In any case, for some strange reason that day I left the bar and decided to get some fresh air. The sun was shining, but not too hot, and it seemed to improve my mood. I wound up cruising by the La Brea Tar Pits, which is one of the coolest places on earth. I parked the car and got out and began walking around, trying to forgive and forget what had happened earlier; suddenly I noticed a huge sign promoting a new exhibition at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, which is located just down the block. I stopped in my tracks.
The Treasures of Tutankhamun
Holy shit! The King Tut exhibit was in town!
A little background is probably warranted here. I’d always been fascinated with the Pyramids and Egyptian culture. I remember reading a book as a teen called Pyramid Power that captured my imagination, and since then I’d dreamed of visiting the Pyramids. Well, at this time the Tutankhamen exhibition was touring the United States, and attracting massive crowds wherever it went. Everybody wanted to see the golden mask and the artifacts of the Boy King. People would stand in line for hours in cities around the world. A novelty song by Steve Martin called “King Tut” was a hit single that year. Tut-mania gripped the nation! I know, because I had a pretty good dose of it myself.
Funny thing is, I had completely forgotten that the exhibit was going to be in L.A. while we were filming KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park, so I was completely taken aback when I stumbled across it that day. I thought to myself, Wow, if I could just get in there, everything will be all right. But you couldn’t get in without a ticket, and that day’s exhibition had sold out weeks in advance.
I wandered around outside the museum for a while, staring at the window, trying to imagine what it looked like inside, until suddenly a young woman approached me.
“Excuse me, sir?” She was probably in her early thirties, with a couple of kids in tow.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to go inside? I have an extra ticket.”
“Really?” I asked. “How much do you want for it?”
She smiled and shook her head. “That’s okay. You just enjoy the show.”
She pulled the ticket out of her purse and placed it in my hand. Then she walked away, leaving me standing there alone, dumbstruck by my good fortune. This lady could have scalped that ticket for a couple of hundred bucks. I would have paid that much. Instead she gave it away, and I don’t think she had any idea who I was. I was just a guy with long hair hanging out in front of the Museum of Art, looking like he needed a ticket for the King Tut exhibit.
Who was she, really? Possibly a messenger sent from above intervening in my life? I have no idea, but this kind of thing has happened to me before—too often for it to be dismissed as coincidence. People come out of nowhere to provide assistance or demonstrate kindness. A mysterious luck seems to always pull me out of deep or deadly shit. Luck and guardian angels have always been something I felt were with me, and I believe they still are today.
Five minutes later I was inside the museum, wandering around, blissfully soaking up the Egyptian atmosphere, looking at all these fascinating artifacts, feeling like I’d been transported thousands of years back into the past. By the time I walked out of the museum some three hours later, I felt completely at ease with myself and the world around me. Thinking back now about that afternoon and remembering how upset I was before visiting the exhibit, there are really only two words that best describe what happened to me: divine intervention.
I left the exhibit with a feeling of extraordinary well-being and peace. I drove to the set, apologized to the director and producer for my short fuse and absence, and promised that I would behave better in the future.
They accepted my apology and everything seemed to be okay. I didn’t learn until much later, when I saw the movie for the first time, that filming had gone on without me that day, including a scene in which our characters waged an epic battle with Frankenstein, Dracula, and the Wolfman in the park’s Chamber of Horrors. My character was a big part of that, and in the opening scenes I am present, but once the action starts to pick up someone else takes over. Under the best of circumstances the whole thing would have looked silly, but on top of that the director had enlisted the services of my stunt double to finish the remaining shots in the scene. Usually a stunt double is used only in distant shots or quick cutaways. But in this case my double was a black man. A terrific guy. Hell of a stunt double, too, but he didn’t look anything like me facially, and even with all the makeup on it was painfully obvious. I mean, you can see it clearly if you watch the movie. During the fight scene in the Chamber of Horrors with Frankenstein, he gets knocked around and thrown into a pillar with a couple of skeletons tied to it. Just hit the pause button. “Hey, man, that’s not Ace. That’s a black dude!” Very funny stuff, and let’s face it: would you expect anything less from the producers who made the Scooby-Doo cartoons?
