No Regrets [Englisch] [Gebundene Ausgabe]

In its nearly four-decade existence, KISS has sold more than 100 million albums worldwide, ranking among the top-selling rock-and-roll bands of all time. The KISS Army remains vast and devoted, buying merchandise and concert tickets at sellout shows that continue around the globe. Now, Ace Frehley, long regarded as the most approachable and likeable member of the band, opens up about his unbelievable exploits as one of the founding members of KISS.

It all started in January of 1973, when this self-taught musician and Bronx native spotted an advertisement in the Village Voice  posted by Paul Stanley, Peter Criss, and Gene Simmons: “Guitarist wanted with flash and balls.” Frehley, figuring he had both, answered the ad, and the rest was history.

Within a few years, KISS was playing spectacular live shows to sold-out stadiums all over the world, decked out in their iconic costumes and makeup. The band was raking in millions of dollars on tours, albums, and merchandise, and the rabid KISS Army numbered in the six figures. Frehley, known as “The Spaceman,” had transformed from a scrappy, music-obsessed kid to one of the most famous and revered guitarists of his era, hailed by critics and adored by fans. No Regrets goes behind the make-up, the money, the women, and the partying. Frehley recounts his battles with drug addiction and his brushes with death, sets the record straight about his complicated relationships with Simmons and Paul Stanley, and describes his evolution as a musician—all with his characteristic humor and honesty. Without a doubt, No Regrets is a must-have for every KISS fan.

A BRONX TALE

When I was a kid I used to carry around this awful image in my head—a picture of three men tangled awkwardly in high-tension wires, fifty feet in the air, their lifeless bodies crisping in the midday sun.

The horror they endured was shared with me by my father, an electrical engineer who worked, among other places, at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, New York, helping with the installation of a new power plant in the 1950s. Carl Frehley was a man of his times. He worked long hours, multiple jobs, did the best he could to provide a home for his wife and kids. Sometimes, on Sunday afternoons after church, he’d pile the whole family into a car and we’d drive north through the Bronx, into Westchester County, and eventually find ourselves on the banks of the Hudson River. Dad would take us on a tour of the West Point campus and grounds, introduce us to people, even take us into the control room of the electrical plant. I’m still not sure how he pulled that one off—getting security clearance for his whole family—but he did.

Dad would walk around, pointing out various sights, explaining the rhythm of his day and the work that he did, sometimes talking in the language of an engineer, a language that might as well have been Latin to me. Work was important, and I guess in some way he just wanted his kids to understand that; he wanted us to see this other part of his life.

One day, as we headed back to the car, my father paused and looked up at the electrical wires above, a net of steel and cable stretching across the autumn sky.

“You know, Paul,” he said, “every day at work, we have a little contest before lunch.”

I had no idea what he was talking about.

A contest? Before lunch?

Sounded like something we might have done at Grace Lutheran, where I went to elementary school in the Bronx.

“We draw straws to see who has to go out and pick up sandwiches for the whole crew. If you get the shortest straw, you’re the delivery boy.”

That was the beginning. From there, my father went on to tell us the story of the day he drew the short straw. While he was out picking up sandwiches, there was a terrible accident back on the job. Someone had accidentally thrown a switch, restoring power to an area where three men were working. Tragically, all three men were electrocuted instantly. When my father returned, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The bodies of his coworkers were being peeled off the high-tension wires.

“Right up there,” he said quietly, looking overhead. “That’s where it happened.”

He paused, put a hand on my shoulder.

“If I hadn’t drawn the short straw that day, I’d have been up there in those wires, and I wouldn’t be here right now.”

I looked at the wires, then at my father. He smiled.

“Sometimes you get lucky.”

Dad would repeat that story from time to time, just often enough to keep the nightmares flowing. That wasn’t his intent, of course—he always related the tale in a whimsical “what if?” tone—but it was the outcome nonetheless. You tell a little kid that his old man was nearly fried to death, and you’re sentencing him to a few years of sweaty, terror-filled nights beneath the sheets. I get his point now, though. You never know what life might bring… or when it might come to a screeching halt.

And it’s best to act accordingly.

The Carl Frehley I knew (and it’s important to note that I didn’t know him all that well) was quiet and reserved, a model of middle-class decorum, maybe because he was so fucking tired all the time. My father was forty-seven years old by the time I came into this world, and I sometimes think he was actually deep into a second life at that point. The son of German and Dutch immigrants, he’d grown up in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, finished three years of college, and had to leave school and go to work. Later on he moved to New York and married Esther Hecht, a pretty young girl seventeen years his junior. My mom had been raised on a farm in Norlina, North Carolina. My grandfather was from northern Germany—the island RÜgen, to be precise. My grandmother was also German, but I’d always heard whispers of there being some American Indian blood in our family. It was boredom, more than anything else, that brought my mom to New York. Tired of life on the farm, she followed her older sister Ida north and lived with her for a while in Brooklyn.

Dad, meanwhile, came for the work.

There was always a little bit of mystery surrounding my dad, things he never shared; nooks and crannies of his past were always a taboo subject. He married late, started a family late, and settled into a comfortable domestic and professional routine. Every so often, though, there were glimpses of a different man, a different life.

My dad was an awesome bowler, for example. He never talked about being part of a bowling league or even how he learned the game. God knows he only bowled occasionally while I was growing up, but when he did, he nailed it. He had his own ball, his own shoes, and textbook form that helped him throw a couple of perfect games. He was also an amazing pool player, a fact I discovered while still in elementary school, when he taught me how to shoot. Dad could do things with a pool cue that only the pros could do, and when I look back on it now I realize he may have spent some time in a few shady places. He once told me that he had beaten the champion of West Virginia in a game of pool. I guess you have to be pretty good to beat the state champion of any sport.

“Hey, Dad. What’s your high run?” I once asked him while we were shooting pool.

“One forty-nine,” he said, without even looking up.

Holy shit…

I must have been only about ten years old at the time, and I didn’t immediately grasp the enormity of that number, but I quickly realized it meant making 149 consecutive shots without missing.

That’s ten fuckin’ racks!

You have to know what you’re doing to polish off that many balls without screwing up. And that little piece of information, coupled with the times I saw him execute trick shots and one-handed shots, made me wonder even more about his elusive past. Perhaps, when he was younger, he lived life in the fast lane and we had much more in common than one might think. Maybe, just maybe, Carl Frehley kicked some ass.

It’s kinda fun to think so, anyway.

I grew up just off Mosholu Parkway in the Bronx, not far from the New York Botanical Garden and Bronx Zoo. It was a middle-class neighborhood of mixed ethnic backgrounds, consisting of mostly German, Irish, Jewish, and Italian families. Ours was pretty normal and loving, a fact I came to appreciate even more after I began hanging out with some serious badasses who were always trying to escape their violent and abusive home lives. Conversely, my dad never hit or abused me as a child, but I often wondered how much he really cared about me since we never did anything together one-on-one. Now as I think back, I realize more and more that he loved me, and that he did the best he could under the circumstances.

It’s pretty hard to look at the Frehleys and suggest that my upbringing contributed in any way to my wild and crazy lifestyle and the insanity that was to ensue. Sure, my dad was a workaholic and never home, but there was always food on the table, and we all felt secure. My parents enjoyed a happy and affectionate marriage—I can still see them holding hands as they walked down the street, or kissing when Dad came home from work. They always seemed happy together, and there was very little fighting at home. We had relatives in Brooklyn...