“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.”
“You were a fucking riot, Ace! You stole the show!”
Yeah, that was a classic performance, and it might have been the first time that a single appearance so clearly delineated the diverse personalities of KISS. The show speaks for itself and that’s all I’m going to say about it. Everyone should judge for themselves what really happened. I enjoyed myself on the show and really wasn’t trying to piss off anyone. I was just being the Space Ace. After the interview, Tom came back to my dressing room and we shook hands and had another good laugh. I thought he was very genuine, and he seemed to really enjoy the experience.
Being a rock star provided access to people and relationships I never would have known otherwise. My friendship with John Belushi certainly falls into this category. I met John one night at Peter’s pad in the city. Peter lived on the East Side with his wife, Lydia, and I was always a welcome guest in their home. I w
alked in and John was just kicking back on Peter’s couch, having a cold beer and making small talk. We all exchanged greetings, and I cracked open a cold one as well. A few beers later the obvious question arose: did I have any coke? In those days I almost always had at least a few grams of blow on me, but on that particular night I had just scored some really good shit. Once I announced the good news, everyone in the room rose to attention and proceeded to partake of the sparkling powder.
More lines and cold beer filled the next hour or two, with jokes flying back and forth across the room until we were all laughing hysterically. Lydia was always a lot of fun to be around (we had the same sense of humor) and shared a lot of inside jokes about the band. She was with Peter from the beginning, and over the years had become a trusted friend and confidante. I could usually make her laugh at the drop of a hat, but what was more interesting to me was that John seemed to be laughing at almost all my jokes. I had been told for years that I was a funny guy, but to be making a professional comedian crack up felt even more rewarding.
There’s a strange bonding process that happens sometimes between two people when alcohol and drugs are involved. That bond was cemented that evening between me and John, and remained that way until the end. We were both famous, and we both loved music and comedy, and we also enjoyed getting fucked up. John and KISS rose to prominence on parallel lines. He was one of the breakout stars of Saturday Night Live in its first few seasons, beginning in the fall of 1975. While KISS was selling out arenas and stadiums around the world in the late 1970s, John was in the process of becoming a movie star as well, first with Animal House and then with The Blues Brothers.
John used to take me down to his private bar, south of Canal Street, which he owned with fellow Blues Brother Dan Aykroyd. What a trip that was. Those guys liked to party (obviously), and yet they really couldn’t go out in New York without getting harassed by fans for autographs or photo opportunities, which was another thing we had in common. John and Dan bought their own bar and sealed the windows with cinder blocks; a steel door with a peephole served as the front entrance. To the average passerby, the building looked almost abandoned.
That was the beauty of the club: it was never technically “open.” They used it primarily on Saturday nights for a hangout and to entertain guests after the show. Anyone driving or walking by on a Saturday night or Sunday morning might have thought it was a mob hangout, because the street would be filled with stretch limousines, but in reality the bar was filled with the cast and guests of SNL.
I was there on some of those nights, and the parties were great, but a little too crowded for my tastes. During the week, though, the place was dead and for me that was a dream come true. I mean just imagine how cool it would be to have your own private bar in Manhattan to hang out in and do whatever you wanted. I’d get behind the bar and act like a bartender for John and any other guests we had invited. Then we’d switch places, tell some stupid jokes, and knock over the drinks. We’d clean off the bar, lay down two-foot lines of cocaine, and try to snort them in one breath. Then we’d dance on top of the bar, or ask some girls I had invited to do a striptease while John and I played the guitar and drums on the little bandstand. It was total decadence, and we enjoyed every second of it.
I can remember staggering outside with John one time in the early morning hours, climbing into my Porsche and driving to a nearby deli for a beer run (yes, we’d drunk all the beer in the bar!), and passing out in the car in front of the deli, only to be rudely awakened by businessmen and secretaries on their way to work. They’d be looking into the windows of my black 928, curiously trying to figure out who the disheveled occupants were. John and I just laughed at them, saying, in effect, “You suckers! Fuck you and your jobs! We don’t have to work this morning!”
And so it went on, sometimes for days on end. I remember calling up Jeanette one morning after one or two nights out with John and hearing screams on the other end of the phone. Jeanette was understandably pissed, but I knew she was also a huge fan of both John and SNL. I thought to myself, if I put John on the phone with Jeanette maybe he could calm her down and buy me some time.
