No Regrets (10 page)

It’s hard to know exactly when it’s time to let go of
your dreams.

By the fall of 1972 I was twenty-one years old, dead broke, still living at home with my parents, playing in an assortment of bands, hoping that one of them would turn out to be the right vehicle for my guitar playing. I still believed in myself, still thought I could make a living as a professional musician. But there was no plan, no strategy. There was mainly just a lot of gigging and practicing and partying.

Through it all Jeanette remained supportive, if somewhat quizzical. I remember driving around one night in her car (I didn’t have the bread to buy my own wheels), talking about the future, trying to explain why I didn’t want a day job, why I thought I’d wither and die in the nine-to-five world.

“It’s a waste of my time and talent,” I told her. “I’m going to be a rock star. Trust me—we’ll be rich someday.”

Jeanette laughed.

“You’re out of your mind.”

True enough. You have to be a little bit nuts to be an artist in the
first place (we don’t look at the world like most people), just as you have to be somewhat detached from reality to think that you can beat the million-to-one odds stacked against anyone who tries to make it in the music business. On both counts I was guilty. I’m also an inherently lazy guy—if something doesn’t motivate me in a visceral way, I’m unlikely to embrace it with any sort of discipline or enthusiasm. That’s why I was a bad student, and it’s why I would have been (and was) a lousy employee. I loved playing the guitar and I knew I was pretty good at it, so that’s what I wanted to do with my life.

There were no other options. I had to be patient and wait for the right opportunity to come along. Which it did, in the form of an advertisement that appeared in the
Village Voice
on December 17, 1972.

LEAD GUITARIST WANTED
With Flash and Ability. Album Out
Shortly. No time wasters please.
Paul

I didn’t know who “Paul” was. Nor did I know anything about the band he fronted or the supposed record deal they’d secured. This was a free ad, one of hundreds I’d read over the years. Like any New York musician with an ounce of ambition, I scanned the classifieds regularly, looking for new and interesting opportunities, especially with bands that claimed to have record contracts or upcoming tours. There was no shortage of these; from experience, though, I knew most were pure bullshit, and thus easily ignored. For some reason, though, this one was intriguing. I figured, Fuck, I have flash, and I sure as hell have ability. I doubted the part about the band having an album “out soon,” but it seemed worth investigating, at the very least.

So I picked up the phone and dialed the number that appeared at the bottom of the
Village Voice
ad. On the phone was the man who had placed the ad, Paul Stanley. (It wasn’t until much later that I would discover that his real name was Stanley Eisen. I still find it interesting
that I was the only member of KISS who performed under his actual surname.) Paul was professional and businesslike on the phone. He asked me about my credentials and my appearance (“I look a little like Keith Richards,” I said, playing up the fact that I was tall, skinny, and had long hair—pretty much the way every guitar player looked in those days); told me a little bit about their project, about how they wanted to be a theatrical band that played loud, hard rock; and then told me they would be conducting auditions in a couple of weeks.

“You’re welcome to come down,” he said.

I hesitated, partly because I didn’t want to seem too eager, but also because I was naturally skeptical. I’d been down this road before, most recently with Molimo. The idea of auditioning for a group of guys who probably didn’t even have a record deal, and, for all I knew, couldn’t play worth a damn, didn’t exactly get my motor running.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll think about it.”

I decided to get some feedback from my buddy Chris Cassone, who was also a guitar player (and who would later become a successful sound engineer).

“Hey, Chris, you see that ad in the
Village Voice
?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Interesting.”

“I know, man. I’m thinking about going down there.”

There was a pause.

“Me, too.”

This surprised me. Chris was a solid guitar player, but he really didn’t have the rock star look. He dressed like a prep school kid and didn’t have long hair.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Chris… but I’m not sure you have the image they want.”

The open audition was scheduled for January 3, 1973, which gave me a few weeks to consider the invitation. If I’d known the truth at the time, I probably would have stayed home that day, which obviously would have been the mistake of a lifetime. What I didn’t know, fortunately, was that Paul and his partner in this project, Gene Klein (whom
I would come to know as Gene Simmons), had played together in a band called Wicked Lester, and while they had indeed been offered a contract from Epic Records, that deal had fallen through. So the ad, like so many others I’d come across, was not entirely true. At the very least, it was misleading.

