When KISS announced in 1996 that their original lineup—Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Ace Frehley, and Peter Criss—would reunite for a world tour, fans across the globe lost their minds.

For the first time since 1979, the makeup, the fire, and the classic KISS chemistry would return to the stage.

It was a dream come true for millions of fans who had grown up with “Rock and Roll All Nite,” “Detroit Rock City,” and “Beth.

” But behind the glitter and pyrotechnics, a storm was brewing—one that would turn the reunion from a rock ‘n’ roll fantasy into one of the most toxic and heartbreaking chapters in KISS history.

It all began, surprisingly, with a rapper. At the 1996 Grammy Awards, none other than Tupac Shakur introduced the reunited KISS lineup to the world.

Gene, Paul, Ace, and Peter appeared in full makeup for the first time in years, walking on stage like gods of rock reborn.

To many, the moment confirmed what had been rumored since the previous year, when Ace and Peter joined Simmons and Stanley for the band’s MTV Unplugged performance.

That Grammy moment was electric, but the real fireworks came later.

KISS launched a massive 18-month tour that would span 192 shows, grossing an incredible $144 million.

The tour kicked off at Detroit’s Tiger Stadium, where 50,000 tickets sold out in mere hours.

It seemed like the impossible had happened: the classic KISS was back, stronger than ever.

But the seeds of destruction had already been planted.

By the early 1980s, KISS had already been through hell.

Peter Criss and Ace Frehley had both left the band amid personal struggles, replaced by new musicians as Gene Simmons pursued acting and Paul Stanley tried to keep the KISS brand alive.

The band took off their makeup in 1983, trying to survive in a rock world that was shifting toward glam metal and, later, grunge.

They released albums like Revenge (1992), which briefly restored some of their swagger, but by the mid-1990s, KISS had lost their edge—and their relevance.

So when the offer came to reunite the original members, it was too good to refuse.

The money was huge, the demand massive, and the nostalgia irresistible. Yet beneath the surface, egos, resentment, and financial disputes simmered.

After the triumphant reunion tour, fans eagerly awaited a new album featuring all four classic members.

What they got instead was chaos.

The band’s producer Bruce Fairbairn wasn’t impressed with Ace and Peter’s playing and brought in outside musicians, including Eric Singer and Tommy Thayer, to secretly perform on most of the 1998 album Psycho Circus.

Though marketed as a full-band reunion, the truth was far from that. Ace and Peter only played on a handful of songs.

Peter Criss later revealed that he and Ace were offered $850,000 not to play on the record.

Ace called Gene and Paul “control freaks” for sidelining them, while Paul countered that the pair wanted to be “equal partners” even though, as he bluntly put it, “when they came back, they were pretty broke.”

Stanley told Chris Jericho on his Talk Is Jericho podcast, “It just became ugly and sad. We were talking to lawyers more than we were talking to them.”

Despite the internal drama, Psycho Circus was a commercial success, debuting at No.3 on the Billboard charts.

But soon, another embarrassment hit: the track “Dreamin’” was sued for sounding too similar to Alice Cooper’s “I’m Eighteen.” The case was quietly settled out of court.

As the band hit the road to promote Psycho Circus, the magic began to fade.

Ticket sales dropped, tension grew, and old habits returned.

Ace and Peter once again clashed with Gene and Paul over money. The once-thrilling reunion had turned into a business deal gone sour.

By 2000, things reached a boiling point. During the so-called “Farewell Tour,” Peter Criss discovered he was being paid $10,000 less per show than Ace Frehley.

Feeling humiliated, he snapped.

On October 7, 2000, in Charleston, South Carolina, Criss had a full-blown meltdown on stage—destroying his drum kit mid-show and sending a tom-tom flying toward Paul Stanley.

“Everyone stood up and cheered, and Paul thought the cheers were for him,” Criss wrote in his memoir Makeup to Breakup.

“Then he turned around and saw a huge tom-tom coming at him.” Paul threw down his guitar and stormed off.

That night marked the last time the classic KISS lineup ever played together.

Eric Singer replaced Criss to finish the tour, and Ace Frehley would play his final show with KISS in April 2001 in Australia.

Although Ace briefly returned for a one-off performance at the 2002 Winter Olympics, his time with the band was effectively over.

Still, promoters demanded “three of the original four” for the next tour, forcing Gene and Paul to bring Peter back once again—only for him to leave shortly afterward.

The revolving door of musicians became a sad reflection of what KISS had become: a brand more than a band.

In 2014, KISS was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

All four original members attended, but they refused to perform together, citing ongoing disputes.

Fans who dreamed of seeing the makeup-clad legends share the stage one last time were left disappointed.

And yet, fate offered one small flicker of nostalgia.

In 2018, during the KISS Kruise, Ace Frehley joined the band on stage for a few songs, joined by former guitarist Bruce Kulick.

It was a rare and bittersweet reunion—a reminder of what once was, and what would never be again.

In 2019, KISS announced their End of the Road tour, billed as their final farewell.

The tour kicked off in Canada, with manager Doc McGhee teasing that the band was “open” to having Ace and Peter appear for special performances.

Fans hoped for closure, for one last embrace of the past.

But as with so many promises in KISS’s long and complicated history, nothing materialized.

For Paul and Gene, the KISS machine rolled on—ever the spectacle, ever the brand.

For Ace and Peter, the wounds never fully healed.

What began as one of rock’s greatest comebacks had become a cautionary tale about fame, ego, and the price of nostalgia.

The KISS reunion proved that sometimes, you really can’t go home again.

The band gave fans fire, blood, and spectacle—but behind the masks, it was heartbreak, bitterness, and betrayal that truly stole the show.

In the end, the “Hottest Band in the World” burned brighter than anyone else—but they also burned each other in the process.

And that, perhaps, is the real tragedy of KISS: a band that could conquer the world, but never conquer itself.