John got on the phone and launched into his famous Marlon Brando impersonation from A Streetcar Named Desire. John started yelling “Stella! Stella! Stella!”
After his routine was finished he also told her he needed me to coach him on an upcoming skit on the show.
Within a few minutes Jeanette’s anger had melted away. She told John it was okay for me to stay out for another day. We went back to the bar or my apartment or someone else’s apartment and continued the party till we passed out again.
The most memorable story I can share about John is one that reflects the guy’s inherent sensitivity and insecurity. You see, like a lot of performers, John wasn’t quite the egomaniac he appeared to be onstage. Or, at least, I don’t think he was. I was at the Palladium (formerly the Academy of Music) one night in the summer of 1980, shortly after the Blues Brothers movie had come out. Belushi and Aykroyd had embarked on a legitimate concert tour, with a great backup band, and anybody who was anybody in New York was at the Palladium on Fourteenth Street that night to see the Blues Brothers in action. They played for about forty-five minutes, then took a break, with the understanding that they’d come back out and do a second set.
I was hanging out backstage with a date and all the other celebrities when I got the word that no one was allowed in the dressing room to visit the Blues Brothers. Suddenly the promoter, Ron Delsener, came running up to me.
“Ace, we have a big problem.”
“What’s up?” I said.
Ron told me John didn’t want to go back out to do the second half of the show, supposedly because his voice was shot.
“What can I do?” I asked.
Ron said, “Can you try talking to him? I told him you were here.”
Delsener paused, then gestured toward my date for the evening, a very tall and lovely New York model. “With your friend.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
As I proceeded to go upstairs to the dressing room, everyone who was milling around backstage looked up at me with amazement. I could hear some of them saying under their breath, “How come Ace can get in to see John and Dan, and we can’t?” Paul and Gene were also part of the crowd, looking confused. My model friend was wearing a very short skirt that night, and you could easily see her sheer underpants as we ascended the stairs, adding insult to injury to some of the onlookers.
A minute later I was in the dressing room, asking John how he was feeling.
He shook his head.
“I don’t know, man, my fucking voice is shot. I can’t sing.”
I just smiled.
His voice sounded terribly hoarse and I suggested he drink some hot tea with honey. While he sipped the tea I tried to cheer him up with a few stupid Ace jokes; then I hiked up my friend’s dress to lift his spirits.
“Come on, John,” I said. “You don’t want to disappoint the Big Apple, do you?”
He just looked at me, his face filled with sadness and fatigue.
“I don’t think I can do it, Ace.”
I chuckled. “Hey, nobody really gives a shit. Stop worrying. I can’t sing, either. I just fake it most of the time, but I get out there anyway. Hell, Mick Jagger can’t sing. Dylan can’t sing. They just kinda talk the words. Everybody does it in rock ’n’ roll, especially when they’re on tour and they blow out their voice. Remember, the show must go on, and you’re a professional.”
John smiled.
“I guess.”
“Right. Just talk your way through it. Everyone out there loves you. It’ll be great!”
We joked around a little more and had a beer and did a few lines of coke. Slowly John’s mood began to change for the better. After a few more lines and a little female entertainment, John decided he would finish the show. I told John to knock ’em dead and I’d see him after the show. I left the dressing room sm
iling, and informed Delsener that the show would begin shortly. Ron was so thrilled he hugged me and said, “I can’t thank you enough. I guess that’s why they call you the Ace. You really saved the fucking day. I owe you one, buddy!”
In the winter of 1982 I got a call from John, as I did on occasion, usually when he was in town and wanted someone to hang out with or needed some blow. I wasn’t available at the time, and here’s why: he’d caught me during one of my “cleansing” periods. This was something I did from time to time, probably out of instinct, and I honestly believe it’s the only reason I’m alive today. I would take a break from the self-abuse, give myself a chance to come back from the precipice. Even on the road with KISS, I sort of knew how much my body could take before I’d need a rest. Sometimes I’d look at the calendar, notice we were going to be in a particular city for three or four days, and I’d shut everything down. No alcohol, no cocaine, no painkillers, no sex. I’d put a sign on my door saying “Quarantined by the Board of Health!” and then I’d take a bunch of tranquilizers and sleep for two days. My bodyguards gave everyone strict orders not to call or knock on my door. That allowed me to recharge my batteries. I’d usually wake up refreshed, take a hot bath, have some breakfast, and start the whole crazy cycle all over again, feeling as though I’d bought myself a little more time.
No Regrets Page 21
