Peter Criss
One For All

That the days of the cat ended years ago, everyone already knew that. But I believe that listening to Peter Criss's latest effort, "One For All", no one expects such unconvincing music from someone who, after all, helped to write an important chapter in the history of Kiss.

Back in 1978, Peter Criss had already ventured into another solo work, followed by his four fortunate companions, producing a small genius piece that even managed to capture the sound and atmosphere of the Beatles: in short, nothing to do with this album, which comes out precisely twenty-nine years later. Yes, times change, people change! Back then, Peter was restless, strange, and very, very insecure, while today we find a tired, melancholic Peter and perhaps a bit disappointed by what for him was the experience of becoming an American icon, that is, a mixture of various toxic substances, a great sense of self-destruction but above all a crazy waste of money.

These are indeed the only causes of the dark and gloomy mood palpable in the album because musically it is, in fact, played quite well (simplicity of drums aside), and Peter’s voice in 2007 has nothing to envy to Peter’s voice in the seventies. But objectively, the only truly difficult task when listening to the album is reaching the end.

There are a few flashes of originality, however: the opening track "One For All" isn't too bad, one of the few somewhat listenable songs of the album, apart from the final chorus taken as a choir à la My Oh My by Slade: it seems that Peter gathered a group of children in his home basement and recorded them with a sound recorder... I could have done better myself with my non-professional setup.
Going through the other tracks, things go from bad to worse, the album's pace is slow and weak, and it is almost impossible to distinguish one song from another. "Doesn't Get Better Than This", "Last Night", "Faces In The Crowd" seem to belong to a piano bar repertoire, one could almost imagine the scene of Criss sitting all alone in a corner with his sampled parts and microphone while entertaining a crowd that doesn't even glance at him, moving from old Sinatra songs to his new false pearls.
There is almost no trace of guitar and bass, and only when these can be heard do the tracks gain a little (but very little) more dignity: "Hope" and "Whispers" are examples of this.

I still believe that the lowest point of the album is the song that critics consider the best of the album, namely "What A Difference A Day Makes", a cover of a popular Spanish song written in 1934, and practically one of the most annoying and boring songs I've ever heard, which could easily be used as a sleeping aid against insomnia. For almost five long minutes, our poor artist sings and gets emotional like the character he chose, but it is truly impossible not to press the stereo button that skips the track.

Poor Peter Criss, in the end, he turns out to be a very sad figure who has always had an inferiority complex and has always been considered good for nothing. But I hope that someone remembers him for Beth, Hard Luck Woman, and Black Diamond, small masterpieces written and performed by a wasted talent.