Lo-Fidelity: What are you gunna be for Halloween?

Just when you think you’re hopelessly surrounded by zombies and sheep entirely bankrupt of any creativity whatsoever, Halloween rolls around. I love it when those unassuming townsfolk come flying out of their closet like a rabid bat and scare you half to death. Shocking moments like these always restore my waning faith in human nature. “Look, it’s Gary from accounting all dressed-up like mad scientist Dr. Frank-N-Furter from the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show!'” — a character that still absolutely horrifies even the manliest of men. 

Me? When it comes to costumes, I fall into the less-imaginative category, you might say. I generally go for the convenience of a generic store-bought costume with some face paint or an asthma-inducing, latex mask complimented by a tube or two of Vampire Blood from the retail fever-dream/fun-house that is Carl’s upstairs. My current “ol’-faithful” costume is a prisoner outfit with a “Braudis for Sherriff” bumper sticker on the back. A prisoner stumping for a sheriff? Only in Aspen.

I truly appreciate a good, ol’ fashioned, homemade Halloween costume. Two of the best I’ve seen over the years were couples: one going as Ponch and Jon, the California Highway Patrol of “CHiPs,” complete with a jammy pack playing the theme song, and the other duo masquerading as Dog the Bounty Hunter and his big-boobed babe, Beth. Butch Peterson dressed up as “Benny the Blade,” rollerblading around the dance floor of the Double Diamond was right up there …

When we were kids growing up in Aspen, my peer group was chronically infected by the band KISS. Parents were justifiably worried. I blame my infatuation on the costume-clad rockers on my sister Maria, who turned me onto them. Dutifully, I passed the torch to my son, Patrick. When he was 4 years old, I sat him down next to the stereo, put a pair of industrial strength Pioneer over-the-ear headphones on him, handed him the dystopian, post-apocalyptic, fantasy album cover to KISS “Destroyer,” dropped the needle, and let the brainwashing begin. 

I’d make an argument that in blunt terms of child indoctrination, “Destroyer” is one most successful and well-produced rock records of the 20^th century. I see the compilation as a concept album, the message being youth empowerment. From the Detroit newscaster describing the deadly demise of your typical burn-out, classic-rock teenager, to the big car crash at the end, if you’re not hooked there, check your pulse. My favorite tracks are “Detroit Rock City,” “King of the Nighttime World,” “Flaming Youth,” “Do You Love Me,” and the frustrated call to action juvenile anthem “Shout it Out Loud.” 

Ace Frehley, the lead guitarist who recently passed, was my sole inspiration to learn how to play an instrument. In fifth grade, I convinced my parents to buy me an electric guitar and a small amplifier from the Great Divide music store (then located upstairs in the building that now houses Kenichi. The Bagel Nosh was garden level). I vividly recall the moment I plugged the axe in and dragged the pick across stings. I was dumbfounded with a crippling sense of disappointment when my guitar sounded more like a wounded cat than anything even remotely to do with Ace.

In fifth grade, Halloween day, word spread through the Aspen Middle School like wildfire: Lo Semple was going to puke blood at recess, like Gene Simmons from KISS. Recess came, and I delivered. 

In 1979, KISS came though Denver and played at McNichols Arena. When my mom wouldn’t let me go, I threatened to commit suicide by jumping off a staircase. One of my sister’s friends who lived in Starwood, Lessing Stern, flew a group of local teenage KISS fanatics down on his father Edgar’s Gulfstream to see the legendary Dynasty tour. Afterwards, I did get to live the show vicariously through my buddies George Parry, Tim Stroh, and Jim Salter. 

The real mind blower to me was when a kid named Adam Morris moved to town around 1980 and invited me over to his house — a yellow Victorian on the corner of 4^th and Hallam. We entered his room, he closed the door, and pulled out a rectangular box from underneath his bed. He opened the case to reveal a tobacco-sunburst Gibson Les Paul with smoke-burns all around the neck pickup. He then went on to explain that this was one of Ace Frehley’s guitars. To this day, I still wonder if it was real or not. I rehash the scene every single time I either drive or ride my bike by the house.

The big enigma for us was, what did KISS look like without their makeup? Their costumes, face paint, personas were so outlandish and garish that the mystique drove me absolutely nuts. When I finally did see them unmasked, the revelation was wildly anticlimactic. I’d matured, and it turns out they looked much as they do with makeup on. 

I’ve been listening religiously to KISS and John Carpenter’s “Halloween” movie soundtrack while drinking coffee with pumpkin pie spice all fall to get in the mood … I hope everyone has a fun Halloween in Aspen and gets to live-out their wildest fantasies.

Contact Lorenzo via email at suityourself@sopris.net.