No Regrets (28 page)

You can become accustomed to almost anything, and too much of a good thing can sometimes make it seem less appealing. On other occasions, though, I let the good times roll without a care in the world, taking in every sensual experience. I remember playing a big outdoor festival in Atlanta. I was given a gigantic suite in the hotel and I filled it up with a dozen southern belles, all of whom wanted to show me their gratitude for my performance. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to entertain everyone concerned. Luckily a very popular local DJ assisted me in the selection process and helped me indulge in the fruits of my labors into the early hours of the morning.

I didn’t have anything on this guy when it came to staying power. He was over the edge, and the two of us ended up sharing a half-dozen chicks through the course of the evening, drinking and doing lines of coke off their breasts and naked torsos, screwing until we were so numb we had nothing more to give. We both eventually passed out among several naked bodies, only to be awakened by the sensitive caresses of the opposite gender wanting breakfast treats. It was an experience most men will only fantasize about. KISS’s popularity was reaching its peak in the South around this time, and even while everything was going on that night, I sensed I’d never have such an over-the-top experience of southern hospitality again.

And I was right.

After months of being catered to by so many different people and visiting so many different places, the road became a blur. Once in a while, though, certain nights would stand out—either because of the pure ecstasy of the event, or because I came dangerously close to losing it all. The next story is an example of the latter and involves an enormous stroke of luck. (No pun intended; or maybe just a little.)

We refer to it as “the golf club affair.” It involved me, Peter, and Don
Wasley. (As I mentioned earlier, Don was the VP of artist development for Casablanca Records; Peter and I affectionately nicknamed Don “the Director.”) The story begins back at the hotel after a show. We rendezvoused for some drinks and lines, not expecting anything out of the ordinary. The next thing you know we were joined by three chicks. From the looks of these gals it appeared we were in store for a very accommodating evening. Alcohol, cocaine, and quaaludes filled the next hour or two as we savored the fruits of these lovely ladies. Later some of us got hungry and decided to have a snack. Since we were in the hospitality suite there was a long table of food just there for the taking. After we ate we started painting the girls’ bodies with the onion dip and salad dressing, thinking it might liven things up a bit. The event quickly evolved into a contest for the best body painting design. Another hour passed, and after a few showers some of us started losing interest. Don, for one, had turned his back on his female canvas and begun practicing his golf swing. Peter had put on a cape and was diving off the furniture into God knows what, pretending to be Superman. I was bent over the table doing a line of blow when all of a sudden I heard a cracking sound, and out of the corner of my eye I watched the girl near Don hit the floor with a thud. Don had been unaware of her approach from behind, and had clocked her on the side of the head with his golf club. She hit the carpet like deadweight!

I remember looking at Don, and I remember Peter saying, “Holy shit! What a fuckin’ shot.”

Being completely wasted, we all started laughing, but within seconds our laughter quickly turned into deep concern for her well-being, since she wasn’t moving. I remember thinking to myself,
What a fucked up way to end such a great party!
I could just imagine the headline: “Groupie Killed in Hotel Suite by Golf Club.”

Don had a look of grave concern on his face, since he was looking at a lengthy prison sentence if she was in fact dead. Time stood still for a moment as we tried to revive the fallen angel.

Suddenly a slight moan rose from her mouth as she rolled over onto
her back. With half-opened eyes she slowly raised her head, and with a deep breath sat up on the carpet. Seconds later, with a bewildered look on her face, she spoke.

“What the fuck was that?”

I said to her, “Sorry, baby. Are you okay? Don was practicing his golf swing and I guess you eluded his peripheral vision.”

Within no time she was back on her feet, bent over the table snorting another line of coke, oblivious to how close she had come to dying. We just looked at each other in amazement, thinking,
Shit… what a fuckin’ close call!

Our guardian angels must have been watching over us that night. The sun was coming up and the party continued until we all fell asleep.

So many close calls, so many disasters averted. I
have no idea how or why I’m still around. I took so many chances and pushed the envelope of fate so far; sometimes it almost seems like these things never really happened. But they did, and I’m just thankful I lived to talk about it and learned from my mistakes.

