No Regrets (29 page)

“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 walked 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 smiling, 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.

When John called me, he had just flown in from California, where he had been working on what would be his last film,
Neighbors
, and was going to be in town for only a couple of days.

“Come on, Ace,” he said. “Let’s hook up in the city.”

“Sorry, John. Can’t do it. I’m cleaning up for a while. I just need a break from the insanity.”

I remember him laughing on the other end of the phone. I suppose it did sound funny, the idea of me not wanting to party. A break from the insanity?! What do you mean? I was Mr. Insanity… from Outer Space! I must admit his offer was tempting, and I hadn’t seen him for weeks, but I had been burning the candle at both ends and just wanted to stop feeling like shit for a little while. I also wanted to relax and hang out with my two-year-old-daughter, Monique, and be Daddy for a while. Also, don’t forget—I’m a Taurus through and through. Once I’ve made up my mind, that’s it. I very rarely reverse a decision.

We had a few more laughs and eventually he decided to give up and make other plans. He told me he’d call when he got back from L.A. on the next run, and then said good-bye.

I didn’t realize that would be the last time I’d ever speak to John. If I had known, I would have dropped everything and met him in the city, no questions asked. A few weeks later I was watching the news when I
heard that John had died of a drug overdose in Los Angeles. I was in complete shock; an overwhelming feeling of sadness came over me. I was never going to see him again. I had become very fond of John, and suddenly I realized all the fun we had together was over. He had told me a few months earlier that he wanted to put me in his next film, since I was one of the few people who could always crack him up. Now it was just a dream.

We had a mutual admiration. John Belushi was a great guy and a gifted performer. I feel very lucky to have known him. His death was a tragedy and was the catalyst for me to clean up my act for several months afterward. I still think about the crazy times we had together and get a smile on my face; I just wish things could have turned out differently. John was a comedic genius and no one has ever been able to fill his shoes. He was unique. I miss him. I think everyone does.

While some critics blasted us for indulging our egos
with solo albums, I believe the interlude provided a crucial artistic outlet for all concerned. If I hadn’t been given the opportunity to record
Ace Frehley
, I probably wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did with KISS. The success of my solo album gave me significantly more confidence as a writer when KISS reconvened to record our next album,
Dynasty
.