I have so many road stories, but one that always comes to mind is the tour we did in the summer of 1975 with Rush opening for us. I always liked Rush (and still do). After a few weeks on tour I started to get to know the guys in the band, and their very funny tour manager, Howie. One thing led to another and before long Peter and I were getting visits from the Rush boys. It usually turned into late evenings filled with beer and grass and whatever else was around. Alex Lifeson, the band’s guitarist, used to do this hysterical routine with a large paper laundry bag. He’d draw a ridiculous giant face on the bag with a black marker and put it over his head with a couple of holes poked in it so he could see and breathe. Everyone in the room at this point was either drunk or stoned, but usually a little of both. Anyway, Alex would go into this routine with the bag over his head and while smoking a joint out of his eye he put everyone into total hysterics. He really milked the routine until everyone was gasping for air!
The more popular KISS became, the more security we needed, and our entourage swelled accordingly. We had advance men, bodyguards, managers, road managers, valets, etc., along with various girlfriends and wives. For a while (before we began renting private jets) we flew commercially and usually took up all the first-class seating. Our personal bodyguards were guys you didn’t want to tangle with. If anyone from coach tried to invade our space (which they almost always did), one of the bodyguards would just flash a look—
Don’t even think about it—and that was usually enough to send them scurrying back to their seats. Our bodyguards were all trained security officers, but they also were great guys, really serious about their work and fun to hang out with. They’d all been around the business for some time and usually knew what to expect in any given situation. I trusted them completely, and put my life in their hands on more than one occasion.
There was the time in St. Louis, for example, in the late seventies. It wasn’t at all unusual when we flew into a city for our bodyguards to befriend members of the local law enforcement agencies. It was a smart thing to do, not only because you might need help with unruly fans or with traffic control at a show, but because afterward things sometimes got out of control back at the hotel or at a local club. The bodyguards knew we’d be in a better bargaining position if the local cops were on our side. We’d always accommodate the cops with autographed records, pictures, and T-shirts, and take photos with them and their families as a courtesy for their support. So, this time in St. Louis, while we were in town on a day off, two off-duty cops came back to the hotel to hang out with us. One of them was packing a .45. After a few hours of sitting around and having a few drinks, I said, “Man, let’s go out and find some action.”
Everyone agreed, but we ended up biting off more than we could chew. We ended up in a bar on the other side of the Mississippi River, which of course meant we had crossed state lines and jurisdictions. We’d been told the place was a rock ’n’ roll joint, but it ended up being more of a biker bar and they weren’t too fond of out-of-state rockers.
Peter and I stood outside the door, sizing up the atmosphere.
“Ah, fuck it,” Peter said. He gestured to the cops and bodyguards. “Who’s gonna mess with us?”
So we went inside without reservation, unaware of what was about to go down.
We all started drinking, shooting a few games of pool, and dancing with some of the local chicks. We were just starting to unwind and enjoy ourselves when things began to go wrong. Someone in our group (okay, it was me) supposedly made an improper advance toward one of the bikers’ girlfriends. The next thing I knew, guys were squaring off, cursing and threatening to fuck each other up. Usually, in a bar fight, it ends there, with both sides backing out of the brawl before it even has a chance to begin. But not in a biker bar at one o’clock in the morning. Not when you have a couple of cops and professional bodyguards on your side.
Someone made a quick move and fists and bottles started flying. Things went out of control fast, and at one point my bodyguard Eddie pushed me up against the wall and, like a Secret Service agent, shielded me from a guy trying to smash a chair over my head. Eddie took the full impact, but it barely fazed him. Things were escalating and a decision on what to do next needed to be made fast. Everyone fought as best as they could, but after a few minutes it became apparent that we were badly outnumbered. My bodyguards quickly decided it was time to split. They guided us out into the parking lot and threw us into the two limos that were waiting with engines running. The limo drivers burned rubber as we pulled away, and it took a while for everyone to calm down before we began to assess the damage.
A few of us had minor cuts and bruises, but one of the cops had a three-inch gash in his head that was bleeding badly. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
“Motherfucker!” the injured cop said. “They got my fucking gun!”
I’d known enough cops in my time to realize that this was a very big deal. Short of an accidental shooting, almost nothing is more embarrassing, and potentially more damaging, to a police officer than the loss of a gun. And when it happens while you’re off duty, drinking in a bar, brawling with a bunch of bikers?
Not good. Not good at all.
We got back to the hotel and I let the injured cop wash up in my shower. We tried cleaning out the gash in his head, but it was obvious to everyone he needed stitches to stop the bleeding, so we ran him over to the hospital for some medical treatment. I felt bad that he had lost his gun, especially since he was trying to save my ass! I never found out exactly what happened to him, but I’ll never forget what he did for all of us.
I had been so preoccupied with all the commotion at the hotel and hospital that I hadn’t realized my favorite motorcycle jacket was missing. Suddenly it hit me. I’d left the fucking jacket back in the bar.
“I need you to go back there and get it for me,” I told my bodyguard, Eddie. “And I don’t care how much it costs to get back.”
“Don’t worry, Ace,” he said. “I’ll get it, no matter what.”
I gave him a thousand dollars cash and said, “Don’t come back without it.”
