But there was sound coming from one of the side rooms. Not the usual backstage chaos. Not roadies or managers or hangers-on. This was different. Guitar. Someone was playing guitar. Ace stopped. His hand on the dressing room door. He turned his head toward the sound. It was Shock Me, his song. The one he’d written, the one he sang, the one that had become his signature.
But this wasn’t a recording. This was live. Someone in that room was playing it right now. And they were playing it correctly. Ace let go of the door handle. He walked toward the sound. Ace didn’t defend himself. He never did. The door to the side room was half open. Ace pushed it slowly, quietly. Inside was a small space, storage maybe, or an unused dressing room.
Concrete floor. One folding chair. Some road cases stacked against the wall. And in the middle of the room, sitting on an equipment case with a beat-up Sears catalog guitar that was almost as big as he was. There was a kid, 9 years old, maybe 10. Oversized KISS t-shirt, jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers with untied laces.
His small fingers were moving across the fretboard with careful precision, trying to nail the solo from Shock Me. The guitar was clearly too big for him. His arms stretched awkwardly to reach the higher frets, but he was doing it, note by note, slow but accurate. Standing against the wall, arms crossed, was a man in his 30s.
Plain clothes, tired eyes, the boy’s father, probably. He noticed Ace in the doorway first. His eyes went wide. He started to say something, to apologize for being back here, to grab his kid and leave. Ace raised one finger to his lips, the universal gesture for quiet. The man froze. The boy kept playing, completely absorbed.
He hadn’t noticed Ace yet. He was too focused on getting the fingering right, on making his small hands do what Ace Frehley’s hands did on the record he’d probably listened to a hundred times. Ace stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him. The soft click made the boy stop playing. He looked up.
For three full seconds, the kid just stared, his mouth open slightly. The guitar nearly slipped from his lap before he caught it. “Don’t stop,” Ace said. His voice was quiet, not the stage voice, just his voice. The boy looked at his father. The father nodded, still pressed against the wall, still not quite believing this was happening.
The kid positioned the guitar again. His hands were shaking now. He started playing, but the notes came out wrong. Nerves. His fingers slipped. He tried again. Worse. He stopped. Looked down at the guitar. His shoulders slumped. It’s too hard. The boy whispered. Ace didn’t respond immediately. He walked across the small room and sat down on the floor.
Right there on the concrete, still in his full stage outfit, the silver and black leather creaking as he moved. He leaned back against the road case. Play it slow. Ace said. Don’t try to match the record. Just play it right. The boy looked up. But you play it fast. On the record, yeah. But I didn’t learn it fast.
Nobody learns it fast. Ace gestured to the guitar. Show me what you’ve got. The kid took a breath. Started again. This time slower, more careful. The notes came out cleaner. Not perfect, but recognizable. He made it through the first part of the solo, stumbled on the transition, then found his way back. When he stopped, he looked at Ace with hope and fear mixed together.
Ace nodded slowly. The transition. That’s where everyone struggles. Your fingers are trying to jump too far, too fast. He held up his own hand, showing his fingers. You’re fighting the guitar. Don’t fight it. Guide it. How? Play the transition again. Just that part. The boy played it. Missed it. Ace stood up. He took off his own guitar, the Gibson Les Paul he just played for 2 hours on stage in front of 15,000 people.
The guitar that had cost more than most people’s cars. He held it for a moment, feeling its familiar weight. Then he walked over and knelt down in front of the boy. May I? Ace gestured to the Sears catalog guitar. The kid handed it over like he was giving up something sacred. Ace took the cheap guitar, held it. It was light. The action was terrible.
The intonation was off. It was the kind of guitar you bought from a catalog for $49. The kind of guitar that made learning harder than it needed to be. But Ace played the transition on it anyway. His fingers moved with practiced ease, compensating automatically for the guitar’s flaws. The notes came out clear despite the instrument’s limitations.
He handed it back to the boy. Now you. The kid tried again. Better this time. Still not perfect, but closer. Away from the spotlight, Ace made a choice no one expected. They worked on that transition for 10 minutes. Ace didn’t raise his voice, didn’t show frustration, just kept demonstrating, kept encouraging, kept breaking it down into smaller pieces until the boy’s fingers understood.
The father stayed against the wall, silent, watching his son receive a private guitar lesson from Ace Frehley in a concrete room backstage. His eyes were wet. Finally, the kid played the transition correctly, three times in a row. Ace nodded. There it is. The boy was beaming. I did it. You did it. Ace confirmed.
He stood up, his knees popping slightly from kneeling on concrete. He looked at the cheap catalog guitar in the boy’s hands. Then he looked at his own Gibson Les Paul, still in his other hand. He was quiet for a long moment. The father pushed off from the wall. We should go. We’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you.
I mean, thank you He even Ace held up his hand. The father stopped talking. Ace looked at the boy. What’s your name? Michael. The kid said quietly. Michael, how long have you been playing guitar? Eight months. And you learned Shock Me in eight months? Michael nodded. I listen to the album every day. Before school.
After school. My mom says I’m going to wear the record out. Ace was quiet again. Thinking. Then he did something that would be remembered and retold for the next 30 years. He walked over to Michael and held out the Gibson Les Paul. This is yours now. Michael stared at the guitar. Didn’t move. Didn’t reach for it.
The father took a step forward. We can’t. That’s your guitar. You just played a show with it. I’ve got others. Ace said simply. He was still holding it out to Michael. This one’s yours. Michael’s hands were shaking. I don’t understand. Ace knelt down again so he was eye level with the boy. You learned my song on a $40 guitar in eight months.
You know what that tells me? Michael shook his head. It tells me you’re serious. It tells me you’re not playing around. It tells me that if you’ve got the right tool, there’s no telling how far you’ll go. Ace placed the Gibson in Michael’s lap. The boy’s hands automatically went to it. Holding it like it might disappear.
