Smyrna, Tennessee, is not a likely place to find a guitar god, or anyone in particular, which meant it was just about perfect for Vinnie Vincent. For a while anyway. The town of 42,000 people is roughly 25 miles southeast of Nashville, and full of non-descript McMansions and farmhouses kept watch over by lazily grazing goats and cows. There are cozy residential subdivisions, too, where children's bikes are strewn across the well-manicured front lawns of one-story brick ranch houses.
One property near the outskirts of town, though, sticks out amongst all the idyllic sameness. Behind a forbidding eight-foot-tall picket fence and a padlocked gate stand two houses. Paint cans, a television set and stuffed black garbage bags litter the driveways. This is where guitarist Vinnie Vincent — who gave life back into Kiss in the early Eighties, when the bandmembers had removed their makeup but seemed musically ready for embalming, and then became a hair-metal solo star in his own right — has lived in seclusion for the last 15 years. Or, more accurately, had lived. It's hard to know where Vincent is these days.
From the looks of it, the houses have been abandoned for some time. Knocks on the front door go unanswered, and multiple calls in to Vincent's lawyer inquiring about his client's whereabouts yielded nothing. It's not as if Vincent, 61, was ever a man about Smyrna. Up the road, a clerk at the gas station can't recall ever seeing the musician who once played for 137,000 fans in Brazil — Kiss' biggest concert. A next-door neighbor, Paul Sachtjen, says he'd never met Vincent face-to-face. He had, though, endured a battle over some pruned pear trees hanging across property lines, receiving angry letters and police visits, but never at the expense of Vincent's closely-guarded privacy. Years later, Sachtjen's son vandalized a convertible belonging to Vincent's wife, Diane. Soon after, surveillance cameras and mounted outdoor spotlights were installed on Vincent's property.
"I feel bad for him," Sachtjen says now. "He wants to be a recluse and left the hell alone."
But Kiss fans being Kiss fans, that is, somewhere between Deadheads and Trekkies on the obsessiveness scale, means that interest in Vincent is still strong. As the original replacement for founding member guitarist Ace Frehley, Vincent garnered a reputation as one of the band's most talented, influential, and divisive members in its 40-year history. From 1982 to 1984, Vincent's knack for cocky melodies and virtuosic guitar shredding revived an outfit that had limped into the Eighties with the release of the high concept, low quality Music From "The Elder." 1983's Lick It Up was the Kiss first album on which Vincent was credited as a member (uncredited, he'd subbed for Frehley on the previous year's Creatures of the Night). It was also the first time the band appeared without makeup, and as the writer of the title track and the musician responsible for the re-born Kiss' most jaw-dropping moments, Vincent helped frontmen Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons establish a post-grease paint identity, pushing the music in the chart-topping direction of Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard.
Despite his contributions, on April 10th, when Kiss receives their long overdue induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Vincent is about as likely to attend the ceremony as Syd Barrett would've been to fly on an inflatable pig over a Pink Floyd show.
"He's such a mysterious figure," says Bruce Kulick, who held down the lead guitar spot in Kiss for 12 years following Vincent's departure and who will attend the Rock Hall event. "In some ways, he's the Howard Hughes of Kiss. Vinnie has laid low for so long that it adds to his legend."
From his home in Smyrna, Vincent did send out occasional ripples into the world. He filed multiple lawsuits against his former bandmates, alleging unpaid songwriting royalties. There have been run-ins with the cops. And scorned soldiers in the Kiss Army have charged Vincent with intentionally ripping them off by offering products for sale that he then never delivered. It's because of those head-scratching moves, and the lingering echo of his jaw-dropping musical talent, that Vinnie Vincent still inspires others' curiosity. He just isn't interested in satisfying any of it.
On the evening of May 22nd, 2011, Vinnie Vincent's wife, Diane Cusano, walked into the Rutherford County Sheriff's Department in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, 15 miles from her Smyrna home. She smelled of alcohol and was covered in blood. She told the on-duty deputy that her husband had slapped her face, grabbed her hair, dragged her through shattered glass and, as she tried to escape from their property, repeatedly hurled her to the ground. According to police, the two had been arguing over a conversation Vincent had had with another woman.
Working on an arrest warrant, a fleet of squad cars arrived at Vincent's home. As a precautionary measure, Rutherford County deputies closed off the subdivision and requested SWAT backup. After refusing to answer his door for hours, Vincent was finally led away by the police. The cops charged the one-time Kiss hero with aggravated domestic assault. He spent the night in jail and was released on $10,000 bond the following morning.
