The format was loose. A rotating cast of guest musicians would join Page for a few songs, blues standards, rock classics, the kind of material where virtuosity could breathe. Page would anchor it all, and various players would step up, take a solo, step back. Ace Frehley wasn’t supposed to be there. Kiss was in London for their own tour.
Ace had heard about the charity event through a mutual friend, a session drummer who’d worked with both Zeppelin and Kiss over the years. The invitation was casual, almost apologetic. “If you’re around and want to stop by, there’s room.” Ace showed up alone. No makeup, no costume, just jeans, a leather jacket, and his guitar case.
He sat in the back during the first few songs, watching, listening, not trying to be noticed. Page was extraordinary that night. Fluid, confident, commanding, he led the band through Since I’ve Been Loving You, then Tea for One, each solo building and releasing with the kind of control that made other guitarists question their career choices.
During a break between songs, someone, a producer, maybe, or a venue manager, leaned over to Page and mentioned that Ace Frehley from Kiss was in the room. Page looked up, scanning the small crowd until he spotted Ace in the back corner. He nodded. An acknowledgement. Professional courtesy. But one of the other guitarists on stage that night, a session player named Martin Crawford who would work with the Who and had a reputation for condescension disguised as humor, made a comment that cut through the backstage
chatter. The makeup guy? Does he even play without the effects and the pyro? It wasn’t said directly to Ace. It was said loud enough for him to hear. Loud enough for everyone to hear. The room went quiet for exactly 2 seconds. Then someone laughed nervously and the moment passed. Ace didn’t react. He never did. Ace didn’t defend himself.
He never did. Page, to his credit, didn’t laugh. He looked uncomfortable. That subtle shift in posture that said he’d registered the comment and didn’t approve, but wasn’t going to make a scene about it. He was the headliner. He had a show to run. All right, Page said, addressing the room, let’s do crossroads. Anyone who wants to take a verse, step up.
Three guitarists rotated through. Each took their solo, competent, technically impressive, safe. The kind of playing that demonstrated skill without risk. Then Page played his verse and it was masterful. Bending notes that shouldn’t bend. Finding spaces in the blues progression that felt both ancient and newly discovered.
The room watched in reverent silence. As the song wound down, Page looked toward the back of the room, directly at Ace. “Fraley.” He called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise. “You want to take one?” It wasn’t a challenge. Not from Page. It was a genuine invitation. But Martin Crawford, still on stage, still holding his guitar, muttered something under his breath.
Just loud enough. “This should be interesting.” The implication was clear. The Kiss guy. The showman. The one who relied on spectacle. “Let’s see what he’s got when the lights are normal and the crowd is sober.” Ace stood up slowly. He didn’t hurry. He picked up his guitar case, walked through the small crowd, and stepped onto the stage.
Page extended his hand. They shook. A quiet moment of respect between two professionals. “What do you want to play?” Page asked. “Same tune’s fine.” Ace said. His voice was calm, flat, no emotion. Page nodded and counted off another verse of Crossroads. Ace plugged directly into a basic amplifier. No pedals. No effects.
Just guitar to amp. The purest signal path possible. He stood still. Feet planted. Head slightly bowed toward the fretboard. And then he started to play. The first note was clean. Perfectly intonated. No vibrato. Just a note, clear and true. The second note bent, smooth, controlled, singing. By the fourth bar, the room had changed.
Ace wasn’t playing fast. He wasn’t playing loud. He was playing right. Every note deliberate. Every phrase connected to the one before it. His hands moved with minimal motion. No showmanship. No theatrical gestures. just fingers finding exactly the notes they needed. He played like someone who’d spent 10,000 hours in basements and garages before he ever put on makeup.
Like someone who understood that the show was secondary to the music, not the other way around. Page, who had been standing center stage ready to trade phrases, stopped playing. His hands went still on his guitar. He took one step back. Then another. He moved to the side of the stage and just watched. Away from the spotlight, Ace made a choice no one expected.
The other musicians on stage noticed. The bassist glanced at the drummer. The keyboard player looked at Page confused. Page just shook his head slightly. Keep playing. Ace didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. His eyes were closed now, head tilted just slightly, listening to something inside the music that only he could hear.
He took the solo into the upper register. Not screaming, not shredding, just climbing with purpose. Each note had weight, intention. He found a phrase and repeated it, varied it, turned it inside out, made it say three different things before finally releasing it and moving on. The audience, these industry veterans who’d seen everyone, heard everything, went completely still.
Martin Crafford, still on stage, had stopped playing entirely. His guitar hung from his strap. His hands were at his sides. His face showed something between shock and shame. Ace brought the solo back down, found the root, and landed the phrase with a final bend note that hung in the air like smoke. Then he stopped, opened his eyes, unplugged his guitar.
The room erupted. Not polite applause. Real applause. People standing. Shouting. One person, impossible to tell who in the chaos, yelled, “Fuck yes.” Jimmy Page walked across the stage to Ace. His face was serious, intense. He extended his hand again, and when Ace took it, Page pulled him into a brief embrace. “That,” Page said loud enough for the front rows to hear, “is how you play the blues.
” Page turned to address the room. “I’ve shared stages with a lot of players, but what Ace just did, that’s the real thing. No tricks. No hiding. Just truth.” He looked back at Ace. “You didn’t need to prove anything, but you did it anyway. With respect.” Ace nodded once. “Appreciate that. Stay up here,” Page said. “Let’s do another.
” Subscribe and leave a comment, because some moments only make sense when we remember them together. They played three more songs that night. Page and Frehley trading phrases, building off each other. Page didn’t try to dominate. Ace didn’t try to impress. They just played. Between songs, Page leaned over to Ace and said something the microphones didn’t catch.
