“Me & Ace - A 54-Year Rock ‘n’ Roll Friendship”
Expect one of these posts every week or so, as I work on “Me & Ace.” What began as personal therapy has grown into a full-fledged memoir, with roughly thirty-five chapters already outlined. It’s doing what I hoped it would do: help me process the loss of a friend. The spark came while listening to Eddie Trunk’s impromptu show after Ace’s death, hearing metal stars weigh in. It made sense for them. But I knew the guy too. I knew him longer than most. Not better, just our own thing. And our friendship lasted, through sex, drugs, rock n roll, and sobriety.
Taken backstage at Ascend Amphitheater in Nashville Oct 3, 2021
HOW WE MET
October 1971
2742 Marion Avenue, corner of 197th Street
It was an unusually warm fall day in the Bronx, the kind where the sun sits just right on the brick buildings and even the pigeons seem relaxed. There were no over-excited drivers honking their horns. And amazingly, no sirens, from fire or police cars. It was like the whole borough had taken a beat.
A handful of us from Fordham University had pooled our meager resources and rented a 2 ½ story house a few blocks off campus. It was perfect for a guy like me. I could walk to class, and more importantly, I could rehearse my band Fresh Garbage in the basement.
Don’t laugh. The name actually got us gigs because it was the title of a song by a band called Spirit everyone knew. Their music was all over WNEW, the FM powerhouse that was required listening back then.
So, there I was, sitting on the front steps and picking with my 1965 Gibson acoustic, the house empty with everyone at class. The Third Avenue El was still standing in those days and trains clattered by every five or ten minutes. Metal screech, track rattle, birds chirping. A perfect score beneath my fingers.
I had been taking lessons from the great Dave Van Ronk, who advertised in the Village Voice. When I saw his ad, I did whatever I had to do to scrape together the money. He taught me old-fashioned-alternating-bass Travis picking. That morning I was working through St. Louis Tickle, an old ragtime song that Van Ronk was famous for. I was trying to get my thumb to think for itself, when I heard a strange scraping, rolling sound.
At first it didn’t register. You know how that happens, where a noise slides into your awareness slowly. Like when the garbage truck climbs the hill toward your house. You hear it before you know you’re hearing it. That was the sound. Only this one went “Brrr-up, clank clank... Brrr-up, clank clank.”
I craned my neck and looked north up Marion Avenue.
What a sight.
A tall, thin kid with a shag haircut, very English-looking, was wrestling a Marshall 8x10 cabinet down the sidewalk. Instead of pulling it, he was pushing it, and on the old slate sidewalks, he could only move it a few feet before lifting and adjusting again.
One look and I knew this was someone I wanted to meet. The haircut screamed Rod Stewart, and the amp bottom said one thing loud and clear - this guy plays.
I immediately changed what I was playing. Literally. I slipped into Jeff Beck’s arrangement of Greensleeves. And sure enough, it caught his ear.
He made it across 197th Street and paused at our corner. Leaning against the Marshall cab, he looked completely out of place and absolutely perfect on the grimy Bronx street corner. Tight black jeans, and I mean tight - spray-on tight. Street Cons, which were black-and-white Converse sneakers. They weren’t fashion statements yet. They were just the cheapest and coolest things you could buy. A Mickey Mouse shirt pulled the whole look together. His shag, rooster haircut belonged under stage lights.
My hair could never do that. My Italian-Irish head of wavy hair didn’t fall like Jeff Beck’s or any of the English guys, and no barber in the Bronx could cut it that way anyway. But this guy pulled it off even while manhandling a giant amp cabinet down the street.
Then he spoke. He couldn’t take his eyes off my Gibson. It wasn’t a top-tier model, but it sounded gorgeous and looked the part.
“That’s one sweet axe, my friend.” He stepped toward me while I kept playing.
“Thanks. I’ve got a couple of electrics inside, but I love this baby.”
He edged closer like he was getting in line for his turn. I didn’t mind. The idea that another guitar player might be in the neighborhood was exciting. And we soon discovered, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting a great guitarist in the Bronx. Angelo Arimborgo. Mike Festa. Eric Paradine. I could go on.
“Is that a Hummingbird?” he asked, revealing he didn’t know acoustics all that well.
“No, not that fancy. This is a J-45.”
“Love the sunburst.” He took one more step. Now he was right in my space, looking at the guitar the way a little kid eyes a toy. “Can I?”
“Be my guest.”
He sat on the front steps and immediately started ripping a lead. Not noodling - ripping. And my guitar had medium strings, which were not exactly easy-bending territory.
“Holy shit. I didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood played like that.” I held out my hand. “My name is Chris.”
He reached across the neck to shake. “I’m Paul. Paul Frehley from Bedford Park.”
He launched into Black Mountain Side by Jimmy Page, and that sealed it. I had to hang with this guy.
He played through the first turnaround, then stood abruptly. “What am I doing? I’m gonna be late for rehearsal.”
“How far are you going?” I pointed toward the driveway. “I’ve got our band’s truck. I can give you a lift.”
“Nah, it’s OK. It’s just down on Decatur.” He grabbed the Marshall cabinet again. “See ya ‘round.” He took a few steps, then turned. “What band are you in?”
“I play with Fresh Garbage.” Everyone knew Fresh Garbage. “We’re at the Pick and Shovel this weekend. Come on by.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him to pull the amp cabinet rather than push it.
And that was how I met Paul Frehley. The rest of the world would come to know him as Ace, but for the first ten years or so, he was Paul to me. That tiny exchange on a street corner in the Bronx defined our relationship for the next fifty-four years. Guitars, amps, gigs, writing songs, recording them. Those were the only things that interested us, and when we were together, nothing else mattered.
Substack became a problem because people with iPhones told me they couldn't get the link to work. ChatGPT says there is an issue there. So, I will post here and anyone who wants can add to their “Tip Jar” below.
