The air inside Scotiabank Arena on Nov. 22 will smell like sweat, overpriced popcorn and the ozone of a thousand spent flash pods. It is the end of the line. We have heard the "farewell" pitch from rock legends before—The Who have been retiring since the Reagan administration—but with KISS, the biological clock is ticking in time with the pyrotechnics. This isn't just a concert; it is a corporate liquidation of the most successful aesthetic in rock history.
The "End of the Road" tour is a massive, multi-year victory lap designed to squeeze every last drop of greasepaint from the brand. But sitting here, looking at the tour itinerary, you realize the gravity of the Toronto stop. It is the final Canadian stand. For a band that essentially treated the Great White North like a second home during the lean years of the 1970s, this is a heavy goodbye.
I caught up with Gene Simmons over a telephone line that crackled with the kind of long-distance static you do not hear much in the era of fibre optics. His voice is a low-frequency rumble, the kind that makes your sternum vibrate even through a smartphone speaker. He is reflective, sure, but he is also Gene—calculated, sharp and intensely aware of the KISS legacy.
"Canada has always been close to our hearts," Simmons says, his tone shifting from the usual bravado to something approaching genuine sentiment. "The Canadian fans are some of the most vocal and passionate we’ve ever had the pleasure of playing for. They deserve this."
That affection is not just marketing fluff. It is baked into the band's DNA. There is a domesticity to his relationship with the country that most rock stars lack. And he is quick to remind me that his ties to the North are more than just professional.
"Shannon, my wife, is Canadian. There’s a personal thread that weaves through the fabric of our tour stops in Canada," Simmons shares. It is a rare moment where the Demon mask slips, revealing the family man who has spent decades navigating the cultural nuances of his wife's homeland.
We talked about the early days, back when the band was more of a threat than a brand. Simmons has a steel-trap memory for the grit of the 1970s. He took me back to a cold night in Alberta that felt like a fever dream. It was the moment the KISS circus first pitched its tent on Canadian soil, and it was a total disaster that somehow worked.
"Oh, I distinctly remember playing the first show at Edmonton University. We were a last-minute replacement for a band called the Michael Quatro Band. He was the brother of Suzi Quatro, who was kind of a seminal female rocker in the days before there were any. And he got sick, so we took his place," Simmons recounts.
The visual is pure rock 'n' roll slapstick. You have these four guys in leather and silver, looking like they fell out of a comic book, trying to perform in a university cafeteria. It was a clash of cultures that should have ended in a riot or a lawsuit.
"Of course, the college kids had no idea what to expect, and we set up on lunch tables in the auditorium. They stuck them together, and we put our amps there. Of course, as soon as we got on stage and started jumping around, the lunch tables buckled," Simmons says.
But that is the thing about KISS. They never let the physics of a collapsing lunch table get in the way of a good show. They leaned into the chaos. The audience, mostly hippies who were likely expecting some soft-rock noodling, was treated to a sonic assault that felt like an invasion.
"I remember the kids were sitting cross-legged on the floor like hippies. Our first song was a song called ‘Deuce,’ which I wrote, and as soon as the song starts, before I start singing, we had the flash pods go off. In other words, the sound of bombs scared the crap out of everybody," Simmons says.
It was a calculated shock to the system. The 1970s were full of bands trying to be "authentic," but KISS wanted to be undeniable. They wanted to be the thing you couldn't look away from, even if the building was literally on fire.
"And soon enough, the smoke alarms went off. It was nuts," he adds. The aftermath was just as surreal. For a band that looked like monsters, they found that the Canadian hospitality extended well into the night at the local Holiday Inn.
"I also remember afterward, we did a radio interview, and I don’t know if it was just being in a band or being from America or what it was, but when we got back to the Holiday Inn, there were girls in the lobby who weren’t interested in torturing us the way they were interested in torturing every other male," Simmons recalls.
The genius of KISS was never just the music; it was the myth. Bill Aucoin, the man who managed them into the stratosphere, understood that humans crave mystery. He looked at four guys from New York and saw an opportunity to create something permanent.
"We were four guys from New York who wanted to put on the show we never saw. Bill Aucoin, our manager, he had this idea..." Simmons pauses. You can hear him searching for the right way to frame the birth of the legend. "He told us, ‘Don’t let them see you without the makeup. Be the mythos,’ and we took that to heart."
Aucoin’s strategy was borrowed from the golden age of cinema. He understood that if you give the public a god, they will worship it, but if you give them a man, they will eventually find a reason to hate him.
"It was to be glamorous. And we said, what the hell is that?" Simmons says. "He said, well, think about—and it was profound—think about Marilyn Monroe. The image you have of Marilyn Monroe is always made up, perfectly done, right. You never saw her in a T-shirt or without her makeup. She was quintessentially Marilyn Monroe anytime you saw her."
