Yokohama is basically an extension of Tokyo, an appendix. And though Mexico City has bragging rights to being the world's largest metropolitan area, it remains difficult to comprehend any place on Earth being mightier than the Tokyo-Yokohama urban continuum. Not helping construct a realistic perception of this swath is the shinkansen, the bullet train, which whisks from Tokyo Station to Shin-Yokohama Station in about 15 minutes and for about as many U.S. dollars.

KISS' first two shows were at Yokohama Arena, a 12,000-seater situated in a pleasant, albeit unremarkable, area of shops, hotels and taxis around the rail station. The day of the opening gig was chilly, despite cheery sunshine peeking through clouds. As I walked out of the station, my eyes were seared by light beaming off the obnoxious gold lam� windbreaker worn by a ticket scalper, a droog in the local yakuza. The Japanese mob, the lower echelons of which dress like colorblind clowns -- red velour shoes with gold eyelets and laces, pleated purple pants, sweaters that are the fashion equivalent of an Elvis on black velvet -- has the scalping racket firmly in pocket. With their cell phones and cliques of barkers placed strategically between the station and the venue, not a single person can pass without having a pair of tickets and jewelry-encrusted fingers shoved in his face. It is the same in every city, for every concert.

At the arena, I collected my ticket and media pass, a color-coded cloth affair with "Yokohama 1 KISSONLINE" written across the bottom, and headed inside to the press section. Sadly, the media, which that night was represented by about half a dozen professional photographers and me, was corralled inside metal fencing about 20 yards from the stage, with no signs coming from security that we'd be allowed to creep closer. (More on the logistics of the media pass below.) As AC/DC's "Highway To Hell" album boomed over the sound system, I leaned back against my section of fence and watched the crowd filter in. "Seems like a touch/a touch too much ... " About 2,000 people. "Ain't it a shame/to be shot down in flames ... " Maybe 3,000 people. "If you want blood, you've got it ..." Perhaps 3,500 people. Where in the Sam Hell was everybody?

Just then, a spiffily attired Doc McGhee came out from behind the stage to size up the crowd. Size down the crowd, more like it. I took the opportunity to introduce myself and read the expression on Doc's face. It was an expression that betrayed the unspeakable, worst-scenario thoughts that were lingering in the back of our minds: Without Peter, the fans would return tickets in droves and the tour would tank. Indeed, as "Highway To Hell" gave way to The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again," the song indicating show time was nigh, the entire back half of the venue was devoid of life. Whether you were a glass-half-full optimist or glass-half-empty pessimist, there was no denying that KISS was going to open its farewell tour of Japan to a horrendous, embarrassing ocean of empty seats.

To say this was depressing would be a understatement; to label it an omen, a big black raven casting a terrible pall over the tour, would sum up the vibe rippling among the 4,000 people in attendance (at least the vibe that I, a fan of 25 years, felt). When the lights went down, the echo of the bass' sinister, gut-wrenching hum and the cheers from the meager crowd echoed off the dead space, making the whole scene, well, just kind of sad. Technical glitches typical of first shows -- feedback, inconsistencies with the video screen, sound dropouts -- seemed even more pronounced in this weird atmosphere.

The set list for this and all the other gigs has been posted on KISSONLINE for quite some time, so there's no reason for me to get into the particulars. I will say, though, that I was blown away by the inclusion of "Talk To Me." With my ticket and pass I received a type-written set list, complete with parenthetical notes about pyro, gags, Paul's intra-song banter and the like. Third on the list was typed "Talk," which I was sure meant that Paul would chat up the audience before the next song. When I showed the set list to a buddy of mine, I said jokingly, "Oh, this probably means that they're gonna play 'Talk To Me.'"

My first stint as an ethical rock photojournalist was a bit of a letdown. Going into the show equipped with my middle-of-the-line Kodak DC210 digital zoom camera, I was certain that I'd walk away with a Pulitzer Prize winner trapped on the compact flash card, or at least a slew of frightening close-ups to send back to KISSONLINE. Alas, my rinky-dink outfit just couldn't cut the mustard. Even with the zoom lens zoomed all the way, the best I could get were full stage shots with very little definition or resolution. Also, house rules as set down by KISS said all photographers had to pack up and bolt after the third song, which further limited my chances of getting anything really earth-shattering. So it went for Yokohama.

After the show, I walked away skeptical about the chances of a successful tour. This made me melancholy, so much so that I stopped at a convenience store, bought a can of Kirin lager beer and sat on the curb like Rodin's thinker, processing the implications of an empty house on the opening night of KISS in Japan. Anybody who knows me and is familiar with my Web site knows I hold the KISS-Japan relation in very high regard and maintain that it's one of the most significant in rock history. To think that the Japanese fans had turned their collective back on the band just plain depressed me. Sure, KISS had played their hearts out to those who bothered to turn up, but it was a scene unbecoming of a KISS farewell tour of Japan.

What did happen at Yokohama that night? I heard one group of Japanese fans saying that a zealot, using the Internet and handbills, had rallied more than 2,000 people to return their tickets to Udo Artists, Inc., the promoter, to protest the "false advertising" of the tour as the last with the original lineup. The KISS Army fragging its generals. Another Japanese fan I talked to explained, lamely, that "Friday is not a popular night to see a concert in Japan." Japan can certainly be a perplexing culture to the outsider, but not that perplexing. People here let loose on Fridays just like people the world over -- and what better way to let loose than by going to a KSS concert?

Whatever the impetus for the empty house, at least one good thing came of it. According to an inside source, KISS sold a record amount of merchandise at Yokohama 1. Sure, there were only 4,000 people there, but they left their homes with fat wallets and hearty appetites for T-shirts, tourbooks (with the Eric "Catman" Singer photo insert), key chains and posters. Who'da thunk it?

Things weren't much different at the 5:00 p.m. Saturday show, other than the additional 6,000 or so people who showed up. Relief and pride -- pride in the Japanese fans -- washed over me when I was watching the arena fill to capacity. By the time the first power chord of "Won't Get Fooled Again" dislodged my viscera, I'm certain Doc McGhee, not to mention the band, was feeling the same way. When the curtain comes down on a KISS concert, you want to see a full house of delirious, smiling -- and in some cases tear-streaked � faces; you want to see the spot lights sweeping over the tops of heads, not the backs of empty seats.

The photo situation was the same: I came away with a collection of disappointing, fuzzy stage shots. What I needed was a real camera with a 50-pound bazooka zoom lens, which is what the pros from The Japan Times, The Asahi Shinbun, Music Life and Burrn! had.

On the way from Shin-Yokohama Station to the arena, I did take the time to ask Bozo The Scalper how much he wanted for his tickets. One fifth row, center, was Y80,000 ($650). Knowing that much could buy me at least 75 pairs of crush-velvet tiger-stripe loafers, I politely declined.