The funniest day of shooting, though, was probably the one when we did the scene at the pool, in which we are confronted by the park manager and head of security about Gene knocking around a few security guards the night before. In the beginning the park manager rapidly walks into the scene and toward us, from the other side of the pool. Well, on the first or second take he tripped on one of the rocks and took a bad tumble and fell flat on his face and hands. For every take after that I was completely overtaken by the mental image of him stumbling; I must have ruined at least twenty-five takes with my laughter! On the first few takes the other guys joined in, but after that I was pretty much alone. It was very embarrassing for the other actor and me, but I absolutely lost all control of myself. The incident reminds me of when I was a little kid and routinely got busted for cracking up in school or in church.
That was the funniest part of the movie, but the most fun was at night while we were shooting at Magic Mountain. I bought a motorbike while we were out there. The park was closed to the public after dark so I had free rein on the smooth asphalt roads throughout the facility. Between takes I’d jump on the bike with a nice buzz and ride around the whole park without a care in the world. Remember—back in the Bronx when I was a kid we didn’t have motorbikes, so it was really my first chance to enjoy myself without having to worry about other traffic. It put a smile on my face, for sure, but I nearly broke my neck a few times.
Typical for me, though. Just being Ace.
Oh, well. Those were just some of the many things that happened (or went wrong) on KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park. None of it meant all that much to me. The whole thing was a goof. If you take it in that light, it’s okay, almost like a Saturday morning kids’ show or a Japanese sci-fi flick. Come on—who doesn’t like Mothra and Rodan! From day one I thought it was going to be campy and silly. Gene, unfortunately, took the whole process very seriously and was infatuated with making movies. I also believe it was the spark that got him thinking he could become a movie star. In fact, he did a few more films afterward, too, mistakenly thinking he could act. KISS Meets the Phantom… was a huge embarrassment for him, I think. For me? I had a few laughs and made some new friends and had a very interesting experience off the set. I didn’t really take it seriously from the outset and didn’t think much about it once it was over. To be honest, I thought it was a natural step in the devolution of KISS. We got exactly what we deserved, and exactly what most people expected.
By the time the movie came out it was apparent that we all were getting complacent and wanted to do other things. Our two previous albums, Alive II and Double Platinum, were basically compilations, bringing to nine the total number of KISS albums. All nine were released in the span of four years. I remember at the end of the shoot, sitting around a table with the other guys in the band, with Bill Aucoin and some of our business advisors and accountants, and talking about how we were going to fill the next six months. Bill suggested that instead of making another KISS record, each of us should consider a solo project. I thought it was a great idea. We could all pursue our musical interests, take a turn in the spotlight, and give f
ans a virtual buffet table of choices from the guys in KISS. Creatively and commercially, it seemed to make a lot of sense, and it had the additional benefit of giving us a break from each other. We had spent so much time with each other over the previous five years that it was inevitable for tensions to arise.
I felt good about my solo project from the beginning, mainly because I knew I’d be teaming up with Eddie Kramer. I had a lot of confidence in Eddie. I respected him and he respected me. We’d been a good team on KISS albums, and there was no reason to think we wouldn’t work well together on a solo venture. Apparently, though, no one else shared my confidence. I still remember Gene and Paul saying to me, in front of at least a dozen people, “Hey, Ace, if you need some help on your record, don’t hesitate to call.”
It wasn’t said with malice, but neither was it said with sincerity. There was a tone of condescension to it, like You’re gonna need help. Remember—
Paul and Gene dominated every KISS album. They wrote and sang most of the songs. They were the dominant personalities. I’m sure they figured my album would bomb, or that maybe I wouldn’t even get it done. If you want to give them the benefit of the doubt, you could say they were trying to look generous in front of our management team by offering their assistance if I needed it. You know, because I was crazy Ace… unreliable Ace… the Spaceman. Regardless, I remember walking out of that meeting and thinking, I’m gonna show these fuckers, and I’m gonna show the world!