There was the time in a large southern city, for instance, when we trashed a hotel room in grand style. Peter was there, getting down with one of rock’s best-known groupies, a chick named Sweet Sweet Connie from Arkansas (who was immortalized in the Grand Funk Railroad song “We’re an American Band”). I was feeling very lovable that evening and jumped into bed between Peter and Connie, but after a few minutes it was apparent I was an unwelcome guest, so I retreated to the safety of my room, where another party was beginning. My friend Donnie from Westchester showed up (why in the name of Christ was Donnie down there? I have no idea). And the fourth person was a famous stock car driver who shall remain nameless; let’s just say he was a big deal at the time. And this was the Deep South, remember, where stock car drivers were treated like… well, like rock stars.

So the party progressed as it usually did, with a lot of alcohol and
cocaine and whatever, until I came up with the brilliant idea to begin tossing the furniture out the window. Now, I did not invent this concept, but I did almost perfect it. My buddies looked a little unwilling at first to participate, especially since we were twenty stories up and my windows faced out onto a busy street. But once I began the festivities by grabbing a lamp and hurling it out the window, they quickly decided to go along with the plan. Next went a wooden chair, and an end table. Then a desk flew out the window… followed by a television set. Each item exploded spectacularly—
CRACK!!
—when it hit the street below, splintering in all directions and terrifying passersby. Next we somehow maneuvered a love seat through the open window. Again, we could have killed someone, but I don’t recall thinking it was anything but hilarious at the time. The severity of our actions didn’t occur to me, until our road manager, Frankie Scinlaro, came running into the room, panicked and breathless.

“Are you guys out of your fucking minds?” he asked. “The cops are on their way.”

“Uh-oh,” I said between giggles.

“No, man, this is serious.” He pointed at Donnie and the stock car driver. “You guys get the hell out of here.”

I started to leave with them. “It’s your room, Ace,” Frankie pointed out. “They’re going to find you.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get in bed, get under the covers, keep your fucking mouth shut. Let me do the talking.”

The state troopers arrived just minutes later and I eagerly listened to the conversation from under the sheets, while pretending to be asleep. They were ready to take me away without discussion, and who could blame them? There was furniture flying out of my room like missiles. But Frankie, God rest his soul, handled the whole thing like a pro. Frankie was a crazy fuck, and had seen it all and could bullshit with the best of them. Frankie had also road-managed Alice Cooper before coming
on board with KISS, so he knew a little something about rock star excess. KISS, though, was almost too much even for Frankie.

“I’m sorry, officer,” I heard him say. “Ace had a party with a lot of people in his room, but unfortunately he drank a little too much and passed out in his bed hours ago He’s not the guilty party here, and people have been in and out of this room all night. I don’t even know most of them. Ace was just trying to give back some Southern hospitality. He had nothing to do with these assholes who tossed the furniture. Believe me, he’ll be pissed when he wakes up in the morning.”

Incredibly enough, they bought it. Or they didn’t buy it, but just didn’t care enough to make an example of me. Especially since there were no witnesses, and no one was actually injured in the whole insane episode. KISS had that kind of clout. Either way, without Frankie’s intervention, I’m sure I would have ended up in jail that night. Instead I lay there for a while, relieved and thankful for Frankie’s skills of persuasion, wondering what adventures awaited me in the next city, and whether I would be so lucky.

During the 1970s and ’80s most people who were
doing a lot of cocaine usually came up with some sort of code name or alias for the word
coke,
especially when talking about it on the telephone (you never knew if the phone was bugged). In my social circle, names came and went, but the one that remained my favorite over the years was “Betty White.” If I was talking to a friend on the phone and wanted to know if there was going to be cocaine at a particular party, I’d just say “Hey! Is Betty going to be at the party?” We always laughed about it when we met face-to-face, and how could you not? I mean it’s just too fucking funny for words, and so is the real Betty White. I love her to death, and think she’s the most underrated female comedian on the planet.

