Book Review: No Regrets
February 17 2012 at 10:26:18 AM  Fractured Mirror… There comes a time for every man when, ripped to the tits on blow, tranquilizers, booze, he will crash into several cars while pulling out of a parking lot in a DeLorean and then engage in high speed police pursuit going the wrong way against traffic on the Bronx River Parkway. He will leave the cops in the dust. Ace Frehley refers to this event as “Smokey and The Bandit (re-visited).” Makes sense. How often in real life does that shit actually happen? Almost never. But in real life the hero does not pull up at the Southern Classic with Sally Field in the passenger seat followed by an eighteen-wheeler full of Coors. In real life he parks at a mini mart, goes inside, and comes back out to find a fleet of pissed off Five-Oh, guns drawn. Amidst fast times and close calls that mere mortals only dream of, a tale unfolds of never ending piles of crystal powder, multicolored pills, and more than one sentence beginning with some variation on “a chance encounter with a couple of models.” Ace. The word itself meant to denote good fortune is bestowed early on to a Bronx kid with a Hendrix fixation and an almost effortless ability to attract pussy. A bad seed who would sneak backstage, in the days when that was still possible, and somehow walk right into setting up drums for Mitch Mitchell and stringing guitars for John Kay. Not long after, the part Cherokee, slant-eyed looking guy leaving an audition on 23rd and 5th Ave. overhears future partner in crime Peter Criss: “Very cool. I love Chinese food,” goes on to become the Space Man, design the KISS logo, and write/co-write “Parasite”, “Strange Ways”, “Getaway”, “Rock Bottom”, “Save Your Love”, “Rocket Ride”, “Escape from the Island”, “Cold fucking Gin”. Increasing hi-jinx ensue. After surviving Gene as constant roommate in the trenches of old school, non-stop touring, the release of Alive! sends it all over the top. Fortune, glory, orgies, drugs, hotel destruction, give way to eventual dissolution and grinding maintenance of habit where upping the ante any further means crossing into the land of death or jail. Our man becomes acquainted with both. Paul Frehley knew he wanted to be a star but did not know what was coming. And beyond the drama of band politics, who did what, or which producer worked best, what came was the chance for a very lucky guy, fueled by fame and wealth, to push his luck to the limit.   No secret it’s always been the Simmons/Stanley show, hell they started the band, but what they failed to grasp, never fully appreciated, was that without that sleazoid weer-a weer-a weer-a weer-a waaaa, KISS were on their way to becoming funhouse robots. As magical beings from another dimension, it just so happens that each member had different ways of adapting to the gravitational pull of a terrestrial environment. Were they real or almost human? Was he Space Ace or Paul from the Bronx? The two were the same. But one was “in it for the music,” while the other became a caricature. If money and drugs took an already laid back Ace further towards really not giving much of a fuck, the money (minus drugs) only tightened the death grip that the Demon and Starchild had on the controls. Yeah, there are problems with having to perform what becomes a Broadway show, but it is the firing of Criss that completely throws off cosmic balance and sends the only other real rocker head first into a snow drift. Hired gun, Eric Carr steps in. And this guy, able drummer he may be, does not even have the cojones to sit down with the Space Man and partake in an honest glue huffing session. Peter, of course, would have had his cat head stuck deep inside that paper bag of model airplane adhesive. So it’s peak KISS mania when the band meets The Phantom of the Park. Fed up with the bullshit of TV production, a couple lines are snorted, cold ones drained followed by a peel off into a golden, late ‘70s, L.A. afternoon enhanced by tranquilizers, the La Brea Tar Pits, and King Tut’s tomb. Meanwhile, back on the set, the original Ace is replaced with a stunt double. This, in the critical scene where KISS do battle with Frankenstein and The Mummy, was not to be the last time an imposter would emerge. The film itself was based on a story of robots taking on the appearance of the real KISS. If that shit ain’t ironical enough, consider current imposter Tommy Thayer, who was once Ace’s road manager. Thayer’s backstabbing ways eventually allow him to disguise himself as the Space Man, but not without a swift, though brief, form of reprisal from the originator. And even though, towards the final chapter, Paul Frehley is forced to admit some degree of surrender to normality over the rage all hell decadence of intergalactic Space Ace travel, there will always be a way of knowing who the real Ace is. He’s not safe or responsible or falsely humble. He has strong appreciation for groupies and ballistics. He has the constitution of an Ultrasaurus, and settles more than one score with his fists. He annihilates Porsches into trees, and then still remembers to take the cooler of fresh caught trout out of the trunk. The pigs are on his trail, but then they also want an autograph. Look for him in the dark light. He’s that lucky sumbitch. [Adam Ganderson]
type: reviews
keywords:
kiss,
ace,
ace frehley,
chinese food,
sally field,
smokey and the bandit,
rock and roll,
phantom of the park,
five-oh,
superstar,
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