For the first time in a long time, I felt motivated. When somebody says to me, “You can’t do that,” it makes me want to do it all the more. Even as a teenager, when my parents would say that I was the black sheep, I found it inspirational in a weird sort of way. Yeah, I had a drinking problem. I had a drug problem. I lacked some confidence, but I knew I had the chops; after all I was the lead guitarist in one of the biggest rock groups in the world. I knew I had the ability to make a great solo record. It was just a matter of staying focused and teaming up with the right producer.
Admittedly, focus has never been a strong suit of mine (only later on in life was I diagnosed with attention deficit disorder). I don’t work well under the pressure of a deadline and I find it almost impossible to force myself to be creative. Gene once told me, “Ace, I write a song every day.” I don’t get that. How can you force yourself to write? Writing has to be a creative process, and if you’re not feeling creative, it just won’t work well. Sometimes I won’t write a song for weeks. Then, on a given weekend, I might write two or three songs. When the juices are flowing, you have to be ready. When they aren’t flowing, you do something else: hop on a motorcycle, go fishing, have a party, or maybe build a remote-controlled helicopter. Whatever. Fill the time and divert your attention until you feel inspired. I never write by formula, either. Sometimes I start a song with a guitar riff, sometimes with a vocal hook or a melody. It varies. Ideas come from anywhere and everywhere—my personal life, books or magazines, movies, and sometimes even dreams. A good idea is a good idea, regardless of the source.
In the case of my first solo album I was lucky to have a few songs already in the vault, tunes that had been rejected on earlier KISS records. That gave me a head start. I brought them back, did a little rewriting and tweaking, and that helped ease some of the anxiety about going off on my own. Other songs just kind of happened—spontaneous combustion, I guess. It helped, too, that I cleaned up a little bit (although not completely) during the making of the record, usually limiting my alcohol and drug use to the evenings after a long day of recording. I also felt I didn’t really have much of a choice. I knew that I couldn’t blame anyone else if my solo album bombed. If a KISS record sucked, I could always chalk it up to Paul’s or Gene’s megalomania. Not now. This time it was all on me. Whatever praise or blame would be heaped on the record, I’d have to take responsibility.
The first thing I did (after getting Eddie Kramer on board, of course) was go out and find a great drummer, since Peter was tied up making his own record. An old friend of mine named Larry Russell (we went to high school together and jammed a little back in the day) came up with this name: Anton Fig. I’d never heard of Anton and wasn’t sure if he was right for the project, until I asked Eddie Kramer if he had any suggestions.
“You know,” he said, “there’s this guy I worked with recently named Anton Fig. He’s unbelievable. You should check him out!”
Anton was playing in a band at the time with his two closest friends, Keith and Amanda Lentin. Born in South Africa, he moved to the States in the early seventies and settled down in Boston, where he studied at the New England Conservatory of Music; he later moved to New York City. When I heard his name from two unrelated sources, I figured it was destiny that we meet. So I invited Anton up to a studio in the North Bronx that was run by my friend Eddie Solan, and we jammed for a while. We hit it off right away, both musically and personally. I immediately hired him for the job and we have enjoyed a lasting friendship in and out of the studios since 1978. (He recently performed on my latest solo effort, Anomaly, which was released in September 2009.) Anton has had one of the best steady gigs in show business for the last twenty-five years, as the drummer for David Letter-man’s house band, featuring Paul Shaffer. He’s also one of the busiest session drummers in New York City and has worked with everyone from Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan, and Joe Cocker to Miles Davis, Richie Havens, and Paul Butterfield.