But that’s okay. It’s become part of KISS mythology and I’m cool with that, just as I’m all right with some people thinking the
Village Voice
advertisement sought a “guitarist with flash and balls.” Nope. The term was “flash and ability.” Paul and Gene have long maintained that the
Village Voice
refused to print the word “balls,” and instead substituted “ability.” I don’t know if that’s true or not—seems unlikely, considering the
Voice
was a liberal publication that had never been shy about allowing profanity on its pages—but it makes for a good story, I guess.

Here’s another good story: my mom had to drive me to the audition.

I had come to the conclusion that I had nothing to lose. What was the worst that could happen? I’d get to jam with some guys downtown. If they were talentless hacks and the whole thing turned out to be fraudulent, well, so what? I’d have invested nothing more than a few hours of my time. And maybe, just maybe, it would turn out to be something more than that.

On the afternoon of the audition I dragged my 50-watt Marshall amp (armed with eight ten-inch speakers) out to the curb and stuffed it into the trunk of my parents’ Cadillac. There was no requirement for aspirants to show up with their own amp, but I thought it would give me more confidence, and more of an edge; I also presumed my Marshall would be superior to anything these guys had at their loft. It was a great amp, and sounded even better with my single-pickup Gibson Reverse Firebird blowing through its speakers, the same model Clapton used on the Cream farewell tour. I knew how to get great sustain and feedback out of this combo, and I wasn’t willing to settle for something less. There had been other times when I had plugged into someone else’s amp; the results had almost always been disappointing.

I’ll say this about my mom: She was pretty cool about the whole
thing. She knew I had talent and probably figured if I was going to make something of myself in life, music would be the likely avenue. And, of course, I was her baby boy, so she worried and fretted about my happiness and safety. When I told her I needed a ride downtown to audition for this new band (couldn’t bring the amp on the subway, and I didn’t have the money for cab fare), she was more than willing to lend a hand. I don’t think she had any inkling that it would turn out the way it did; you never know if any audition will lead to anything, right? Most are dead ends. As she sat behind the wheel of the Caddy, waiting for me to load my gear into the trunk, I’m sure her mind was elsewhere—probably trying to figure out what we would have for dinner that night. It couldn’t possibly have occurred to her that I was about to join what would become one of the biggest rock groups in the world.

Hell, it hadn’t occurred to me, either.

Interestingly, though, as we pulled up to the curb on Twenty-Third Street, just off Fifth Avenue, where the audition would occur, I felt a strangely intense attack of the jitters. It was almost like I sensed there was something important about this one. There was no reason to feel that, but I did.

I got out of the car and leaned into the window.

“Wait here a second, Mom. I’ll be right back.”

I jogged off in the direction of a deli just a few doors down the street, as my mother yelled, “Where are you going?!”

I returned a few minutes later, with a sixteen-ounce can of beer stuffed into a brown paper bag. I popped the trunk, withdrew my amp and guitar, and dragged them into the small lobby of the building. There, alone beside the elevator, I popped the can and chugged the contents.

Okay… good to go
.

The loft was basically just a long, dark, narrow room, with dozens of empty egg cartons glued to the walls and ceiling for soundproofing. There were three people already in the band, and all three were there that day: the drummer, Peter Criss; the bass player, Gene Simmons;
and the rhythm guitar player, Paul Stanley, with whom I’d already talked on the phone. It was pretty obvious that Gene was in charge of the audition. He was the most serious member of the trio and seemed not to have even the slightest sense of humor.

My introduction to the guys in KISS (although they weren’t called KISS as yet) wasn’t particularly smooth. I mean, I wouldn’t say it was love at first sight. There had been a steady stream of musicians going in and out of the loft all day. Each was required to fill out a job application before auditioning. Now, I don’t think I’d ever filled out a job application in my life—not even for a real job (the one exception being the holiday season a couple of years earlier, when I worked briefly for Uncle Sam as a letter carrier). And I wasn’t about to do it for this gig. Being a musician wasn’t a job to me—it was a way of life. If they wanted to know more about me, they could ask.

