well,” Megan chimes slyly. Miss Heather doesn’t think you’ll find out what she’s been up to while you were gone,” she continues as she shakes her head.
“Oh…hit me,” I’m sure I know what she’s been up to, but I’m anxious to hear the cold hard facts first hand from my sis.
“Heather and D.J. spent the week party-hoppin’ together. Let’s just say I saw them getting very cozy at the Quick Trip the other night. She should really put the top up on her convertible when she’s playing ‘kissy-face.’ Not too discreeeet!” my sister sings out.
“Dude, Megan. You just made my night.” I high five my sis. Relief runs through me. Now I can finally get rid of Heather once and for all without feeling guilty.
