It’s hard to come to terms with the idea that Gene Simmons, the man who roared fire and spit blood for nearly 50 years as “The Demon” in KISS, is not immortal. For decades, Simmons towered over the stage, wrapped in 30 pounds of dragon armor, lashing his tongue at the crowd and screaming in that signature rasp that sent chills through generations of rock fans. He looked like a nightmare and performed like a dream. But now, with age and wisdom settling into his frame, Simmons has removed the war paint and armor—not with defeat, but with pride.
At 75 years old, Simmons is proving he doesn’t need the spectacle to command attention. On August 3rd, thousands gathered at the Buffalo Chip during the 85th annual Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota, drawn by the legend himself. But this wasn’t the Gene Simmons they remembered from packed arenas and fire-lit stages. This was Simmons unplugged, unfiltered, and perhaps more powerful than ever before—not in sheer volume or pyrotechnics, but in presence, authenticity, and soul.
As the sun dipped behind the rugged landscape, Simmons took the stage with his solo band, shedding the theatrics but none of the charisma. Dressed in black, sunglasses often dangling from his shirt collar, he looked relaxed. Comfortable. Not because the stakes were lower, but because the connection was more real. “This is much easier now,” he said, a smile flickering across his face. “It makes me feel good.”
The man who once helmed a band that toured like a mobile kingdom—private jets, a convoy of 20 tractor-trailers, five miles of cables, and over 60 staff members just to bring KISS to life—was now standing under a simpler light. And yet, the energy was still there. You could feel it in the crowd’s roar, in their shared memories, and in the way Simmons held the space with stories, songs, and laughter. He talked about how, growing up, his favorite bands like Sly and the Family Stone and the Lovin’ Spoonful felt distant and untouchable. “There was always that mote,” he said. “The enemy’s coming up to the castle, but he can’t get in because it’s surrounded by alligator-filled waters.” But now? “The drawbridge is down. Anybody can come into the castle with me and have lots of fun.”
That openness was evident when he welcomed all ten bikini contest participants—still in their swimwear—up on stage to sing with him. No explosions. No rehearsed choreography. Just rock, sweat, and spontaneity. His guitarists Brent Woods and Jason Walker joined in too, all crowding around one mic like it was open mic night at a dive bar. For Simmons, it was a chance to enjoy the moment with fans who had grown up with him—and grown older with him too.
Among those in the crowd was Blake Griffin, decked out in a cut-off KISS T-shirt from 2008, bouncing in place like he was about to step into a boxing ring. His fiancée, Hannah Hotchkiss, stood beside him, watching as Blake took in every moment. “KISS introduced me to music,” Blake said, eyes locked on the stage. On his shin, a tattoo of The Demon marked his deep connection to the band that had shaped his youth. “He loves Gene Simmons more than anything,” Hannah added. “I’m so happy he gets to experience this.”
Gene Simmons isn’t just a rock star. He’s a living memory for millions—a bridge between generations of fans who found their identity, rebellion, or comfort in the face-painted chaos of KISS. And yet, Simmons himself has never been overly sentimental about legacy. “All that legacy stuff is self-aggrandizing,” he said bluntly. “The only thing I ever hoped for, and that the band ever hoped for, was to raise the level of quality in a concert experience.”
That goal was clearly met. KISS was more than music. It was theater. It was defiance. It was excess and passion and fantasy, all rolled into one. “With the advent of better technology,” Simmons explained, “we decided to put all the money we made back into the show, and, yeah, that included flying off the stage and some pyrotechnics.” It wasn’t about ego—it was about awe. About giving fans something unforgettable. And they delivered, show after show, year after year.
But times change, and so do people. Simmons may still command attention, but he no longer needs to hide behind The Demon to feel powerful. Now he speaks softly before paying tribute to fallen icons like Ozzy Osbourne, quieting the crowd before they revved their engines in a biker’s salute to the Prince of Darkness. There’s reverence in his voice now—an understanding of what it means to last, to endure, and to look back without bitterness.
Earlier in the week, Simmons was spending time on the West Coast with his five dogs. It’s a quieter life, but no less meaningful. He’s found joy in simplicity, in being able to choose how he engages with fans. The big tour machine is gone, but the love for music—and for those who love it with him—remains unchanged.
What’s striking is how Simmons has managed to redefine what aging in rock looks like. He doesn’t try to cling to youth or pretend he hasn’t changed. Instead, he embraces the shift, owning the wrinkles, the slower pace, and even the sweat he now wipes from his jowls mid-song. The spectacle may be scaled down, but the heart has never been bigger.
Gloria and Graham Thompson understood that deeply. They drove over 1,500 miles from the Florida panhandle to Sturgis, winding through Needles Highway by day and catching every performance at night. For them, it didn’t matter that Simmons wasn’t in full Demon gear. His presence was enough. His music, his voice, and the energy he brought were more than worth the journey.
What Simmons has tapped into in this phase of his career is something few artists manage to reach—a second wind, not built on nostalgia, but on authenticity. He’s not trying to be who he was. He’s just trying to be real. And in doing so, he’s created a new kind of magic.
There’s a beautiful irony in watching a man who once built an empire on fantasy become even more captivating by simply being himself. It’s in the way he asks the crowd what they want to hear. In how he laughs at his own jokes. In the way he nods with respect when talking about the past, but keeps both feet firmly planted in the now.
Gene Simmons may no longer fly through the air, but his spirit still soars. His voice, still gritty and unmistakable, carries the weight of decades on stage, of countless fans touched by his music, and of a life lived loudly, unapologetically, and fully. He’s not just playing music—he’s sharing a part of himself, raw and unmasked.
For those who grew up idolizing the Demon, seeing Gene Simmons in this light is like meeting the man behind the myth—and finding out he’s just as impressive without the smoke and mirrors. Maybe even more so. Because what’s left when the costume comes off is something much rarer than spectacle. It’s connection. It’s gratitude. It’s grace.
And in that, Simmons has proven that legends don’t die. They evolve. They adapt. They find new ways to shine. Even when the makeup is gone, the stage is stripped bare, and the crowd is a little older, the fire still burns.
It might not shoot from his mouth anymore, but it lives in every note, every story, and every smile exchanged with the people who’ve been on this journey with him since the beginning. Gene Simmons, now just Gene on stage, doesn’t need to be immortal. He just needs to be here—and that’s more than enough.