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No Regrets Paperback – June 5, 2012
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About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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.
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 and North Carolina, all on my mother’s side, but I knew very little about my dad’s side of the family. There were no photo albums or letters, no interesting stories or visits from aunts and uncles. Nothing. I knew he had a brother who had tragically drowned at age eight, but the rest was sketchy at best. When I tried to ask him for more details, my mom would intervene.
“Don’t push your father,” she’d say. “It’s too painful for him.”
So I’d let it go.
People who know me only as the Spaceman probably find this hard to believe, but I was raised in a family that stressed education and religion. My parents also understood the value of the arts and sciences. The way I’m fascinated with computers and guitars, my dad was fascinated with motors and electrical circuits, and he used to build his own batteries in the basement as a child. I know he was very good at what he did because in addition to his work at West Point, he also serviced the elevator motors in the Empire State Building, and was involved in designing the backup ignition system for the Apollo spacecraft for NASA. He had notebooks filled with formulas and sketches, projects he worked on until the wee hours of the morning.
So my parents emphasized learning, and two of their three children got the message. My sister, Nancy, who is eight years my senior, was a straight-A student who went on to get a master’s degree in chemistry; she taught high school chemistry for a while before getting married to start a family. My brother, Charles, was an honors student as well. He studied classical guitar at New York University, where he finished tenth in his class.
Then there was me, Paul Frehley, the youngest of three kids and the black sheep to boot.
In the beginning I enjoyed school and team sports, but as I got older, my social life and music began taking precedence over my studies. I remember coming home with B’s, C’s, and D’s on my report card and hearing my parents complain.
“Why can’t you be more like Charlie and Nancy?”
I’d just throw up my hands. Between bands and girlfriends, who had time to study?
“You’r... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
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Top Customer Reviews
For example, Ace just glances over some of the albums in a paragraph or two. I wanted to know more about his working relationship, or lack thereof, with all the band members. Basically, I wanted more dirt and this was the prime opportunity for Ace to share it. He certainly has a right to do that because any KISS fan can tell you that Paul and Gene(especially Gene) have never pulled punches on their opinion of Ace. Instead, Ace makes mention of his love-hate relationship wuth Gene but rarely says anything about Paul. Peter is described as his partner-in-crime, but again, not in a lot of detail.
I thought Ace could have expanded more on the following:
Why was Peter fired?
The Reunion Tour (barely covered for how huge that was)
The Psycho Circus Tour (again - barely covered)
The Farewell Tour (covered in even less detail)
Perhaps Ace was taking the high road? Maybe he simply can't recall the events? Whatever the reason, the lack of detail made for an average book. Nothing special. Too bad.
On the surface Ace seems like a fun loving party animal, but after a while it is the usual sad story of a man not in touch with his true feelings about life and the reasons for numbing himself out. He's kind of a sad clown in this, but the true musical soul of the band. When he leaves KISS it is because he has grown tired of the grind and the staged nature of their image and show. What he doesn't realize is that he actually needed that structure to live a meaningful life. On the other hand the pressures were too great and he surely would died or killed himself if he had stayed. What is revealing to the outside observer(reader) is that he came close to doing that anyway! He was damned either way. It is nice to see that he has gotten sober. He takes responsibity for most of his actions, but isn't too apologetic about it. I think he sees his former life as some kind numbed out dream state where he just didn't care if he lived or died, he was just on a roller coaster of music, money, sex, drugs and booze.Read more ›
Once KISS really starts rolling a lot of things are skimmed over, for example, the period between Destroyer & the making of Phantom the Park (76-78), the recording & touring of Dynasty & Unmasked, the firing of Peter, the hiring of Eric, the forming of Frehley's Comet to name just a few.
The period between 82 & 95 is sorely lacking in a cohesive chronology or any real detail about his solo career. From reading the book one would think his solo career was pretty successful, but I remember Ace playing in clubs to a couple hundred people by the early 90's.
The KISS reunion years & Peter's & Ace's 2nd departure from KISS are also quickly glossed over. I was really hoping that this would be a substantial part of the book.
If you are interested in Ace or KISS it's worth reading, just don't expect any particularly new revelations about the inner workings of the band.
I wanted more information about equipment, song lists, studio, etc. Instead all I got was the ramblings about a rebellious addict that has a problem with any type of authority; be it Gene, Bob Ezrin or Carl Frehley. Ace says he had no relationship with his dad. Gee Ace, I wonder why?Read more ›
Most Recent Customer Reviews
Kiss was a real part of my teen years.
I saw them once at the Philadelphia Spectrum circa 1978.
I was not disappointed. Read more
This is by far the best book written by any of the original members of Kiss. A must read for all Ace fans and highly recommended to anyone wanting a true taste of what it was like... Read morePublished 17 days ago by JD
Take the make up off Tommy you Poser . Great book Awesome guitar player ... I've been sober 6 years , can totally relate . Paul and Gene eat Sh!tPublished 1 month ago by sean mccallion
I really enjoyed reading this book. I've always been a KISS fan and hated that Ace left. I'm glad I now know why. Respect!
No problems with delivery, book came quickly.
Ace has some unique stories on KISS and the impact of fame and fortune. I can't help wonder how much he actually remembers, based on his mental condition during the height of KISS'... Read morePublished 2 months ago by Lifter
This is the side of the "KISSTORY" I've been wanting to read. So often Gene and Paul get all the credit for what KISS is. Read morePublished 3 months ago by Amazon Customer
A lot of reviewers complain that Frehley leaves out too much information on their favorite albums, and so on. Read morePublished 3 months ago by John Emm