Upon entering Vincent's home, authorities found four dead dogs in sealed containers. His wife told police that some of their larger, more aggressive dogs had attacked and killed these smaller ones. Vincent told local authorities the same thing, adding that he had rescued 20 dogs from abusive situations and that bad weather had delayed their burials. No animal cruelty charges were filed.
In a statement released after the arrest, Vincent urged, "Please don't believe everything you read. I would never hurt anyone - ever. What has been reported is an absolutely inaccurate depiction of the events that occurred that evening. When it's time, the truth will be known."
Cusano agreed to attend anger management therapy and stay out of trouble, thus avoiding a potential courtroom battle and possible prison time. In return, the local judge expunged the incident from the public record.
Prior to the blowout, Cusano kept to himself and — aside from the occasional pear-tree dispute — lived in relative seclusion. One neighbor, speaking only under conditions of anonymity, said that "I thought originally it was just two women [living at Vincent's home] because of the way he dressed. It was very incognito." When the resident found out his neighbor was not, in fact, a woman but a solitude-seeking rock god, he remeberings thinking, "I was like, 'Really?!'"
Aside from the rare, futile fan pilgrimage, there were few clues that the man living beyond the tall walls and padlocked gates had a noteworthy past.
"He made a complete life change," says the Rascals' Cavaliere, a fellow Connecticut-to-Tennessee transplant. "I maybe saw him once, if at all. He just kind of disappeared."
Not quite. While Vincent aggressively avoided public contact of the flesh-and-blood variety, he still loosely maintained an online lifeline to his intensely devoted fan base, intermittently interacting with them via multiple activated, then deactivated, Facebook accounts and in the "Description" field of the videos on his YouTube account. He's also participated in conversations on Vinnie Vincent fan forums, and allegedly created fake user names and online personas to steer the discussion about him in different, more flattering directions.
"To all of the 'truly genuine' friends and fans," Vincent wrote in 2011, "who sent me their heartfelt messages of support and love during my hurting time, I will answer each of you. I ask that you give me some time. I will see u all on the board." (Vincent launched an "authorized" "Double V" fan forum. An annual membership costs $500.)
In January 2014, Diane Cusano passed away due to conditions stemming from chronic alcoholism. She was 47-years-old. Not long after, several neighbors report seeing movers pack up boxes on Vincent's property.
Standing in his driveway, Drew Waldron, a longtime neighbor, pointed to Cusano's house, once surrounded by floodlights. "Those aren't on anymore," he says. Vincent is gone.
Read more: What Happened to Ex-Kiss Guitarist Vinnie Vincent? | Music News | Rolling Stone
One property near the outskirts of town, though, sticks out amongst all the idyllic sameness. Behind a forbidding eight-foot-tall picket fence and a padlocked gate stand two houses. Paint cans, a television set and stuffed black garbage bags litter the driveways. This is where guitarist Vinnie Vincent — who gave life back into Kiss in the early Eighties, when the bandmembers had removed their makeup but seemed musically ready for embalming, and then became a hair-metal solo star in his own right — has lived in seclusion for the last 15 years. Or, more accurately, had lived. It's hard to know where Vincent is these days.
From the looks of it, the houses have been abandoned for some time. Knocks on the front door go unanswered, and multiple calls in to Vincent's lawyer inquiring about his client's whereabouts yielded nothing. It's not as if Vincent, 61, was ever a man about Smyrna. Up the road, a clerk at the gas station can't recall ever seeing the musician who once played for 137,000 fans in Brazil — Kiss' biggest concert. A next-door neighbor, Paul Sachtjen, says he'd never met Vincent face-to-face. He had, though, endured a battle over some pruned pear trees hanging across property lines, receiving angry letters and police visits, but never at the expense of Vincent's closely-guarded privacy. Years later, Sachtjen's son vandalized a convertible belonging to Vincent's wife, Diane. Soon after, surveillance cameras and mounted outdoor spotlights were installed on Vincent's property.
"I feel bad for him," Sachtjen says now. "He wants to be a recluse and left the hell alone."
But Kiss fans being Kiss fans, that is, somewhere between Deadheads and Trekkies on the obsessiveness scale, means that interest in Vincent is still strong. As the original replacement for founding member guitarist Ace Frehley, Vincent garnered a reputation as one of the band's most talented, influential, and divisive members in its 40-year history. From 1982 to 1984, Vincent's knack for cocky melodies and virtuosic guitar shredding revived an outfit that had limped into the Eighties with the release of the high concept, low quality Music From "The Elder." 1983's Lick It Up was the Kiss first album on which Vincent was credited as a member (uncredited, he'd subbed for Frehley on the previous year's Creatures of the Night). It was also the first time the band appeared without makeup, and as the writer of the title track and the musician responsible for the re-born Kiss' most jaw-dropping moments, Vincent helped frontmen Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons establish a post-grease paint identity, pushing the music in the chart-topping direction of Mötley Crüe and Def Leppard.