It is a brilliant, if slightly cynical, way to run a rock band. It turns the performers into intellectual property. It makes them bulletproof.
"Superman is always Superman. And so that was the idea. You hide something, the secret identity. Because Clark Kent can’t compete with Superman, can he? And it worked," Simmons says.
But being Superman for 50 years takes a toll on the knees. I have seen the boots. I have felt the weight of the leather. This is not a job for a man in his 70s, yet Gene is still out there, doing the heavy lifting while other rockers his age are content to sit on a stool and sing about the good old days.
"You know," Simmons muses, "putting on the makeup, that’s the sacred ritual. Strapping on my bass, stepping into those platform boots—it’s like suiting up for battle. And every night we went to war for rock ‘n’ roll and for our fans."
The "End of the Road" is a literal description. The physicality of the KISS show is a young man's game that Gene and Paul Stanley have managed to play well into their seventh decade. But even the Demon has his limits.
"This tour is the end of the road for the band, not the brand. KISS is a universe of its own—movies, merchandise, maybe even Broadway. The band will end, but the KISS experience... it’s immortal," Simmons asserts.
It’s the end of touring. We are the hardest-working band on stage. I’ve got 40 pounds of armor and all the rest of it and seven-inch platform heels. Each of the dragon boots weighs as much as a bowling ball. Physically, it’s tough to do that.
The distinction between the "band" and the "brand" is where the future of the music industry lies. We are entering an era of avatars and holograms. Gene is just the first one to admit that he is ready to let the IP take over.
"It’s the end of touring," Simmons states. "You’re very smart in seeing that. We are the hardest-working band on stage. I’ve got 40 pounds of armor and all the rest of it and seven-inch platform heels. Each of the dragon boots weighs as much as a bowling ball. Physically, it’s tough to do that."
He is right. Compare a KISS show to a Rolling Stones gig. Mick Jagger is a marvel of cardio, but he is doing it in Nikes and a silk shirt. Gene is doing it in a medieval torture device while breathing fire.
"I could do it into my [old age], like The Stones if I was like Keith, not Jagger, because Jagger keeps pushing the limit. But you could put on a comfortable pair of sneakers and a t-shirt and strum your guitar; you wouldn’t have to break your back," Simmons says.
There is a pride in that suffering. He looks at his peers and sees a lack of ambition in their stagecraft. For Gene, if you aren't risking a spinal injury, you aren't really trying.
"If any of these—The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, or whoever—had to put on my outfit, spit fire, and do that on seven-inch platform heels for two hours, they’d break their back," Simmons says.
The future of KISS looks a lot like a theme park. There is the museum in Vegas, the cruises and the endless stream of content. The band is retiring, but the machine is just getting warmed up.
"KISS will continue," he asserts. "There’s a KISS museum in Las Vegas at the Rio called KISS World, and oh my goodness, we have KISS cruises, a movie coming out, and we’re working on a cartoon show, a lot of stuff. And of course, all the fun toys and games that will continue."
And then there is the talk of the "traveling shows." Think Cirque du Soleil but with more Marshall stacks. Gene envisions a world where KISS is a franchise, like McDonald's or Phantom of the Opera.
"The KISS show will live on in different ways. Yes, that’s being planned. It’ll also be four to ten different traveling shows. So, you’ll be able to be in Japan and have Japanese actors, musicians being us, and at the same time you could go to Vegas or New York or London," he explains.
But you cannot talk about the end without talking about the beginning. The shadow of Ace Frehley and Peter Criss looms large over this final tour. For the fans, there is a lingering "what if" that Gene is tired of answering, yet he cannot help but feel the weight of their absence.
"It’s no secret we’ve had our share of ups and downs. Ace and Peter are brothers in KISS, and the door was always open for them to join us on this last go-around," he states. "But this isn’t a fairy tale; it’s real life. Egos, personalities, addictions—they’ve all played their parts."
There is a bitterness there, but also a profound sadness. He knows the history books will always look for the original four, even if the current lineup has been more stable for longer.
"I feel sad. I feel sad and angry that both Ace and Peter aren’t here. I mean, they’re alive, but they’re not here to enjoy this unbelievable journey with us. They were there at the beginning and deserve all the credit. And when they look in the mirror, the only reason they’re not here with us is themselves," Simmons says.
It is a cold reality. The invitation was extended, but the baggage was too heavy to carry on a private jet.
"Inviting them was as much for the fans as it was for us. KISS has always been about the whole, not the individual. It would’ve been fitting to have all of us there, one last time," he admits.