Like I said, these guys were fearless… and loyal. To someone outside looking in, it probably would have appeared to be a suicide mission, but about an hour and a half later Eddie knocked on my door with my jacket in his hand.
“What happened?” I asked.
He told me most of the dudes we’d brawled with had left for the night, but the bouncers were still there. All it took to get my jacket was a short apology and a little cash—all in a day’s work for Eddie.
“How much?” I asked.
“I got it for five hundred. Is that okay, Ace?”
I laughed. “I would have paid two thousand to get it back, Eddie. You keep the other five hundred and let’s call it a night. Talk to you in the morning, buddy. Good night, and thanks.”
Eddie was a good guy, and I know he went to bed that night with a smile on his face.
Thinking back, I couldn’t help but wonder how it all happened. When we’d left the hotel, I felt like we were untouchable, like no one would fuck with us. It just made me realize that you’re never really safe, especially when you start to get fucked up and women are involved. You never know what’s in the stars; but isn’t that what makes life worth living?
I’ve come close to dying on numerous occasions. Car accidents, overdoses, fights. Almost drowned, too. Twice, in fact. Oddly enough, given our love-hate relationship, Gene Simmons came to my rescue. The first incident happened at a hotel pool in Atlanta. It was a day off, on the road, and we were all hanging out poolside, soaking up the sun and enjoying life. I had had one too many beers that afternoon and shouldn’t have been swimming. For no particular reason while I was treading water in the deep end of the pool, I remembered this funny old cartoon of Bugs Bunny. It’s the one where he’s dramatically going through the process of drowning. You know: dipping beneath the surface and holding up one finger. Then bobbing to the surface and going down again, this time h
olding up two fingers… and then three. I saw this in my mind’s eye, and I started laughing my ass off, so hard that I began taking in water. All of a sudden I was hacking and spitting and gulping for air.
And then I went under.
Oh, fuck… I’m drowning!
Luck interceded, as it often has in my life. Gene, sober as always, noticed I was in trouble and within seconds jumped into the pool and dragged me to the surface. Then he pulled me onto the pool deck and pumped the water out of me. Turns out Gene was actually a certified lifeguard when he was younger. Who knew?
I’ll never forget waking up with a hangover the next morning and the terrible taste of chlorine in my mouth. Then it hit me. I nearly drowned yesterday! Holy shit! And Gene saved my life! It was probably one of the few times that I was happier than a pig in shit over the fact that Gene was sober. I thanked him and walked away scratching my head, thinking to myself, Did that really happen? And as luck would have it, Gene intervened a few years later and rescued me a second time.
It happened one night after a show. I had decided to take a break from all the drinking and partying and just hang out in my room and take a warm bath. I took several tranquilizers to relax and while soaking in the hot water I dozed off. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to turn off the water and before long the tub started overflowing and began flooding the room (much to the dismay of hotel management). Gene must have had a premonition that night, since normally he would have been very busy entertaining one or two lovely ladies in his room, but to my surprise he came busting through the door with a security guard and pulled me out of the tub, butt naked, just as the water level in the tub was about to reach my lips!
“Ace!” he yelled. “What the fuck are you doing? You could have drowned!”
I was even more surprised than everyone else, since I had been awakened from a relaxing sleep; it took me a moment or two to fully realize my predicament. I thought to myself, My God, I’m so irresponsible sometimes. When will I ever learn? I thanked Gene a second time for saving my ass and told him I’d be fine for the rest of the night. Gene didn’t want to hear any excuses, and I believe he was genuinely concerned for my welfare. Even though I said I was okay, he tenderly helped me into my bed and tucked me in. He decided to sleep in my room that night and keep a watchful eye on the irresponsible Spaceman. The following morning I woke up without any memory of the incident and when I saw Gene in the room I said, “Hi, Gene! What are you doing here? I stayed in last night and just relaxed. What did you do?” He just looked at me in amazement, realizing I hadn’t remembered a thing about the night before and was unaware of how close I had come to drowning for the second time.
Even when I got tired of being locked into the KISS formula—with the pyrotechnics and special effects and lighting cues—I still enjoyed performing live. But after a while even that lost some of its excitement, primarily because there was no room for spontaneity. We couldn’t deviate much from the plan without risking bodily harm or at least messing up the show. After my accident in Florida, electrocution was always a fear. A bomb was gonna go off over here, or some fire was going to ignite over there. And it was going to happen at a specific time in every performance. So you pretty much had to do the same shit every night, and that became a little tedious. I distinctly remember a few times in the late seventies daydreaming in the middle of a song. This was only halfway through the show, and I became totally detached—my thoughts drifting away from the show as I began checking out chicks in the front row, wondering if I had enough coke and pills for the week, trying to remember if I had met anyone in town the last time I was here, signaling my bodyguards to give out invitations for our hospitality suite.
Once I finished my smoking guitar solo, I usually went on autopilot and thought more and more about events that were going to occur back at the hotel after the show. I don’t think the word bored applies here as much as the term spaced-out. When you know what’s always going to happen, you start looking for other things to excite your senses and occupy your thoughts. That started happening to me on occasion, and I just went with the flow.
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. Second
s 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.
No Regrets Page 20