Alcohol and drugs were my constant companion, my best friend—and worst enemy. Sometimes they were a detriment to my career and
personal life. Overall, I guess, you’d have to argue they were mainly a bad thing inasmuch as they nearly killed me. Sometimes, though, being loaded worked to my advantage, as it did on October 31, 1979, when KISS made a memorable Halloween night appearance on NBC’s
Tomorrow
show.

Hosted by the friendly and sometimes confrontational Tom Snyder,
Tomorrow
was a popular and successful late-night talk show that attracted some of the biggest names in politics and show business. Hey—John Lennon did
Tomorrow
. How could KISS turn it down? Well, we couldn’t, and our appearance was one for the ages.

I was nervous as hell about going on network TV—live!—in front of millions of people. So I started pounding some Stoli in the back of my limo as soon as it passed through my gates on the way to the city. Now, I might have been a formidable drinker in those days, but I wasn’t really a vodka drinker. The bottle was nestled in the door of the limo and I reached for it to escape the anxiety I was feeling. By the time we arrived at the NBC studios in Rockefeller Center, I had a pretty good buzz on and all my nervousness had subsided.

When I got into the dressing room, Bill Aucoin showed up with a bottle of champagne, and I had a glass with him and Jeanette. Just before I left the dressing room I snorted a few lines of blow to balance off all the alcohol and give me a little edge. By the time we took our places opposite Tom, on the set, in full KISS costume and makeup, I was feeling no pain. And I was ready for anything.

My amusement began with an introductory voice-over, during which Snyder described our act, and in the process referred to Gene as the “
bass
player.” As in,
small-mouthed, large-mouthed, striped
or
Chilean sea…

By the time he got around to me I could barely contain my amusement. So, when Tom said, “This is Ace Frehley, lead guitarist,” I responded with, “I’m not the lead guitarist, I’m the
trout
player!”

And then I cracked up, and so did Tom, much to the chagrin of Paul and, especially, Gene.

Hey, Gene be would the first to admit that he is a control freak. So is Paul. They always wanted to control KISS, and they wanted to control me. But I had talent and a mind of my own, and had different ideas about the direction of KISS. Gene and Paul were caught in this dichotomy:
Oh, fuckin’ Ace. We love him, we hate him. We don’t wanna put up with his bullshit anymore, and he doesn’t wanna put up with ours. But we can’t get rid of him because the fans love him!

“You’re supposed to be some sort of spaceman, right?” Tom asked me at one point, while gesturing to my costume.

“No, actually I’m a plumber!”

Snyder laughed from the gut, and fired right back, “Oh, well I’ve got a piece of pipe backstage I’d like to have you work on.”

A hanging curveball if I ever saw one! Regardless, I completed the R-rated joke with the delivery of a major-league all-star.

“Tell me about it!”

There was no live audience in the studio, but just about everyone there, including the crew, doubled over with laughter.

If you watch the video you can actually see me turning to Gene and putting my hands up at one point and quietly saying, “What?” like a child who’s misbehaving at a family function and wants his dad to loosen up and join in the fun. Gene was sometimes incapable of that, even in a setting that clearly called for some spontaneity and horsing around. It was all so ridiculous. How seriously can you take yourself when you’re sitting there in a superhero costume and full face makeup? Gene missed the whole thing. If he would have allowed himself to be just a little more lighthearted about everything, and stopped fuckin’ thinking about money all the time, things might have turned out differently. I love the guy, but he
never, ever got it.

You could have cut the air in that studio with a knife. Tom picked up on Gene’s negativity, and you could tell he wasn’t digging it. At one point Gene tried to make a joke about selling Tom some swampland in New Jersey, and Snyder completely ignored him and turned his attention back to me. It was like Gene didn’t exist. Tom Snyder may have
been a newsman, but he realized very quickly that it was more entertaining to let me laugh and tell jokes than it was to allow Gene to bore everyone with his uptight humor.

Afterward, I got tons of phone calls congratulating me on my “performance.”