When I first started writing songs for Anomaly, one of the compositions was “Genghis Kahn.” Listen to the thundering drum work on that song and you’ll understand what makes Anton so special. He holds the pocket back, playing a little behind the beat, just like John Bonham of Led Zeppelin would do. If you listen closely to any Zeppelin tune you’ll find that what gives it that groove is Bonham’s drumming. He’s never racing ahead of the guitar; he’s always holding back. Same with Anton. It’s a unique talent, playing slightly behind the beat. It doesn’t come naturally for most rock drummers, but when executed properly it sets up a great pocket and can really make a song swing. Anton is one of the most versatile drummers I’ve ever met. I bring out the best in him, and he brings out the best in me. We have a musical bond. I don’t have to say much when we’re in the studio. Usually just a few words about tempo and feel and some suggestions about where I might want a fill. He just gets it, plain and simple.
When I wrote “Genghis Khan,” I immediately thought, Man, Anton is going to kill this song! I played it with two other drummers prior to Anton, since he was tied up recording, and it just seemed okay, but when Anton got ahold of it he really took the song to the next level. Just as I had envisioned it.
Ace Frehley was recorded at the sprawling Colgate Mansion, on the Filston estate in Sharon, Connecticut, right by Lime Rock Park speedway. Once elegant, the hundred-acre estate had been vacant for a few years and had begun to fall on hard times. The grounds were a bit unkempt. Chips of paint and plaster sometimes fell from the ceiling. But parts of it were still very much intact and impressive. I thought to myself, If only these walls could talk. The library, for example, in which we recorded a lot of the acoustic guitar work, had beautifully carved woodwork and turn-of-the-century textured wallpaper, still intact. It was enormous and grand; I found it to be an inspirational and creative workplace. We used several other rooms to create different acoustic effects. On “Fractured Mirror,” for instance, we placed microphones at the top of a stairway on the second floor to get a huge, reverberating drum sound.
We did a lot of stuff like that. Eddie liked working with me because I didn’t put many restraints on him and encouraged him to experiment with unorthodox recording techniques. With KISS, Paul and Gene usually wanted things done by the book. I didn’t even have a book. I was more interested in having fun and taking chances.
I’d say “Eddie, don’t be afraid to try some crazy stuff,” and “Let’s try something you’ve never done before. Fuck it! Go for it.”
I’ll never forget the first time Eddie flipped the tape over on a twenty-fou
r-track, two-inch tape machine. I was a little bewildered.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. Just play your ass off!”
That ended up being my first backward guitar solo and it sounded amazing. I asked, “Where did you learn that” and Eddie went on to tell me what it was like working with Jimi Hendrix at Electric Lady Studios.
Eddie always had interesting stories to tell. Sometimes he’d talk about when he worked with the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, or the Kinks at Olympic Sound Studios in London. Once he talked about what it was like recording Led Zeppelin II, including working with Jimmy Page at the mixing board at the Record Plant in New York, and I was on the edge of my seat. Eddie also worked with Dionne Warwick, Peter Frampton, Carly Simon, and David Bowie.
In my wildest dreams I never thought I’d be working with a producer who had worked with so many people that I love and admire. I felt really privileged at that point and I always wanted to give Eddie my very best performance when he hit the record button.
Sometimes we’d put four different amps in four different places and blend them all together in the mix. Crazy shit. Always pushing the envelope. Sometimes even double-tracking drum fills… like the drum solos in “Rip It Out.” On “Fractured Mirror,” Eddie and I achieved a unique metallic bell sound on the guitar. I was playing a Gibson double-neck guitar into a Marshall stack with the volume turned all the way up. I mean, this thing was ready to explode. On one neck I had the pickups on, so if I were to hit the strings on that neck, it would have been loud as hell, but instead I played the picking figure on the other neck, with the pickups off—the sound coming out of the amp was the body resonating through the pickups from the other neck. That’s how I got those bell overtones. It’s a technique I still use today and you can hear it on an instrumental I recorded and produced for Anomaly titled “Fractured Quantum.” I was also one of the first guitar players in history to use a synthesizer guitar on record. I used it in the song “Ozone,” which was lots of fun, and Eddie and my assistant engineer, Rob Freeman, did a great job transferring that sound to tape. The device was called the ARP Avatar and was elementary in design compared to the synthesizers available on the market today.
No Regrets Page 18