I took a seat, read a few lines of the application, and then crumpled it up and tossed it on the floor.

I’m sure that didn’t go over very well with the boys, just as I’m sure they weren’t thrilled with my attitude. Yeah, I did in fact look a little bit like Keith Richards, as advertised. I had the shag haircut, the bony frame with veins popping out on my forearms. I wore the requisite T-shirt and jeans, nothing too wild or psychedelic. Just straight-up rock ’n’ roll.

With one little quirk.

My sneakers didn’t match.

One was red, the other orange. A lot has been made of this over the years—was Ace too spaced out to know what he was doing? Too nervous to realize he’d picked mismatched shoes out of the closet? Was it a fashion statement?

Here’s the truth: I was in a hurry and grabbed two sneakers, slipped them on, and rushed out the door. By the time I realized what I’d done, we were on our way downtown. I wasn’t worried, though. I thought I looked kind of cool.

Gene and the boys, I would later discover, had a different response. They thought I was at best a fuckup; at worst, inconsiderate. It didn’t help matters that I wasn’t entirely respectful of the audition process.
Protocol dictates silence while waiting your turn, but as the guy ahead of me was finishing up (his name was Bob Kulick, and he would come to be associated with KISS in a number of different ways over the years, though never as a live performer), I pulled out my guitar and started warming up with some scales in the far corner of the room; my actions were definitely a distraction. As they conducted a post-audition interview with Bob, I continued to play, trying to stay loose.

When Gene saw what I was doing he walked right over and got in my face.

“You know, that’s pretty fucking rude. Why don’t you put your guitar away and sit down and wait your turn.”

“Oh… sorry, man.”

I can look back on all this now and laugh. Maybe the guys can laugh, too. At the time, though, I’m sure they weren’t real appreciative of my behavior, and probably didn’t anticipate I’d be the person who would eventually end up in the band. But it all comes down to one thing in the end: can you play the fucking guitar or not?

I could fuckin’ play and I had the image!

The audition itself went smoothly—well, not counting the part where Gene threatened to kick my ass if it turned out I was wasting their time. My reaction to that, unspoken (as I still wanted the job), was
Who is this fuckin’ asshole? Doesn’t he know I could break him in half?

In terms of playing, I hadn’t known what to expect. Sometimes at an audition you’ll jam to something familiar. But these guys put me to the test.

“We’re going to play one of our songs,” Paul explained. “It’s called ‘Deuce.’ See if you can keep up.”

Honestly? I think they were trying to get rid of me as quickly as possible. It’s not easy to hear someone else’s material for the first time and try to jump right in on lead guitar. In fact, it’s hard as hell.

But that’s what we did. They told me what key they’d be playing in, and then they gave me a demonstration. After a few minutes, they paused and invited me to jam along.

“I’ll cue you when it’s time for the solo,” Paul said.

I nodded. At the appointed time I ripped a blistering solo, tried to impress them with every cool lick I had in my repertoire. I wasn’t even sure it was what they were looking for, but it felt right. I liked the energy in the room, I liked the fact that they were playing loud and hard. And I really liked the song itself—a lot. I remember thinking, If this is the kind of stuff these guys are writing, then they might just be onto something.

We played for about twenty minutes, maybe a half hour, at the end of which they thanked me for my time and sent me on my way, offering little in the way of an assessment.

“Nice job,” Paul said, shaking my hand. “Thanks for coming. We’ll be in touch.”

Gene and Peter also shook my hand and smiled in agreement. And as I walked toward the door, I could hear Peter talking to Paul and Gene.

“Yeah, very cool,” he said with a laugh. “I love Chinese food.”

I wasn’t quite sure what he meant at the time, since I was so excited about what had just happened, but afterward I remembered that sometimes people thought I was of Asian descent. The illusive Cherokee strain in my blood confused people at times. I guess that’s what happened with Peter. Really, though, all that mattered to me was that these guys seemed to know what they were doing. They were professional and seemed focused and on the same page as me.