Despite his contributions, on April 10th, when Kiss receives their long overdue induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, Vincent is about as likely to attend the ceremony as Syd Barrett would've been to fly on an inflatable pig over a Pink Floyd show.
"He's such a mysterious figure," says Bruce Kulick, who held down the lead guitar spot in Kiss for 12 years following Vincent's departure and who will attend the Rock Hall event. "In some ways, he's the Howard Hughes of Kiss. Vinnie has laid low for so long that it adds to his legend."
From his home in Smyrna, Vincent did send out occasional ripples into the world. He filed multiple lawsuits against his former bandmates, alleging unpaid songwriting royalties. There have been run-ins with the cops. And scorned soldiers in the Kiss Army have charged Vincent with intentionally ripping them off by offering products for sale that he then never delivered. It's because of those head-scratching moves, and the lingering echo of his jaw-dropping musical talent, that Vinnie Vincent still inspires others' curiosity. He just isn't interested in satisfying any of it.
On the evening of May 22nd, 2011, Vinnie Vincent's wife, Diane Cusano, walked into the Rutherford County Sheriff's Department in Murfreesboro, Tennessee, 15 miles from her Smyrna home. She smelled of alcohol and was covered in blood. She told the on-duty deputy that her husband had slapped her face, grabbed her hair, dragged her through shattered glass and, as she tried to escape from their property, repeatedly hurled her to the ground. According to police, the two had been arguing over a conversation Vincent had had with another woman.
Working on an arrest warrant, a fleet of squad cars arrived at Vincent's home. As a precautionary measure, Rutherford County deputies closed off the subdivision and requested SWAT backup. After refusing to answer his door for hours, Vincent was finally led away by the police. The cops charged the one-time Kiss hero with aggravated domestic assault. He spent the night in jail and was released on $10,000 bond the following morning.
Upon entering Vincent's home, authorities found four dead dogs in sealed containers. His wife told police that some of their larger, more aggressive dogs had attacked and killed these smaller ones. Vincent told local authorities the same thing, adding that he had rescued 20 dogs from abusive situations and that bad weather had delayed their burials. No animal cruelty charges were filed.
In a statement released after the arrest, Vincent urged, "Please don't believe everything you read. I would never hurt anyone - ever. What has been reported is an absolutely inaccurate depiction of the events that occurred that evening. When it's time, the truth will be known."
Cusano agreed to attend anger management therapy and stay out of trouble, thus avoiding a potential courtroom battle and possible prison time. In return, the local judge expunged the incident from the public record.
Prior to the blowout, Cusano kept to himself and — aside from the occasional pear-tree dispute — lived in relative seclusion. One neighbor, speaking only under conditions of anonymity, said that "I thought originally it was just two women [living at Vincent's home] because of the way he dressed. It was very incognito." When the resident found out his neighbor was not, in fact, a woman but a solitude-seeking rock god, he remeberings thinking, "I was like, 'Really?!'"
Aside from the rare, futile fan pilgrimage, there were few clues that the man living beyond the tall walls and padlocked gates had a noteworthy past.
"He made a complete life change," says the Rascals' Cavaliere, a fellow Connecticut-to-Tennessee transplant. "I maybe saw him once, if at all. He just kind of disappeared."
Not quite. While Vincent aggressively avoided public contact of the flesh-and-blood variety, he still loosely maintained an online lifeline to his intensely devoted fan base, intermittently interacting with them via multiple activated, then deactivated, Facebook accounts and in the "Description" field of the videos on his YouTube account. He's also participated in conversations on Vinnie Vincent fan forums, and allegedly created fake user names and online personas to steer the discussion about him in different, more flattering directions.
"To all of the 'truly genuine' friends and fans," Vincent wrote in 2011, "who sent me their heartfelt messages of support and love during my hurting time, I will answer each of you. I ask that you give me some time. I will see u all on the board." (Vincent launched an "authorized" "Double V" fan forum. An annual membership costs $500.)
In January 2014, Diane Cusano passed away due to conditions stemming from chronic alcoholism. She was 47-years-old. Not long after, several neighbors report seeing movers pack up boxes on Vincent's property.
Standing in his driveway, Drew Waldron, a longtime neighbor, pointed to Cusano's house, once surrounded by floodlights. "Those aren't on anymore," he says. Vincent is gone.
Read more: What Happened to Ex-Kiss Guitarist Vinnie Vincent? | Music News | Rolling Stone