Simmons is also quick to dismantle the "original lineup" fetishism that plagues rock criticism. He points to the biggest band in history to prove his point.
"While there are purists who insist on the original lineup, they point to The Beatles. But The Beatles were not an original lineup. Pete Best was the original drummer, and they changed drummers," Simmons points out.
It is a classic Gene move—using a historical technicality to justify his current reality. He is fiercely protective of Eric Singer and Tommy Thayer, the men who have kept the engine running while the original members were dealing with their own demons.
"Now, I don’t know Pete Best personally, but Ringo sure has the goods. He’s got a great personality and stuff, and they changed drummers for their own reasons. And when you look around at bands that have been around a long time, I don’t know, AC/DC, Metallica, you name it, Maiden, they don’t have original members," Simmons says.
He credits Singer and Thayer with saving the band from itself. Without them, KISS would have likely sputtered out in a haze of bad vibes and missed rehearsals decades ago.
"We owe Eric and Tommy an awful lot because they reinvigorated Paul and myself. You can take things for granted sometimes, but when somebody new comes into the situation, it can remind you to appreciate the incredible life we have," Simmons reflects.
The current iteration of KISS is a well-oiled machine. They are athletes. They are sober. In a world that still romanticizes the "junkie rock star" trope, Gene is an anomaly. He has no time for the weakness of addiction.
"Strangely enough, this was not planned, but nobody in the band actually smokes cigarettes or uses drugs, and nobody in the band drinks," he says. "We got much more than we bargained for with Eric and Tommy; they’ve just been fantastic."
Simmons’ rejection of drug culture is legendary. He treats his body like a temple, or at least a very expensive piece of real estate. He has no interest in the "influencer" label, preferring the role of a pragmatist.
"I don’t consider myself an influencer," Simmons says. "You have a menu of life. You have choices."
His logic is brutally simple. If a substance does not provide a tangible, positive ROI, why bother?
"My choices for myself are not to use drugs and alcohol and cigarettes because they don’t work. Nothing happens," he states. "If it made your schmeckle bigger, if it made you richer or smarter or better looking, I mean, I could understand that."
It is the kind of quote that only Gene could deliver—crude, hilarious and fundamentally true. He sees the rock 'n' roll lifestyle as a series of bad investments.
"You numb your senses. You throw up on the shoes that your girlfriend just bought, and if you drink enough, your schmeckle is not going to work. You have a headache the next day and all of it costs money," he says.
As the conversation winds down, we go back to the very start. Dec. 31, 1973. The Academy of Music. The night the fuse was lit.
"Certainly, the very first show we did professionally on New Year’s Eve at what was called the Academy of Music in New York City, 1973-74, has a special place in my heart," Simmons says.
They were nobody then. Just a loud band from Queens with too much makeup and a manager with a vision. They were opening for the heavy hitters of the day, and they stole the show by sheer force of will.
"The fact that somebody allowed us to get up on stage and make a complete spectacle of ourselves — well, let’s just say it doesn’t happen to every person in the world," Simmons says.
He knows the end at Madison Square Garden will be the most difficult night of his life. He is a man who prides himself on being unsentimental, but 50 years of "Detroit Rock City" will do something to a person.
"I know I’m going to feel that way forever," he says. "Even thinking about it chokes me up."
The image of the final show is already playing in his head like a movie trailer. The confetti, the tears, the realization that the armor is coming off for good.
"I’ll be crying right along with them," he shares.
We talked briefly about the setlist—the eternal struggle between the hardcore fans who want the deep cuts and the casual fans who just want the hits. Gene is a populist. He knows what pays the bills.
"This is something that has been pulling at us," Simmons admits. "Whenever the Stones play a deep track or something new, that’s when everyone sits down."
He has no interest in a bored audience. He wants the energy at a constant 11.
"If Led Zeppelin was coming to my town, I don’t want to hear anything obscure," Simmons says.
They tried to mix it up in South America, but the results were mixed. For Gene, the show is a contract with the audience, and he intends to fulfill it.
"For the hell of it, we took out ‘Tears Are Falling’ and we stuck in ‘Makin’ Love’," Simmons reveals.
But as the train pulls into the final station, the setlist matters less than the moment. KISS survived the disco era, the grunge era and the digital era. They are the ultimate survivors of a genre that usually eats its young.
As the final notes of "Rock and Roll All Nite" ring out in New York this December, it will be more than a concert. It will be the closing of a chapter in the Great American Songbook. And for Gene Simmons, it is a chance to finally look back and realize that the spectacle was worth every ounce of sweat and every drop of fake blood.
The end is really just the beginning of the ghost in the machine.
