Kiss review – typically explosive end to rock’s silliest band

And so Kiss roll into Britain for their third last-ever-time. Their End of the Road tour – which has now lasted longer than the first world war and used nearly as many explosives – has already come to these shores in 2019 and 2022, each time promising to be the final UK shows (there was also a Kiss Farewell Tour in 2000-2001, but that didn’t make it to Europe). Nevertheless, here they are again, kabuki makeup and pyrotechnics present and correct.

Pretty much everything about Kiss is amazing: the self-mythologising, the shamelessness, the complete bravado of their stage show, which is more like a fireworks display than a gig. They haven’t earned the loyalty that fills arenas after 50 years by not giving the crowds what they want, and they haven’t becoming one of rock’s biggest brands without squeezing every last drop out of those loyal fans (there’s a vast range of T-shirts on sale tonight, starting at an eye-watering £45).

The only thing they’ve ever lacked is enough great songs to fill a show of nearly two hours – even fan favourites such as Cold Gin or Makin’ Love are so basic you spend three minutes waiting for something, anything to happen.

They’ve also never lost the hard rock habit of giving everyone a solo, and even by the standards of solos – reliably the dullest part of any rock show – theirs are wretched. Tommy Thayer shoots fireworks out of his guitar headstock, Eric Singer bashes around his kit; Gene Simmons’ bass solo, delivered from a platform raised to the lighting rig, is nothing more than an excuse for him to drool “blood” before singing God of Thunder, the ur-Simmons anthem in which he proclaims himself not just god of said weather, but also of rock’n’roll.

God of Thunder also sees Simmons promise that “the spell you’re under / Will slowly rob you of your virgin soul”, and thus covers Kiss’s two lyrical subjects – how they are really good at rock, and really good at sex – in one brief burst. If the words are often cursory, that’s rather the point: these are songs whose purpose is to be hollered along to by big crowds, not parsed. It’s wildly more fun to join Stanley in singing “You pull the trigger on my love gun” than it is to wonder what was on his mind when it was written. Not least because it doesn’t really require any wondering.

At their best, though, they are thrilling in the way only brutally primitive rock (accompanied by explosions) can be. The opener, Detroit Rock City, is