A funny, candid, New York Times bestselling memoir from the former lead guitarist of the legendary rock band KISS, Ace Frehley. The legendary guitar god who exceeded all limits and lived to tell takes fans on a wild ride through KISStory. He was just a boy from the Bronx with stars in his eyes. But when he picked up his guitar and painted stars on his face, Ace Frehley transformed into “The Spaceman”—and helped turn KISS into one of the top-selling bands of all time. Now, for the first time, the beloved rock icon reveals his side of the story with no-holds-barred honesty . . . and no regrets. For KISS fans, Ace offers a rare behind-the-makeup look at the band’s legendary origins, including the lightning-bolt logo he designed and the outfits his mother sewed. He talks about the unspoken division within the band—he and Peter Criss versus Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons—because the other two didn’t “party every day.” Ace also reveals the inside story behind his turbulent break-up with KISS, their triumphant reunion a decade later, and his smash solo career. Along the way, he shares wild stories about dancing at Studio 54 with “The Bionic Woman,” working as a roadie for Jimi Hendrix, and bar-flying all night with John Belushi. In the end, he comes to terms with his highly publicized descent into alcohol, drugs, and self-destruction—ultimately managing to conquer his demons and come out on top. This is Ace Frehley. No makeup. No apologies. No regrets. Ace Frehley was a founding member and former lead guitarist for the legendary rock band KISS, which has sold more than 100 million albums worldwide and is ranked among the top-selling rock bands of all time. He passed away in 2025. Award-winning journalist and bestselling author Joe Layden has written more than thirty books for adults and children, including the critically acclaimed title, The Last Great Fight and the #1 New York Times bestseller The Rock Says. He lives in Saratoga Springs, New York, with his wife, Susan, and their two children. 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?” to