You know, who cares about seeing the girls when everybody wants

Host: The soundstage was half-lit, half-chaos — cables snaking across the floor, the smell of sweat and old amplifiers thick in the air. Neon lights glowed along the edges of the room like restless electricity. A few roadies moved about, adjusting mics, tightening drum skins, tuning guitars. It was one of those nights that carried both exhaustion and excitement — a night when music wasn’t just art, but oxygen.

Jack stood near the drum kit, his sleeves rolled up, his hands resting on a snare that still pulsed faintly from the last rehearsal. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a flight case, sipping from a bottle of water, her hair pulled back, her eyes watching him with quiet curiosity.

Pinned to the back wall — among the posters, setlists, and faded Polaroids — was a yellowed magazine clipping. In the center of it, the words were scrawled beneath the photo of a man in painted makeup and leather armor, grinning through the roar of stage lights:

“You know, who cares about seeing the girls when everybody wants to see the band. That’s what’s important, KISS is important. I think we look great, and the attitude is there, and I’m real happy with it.”
— Eric Carr

Jeeny: (reading aloud, smiling) “You can almost hear the drums in that quote. It’s not about vanity — it’s about loyalty.”

Jack: “Yeah. Loyalty to the band, to the sound, to the show. To the attitude.”

Jeeny: “The attitude — that’s everything, isn’t it?”

Jack: (nodding) “For them? For KISS? It was never just music. It was defiance with a rhythm.”

Host: The bassline from a distant speaker rumbled faintly — a test tone that vibrated through the metal frames of the lights above. The room hummed with the residue of power, of purpose.

Jeeny: “You think that kind of attitude still exists today? That raw, unapologetic belief in what you’re doing — without irony, without filters?”

Jack: “Not often. Everyone wants to look real, but no one wants to be real anymore.”

Jeeny: “Eric Carr was real.”

Jack: “He was fire disguised as humility. He didn’t care about the spectacle — he was the spectacle. And yet, he still talked about the band like it was bigger than any one of them.”

Jeeny: “That’s rare. Most people just want the spotlight.”

Jack: “He wanted the heartbeat.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her voice soft but carrying the pulse of curiosity.

Jeeny: “You know, that line — ‘Who cares about seeing the girls when everybody wants to see the band’ — it sounds simple, but it’s rebellion in disguise. He’s rejecting distraction. Saying, forget the flash — listen to the thunder.”

Jack: “Exactly. It’s a manifesto, not a soundbite.”

Jeeny: “It’s like he was protecting the sanctity of music itself.”

Jack: “Or the brotherhood of it.”

Jeeny: “Brotherhood?”

Jack: “Yeah. Every great band isn’t just music — it’s blood. It’s arguments, long nights, silence, and survival. KISS wasn’t polished harmony. It was chaos held together by faith.”

Host: The lights flickered, one of the techs testing the rig. The flash of white bathed the room for a second, like lightning illuminating a battlefield before the next storm.

Jeeny: “You sound like you miss that.”

Jack: “Miss what?”

Jeeny: “That kind of belief. That purity. You talk about attitude like it’s an endangered species.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. You can’t fake rawness anymore — people overthink it. KISS didn’t think. They felt. They screamed. They drummed. They bled glitter and sweat. They meant every chord.”

Jeeny: “They made the music physical.”

Jack: “Exactly. You didn’t just hear it — you wore it. You walked out of a KISS concert with half your soul vibrating.”

Jeeny: “And Eric Carr was the heartbeat of that vibration.”

Jack: “Yeah. He wasn’t born in the spotlight — he earned it. He was the fan who made it onstage. That’s why people loved him. He didn’t play drums for applause. He played because silence was unbearable.”

Jeeny: “So, his happiness wasn’t ego — it was alignment. He found the thing that matched his pulse.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And when you find that, you don’t care what the world thinks you should be doing.”

Host: The amp onstage buzzed softly, catching feedback from an unplugged cable. Jeeny stood, walking toward the drums, her fingers brushing the edge of a cymbal.

Jeeny: “You know, this quote — it’s not about dismissing anyone. It’s about focus. He’s saying, look at the band, not the distraction. The art’s what matters.”

Jack: “Yeah. The music’s the message. The look, the fire, the attitude — they’re all extensions of it. They didn’t need validation. They created their own mythology.”

Jeeny: “That’s what artists forget now — that real confidence isn’t arrogance. It’s commitment.”

Jack: “Exactly. Confidence says, ‘This is who I am.’ Arrogance says, ‘You better like it.’”

Jeeny: “And Eric was the first one — pure confidence. He didn’t need to be adored. He just needed the drums.”

Host: The rain outside began to tap on the studio windows, steady and rhythmic, almost keeping time with the silent instruments in the room.

Jeeny: “You think that’s what he meant by ‘the attitude is there’? Not aggression — but energy.”

Jack: “Energy, yes. The kind that comes from honesty. When you stop performing for approval and start playing because it’s the only language you speak fluently.”

Jeeny: “The language of rhythm.”

Jack: “The language of truth.”

Host: She looked around the stage — the guitars leaning like tired soldiers, the drumsticks resting across the snare, the scattered notes taped to amps.

Jeeny: “I think that’s why people still love KISS. They didn’t just build songs — they built permission. Permission to be loud. To be unapologetic. To take up space without shame.”

Jack: “Yeah. To exist at full volume.”

Jeeny: “That’s beauty, isn’t it? Not subtlety — clarity. The kind of clarity that only comes when you stop hiding.”

Jack: “And when you stop apologizing for being larger than life.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what people crave — not fame, but freedom.”

Jack: “And that’s why Eric was happy. Not because they looked great or sold out arenas — but because they lived free. Every note, every scream, every riff — it was freedom incarnate.”

Host: Jeeny sat back on the flight case, her eyes soft but alive with admiration.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think music was escape. But now I think it’s revelation. It shows you who you are when the noise stops.”

Jack: “Yeah. And for Eric, when the noise stopped, he still heard the echo. That’s when you know it’s real.”

Jeeny: “Real never dies.”

Jack: “It just goes on tour in someone else’s soul.”

Host: The two of them laughed quietly, the sound carrying into the empty space like the last note of a perfect song. The rain outside softened. The neon flickered once more, reflecting off the drums — a ghost of movement, a reminder of rhythm.

And as the lights dimmed, Eric Carr’s words seemed to play themselves into the air — not as arrogance, but as creed:

that art is not attention,
but devotion;
that attitude is not ego,
but energy;
that real beauty is found
in commitment to your craft;
and that somewhere,
between thunder and silence,
every artist must decide —
not to impress,
but to believe.