There was a time when Nate didn’t sleep. Not because he couldn’t — but because KISS didn’t. The band lived on caffeine, eyeliner, and pure chaos, and Nate was the man paid to keep it all from burning down. Literally. He once extinguished Gene Simmons mid–flame breath using nothing but a Mountain Dew and a look of pure disappointment.

He traveled the world with them — from Tokyo to Toledo — dragging unconscious roadies out of dressing rooms and intercepting fan mail that may or may not have contained live ferrets. His job description was simple: protect the band at all costs. The costs were high. Emotionally. Financially. Dermatologically.

The stories from that era could fill volumes. Once, he wrestled a fog machine that refused to stop. Another night, he had to physically restrain Paul Stanley from bedazzling a fire marshal. They called him “Silent Nate,” because he didn’t talk much — and when he did, it was usually to ask, “Is that supposed to be on fire?”

These days, Nate keeps a low profile. He doesn’t talk about the makeup, or the nights that smelled like gasoline and glory. But if you catch him under a full moon with a power chord in the distance, you might see it — the faint glimmer of glitter still embedded somewhere in his soul.