Gene Simmons laughed in the middle of the studio. Ace Frehley said nothing. Six months later, Gene’s laugh froze. The year was 1978. Kiss was at the height of their commercial power. Four albums in the top 10. Sold out arenas across America. The makeup. The fire. The blood. The spectacle that had turned four guys from New York into the biggest rock band in the world.
And then came the decision that would crack everything open. Four solo albums. Same day release. Each member of Kiss. Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Ace Frehley, Peter Criss. Would record and release their own records simultaneously. September 18th, 1978. A marketing experiment. A test of individual power within the collective brand. The label loved it.
The fans were curious. The band members saw it differently. For Gene Simmons, it was inevitable validation. He was the businessman. The visionary. The one who understood branding and merchandise and the mechanics of success. His solo album would obviously dominate. He had the songs. The connections. The drive. For Paul Stanley, it was a chance to prove his songwriting stood alone.
He was the frontman. The voice. The showman who commanded stages. His record would showcase the soul of Kiss without the gimmicks. For Peter Criss, it was redemption. The drummer who felt overlooked. Who wanted to prove he was more than just the guy behind the kit. And for Ace Frehley. The spaceman. The quiet one.
The guitarist who rarely spoke in interviews and never fought for attention. It was simply a chance to play. They recorded in different studios. Separate producers. Separate sessions. The only rule, no collaboration. This wasn’t Kiss. This was four individuals proving who they were when the makeup came off. Three months into recording, Gene Simmons visited Ace’s studio.
It wasn’t planned. Gene was in the area finishing a mix session at a nearby facility. He’d heard through the engineer grapevine that Ace was working late cutting guitar tracks. Curiosity or maybe something else made Gene stop by. He walked into studio B at Electric Lady around 11:00 p.m. Ace was alone except for his producer, Eddie Kramer, and a single engineer.
The room was dark except for the glow of the mixing board and a single work light illuminating Ace’s amplifier. Ace was playing. Not recording. Just playing. Running through a riff, stopping, adjusting a knob on his Les Paul, playing it again. The sound was raw, direct, no effects, no layers. Just Ace and his guitar having a conversation nobody else was invited to.
Gene stood in the doorway listening. After a minute, Ace looked up. Acknowledged Gene with a slight nod. Didn’t stop playing. “What’s that?” Gene asked stepping into the room. “A song.” Ace said. Three notes. Still playing. “For the album?” “Yeah.” Gene listened for another 30 seconds. The riff was simple, melodic, not flashy, not the kind of thing that screamed guitar hero.
It had space in it, room to breathe. “Hmm.” Gene said. That particular sound he made when he was forming a judgement. “Sounds soft.” Ace didn’t respond. Just kept I mean, it’s nice. Gene continued, walking closer to the amplifier. But, it’s not really I don’t know. Kiss fans want power, you know? They want spectacle.
This is kind of He searched for the word. Gentle. Eddie Kramer, sitting at the board, glanced at Ace. Waiting to see if he’d defend the song. Explain his vision. Push back against Gene’s assessment. Ace didn’t. He just played the riff one more time, then stopped. Set his guitar down carefully against the amp, looked at Gene with that expression he wore in a thousand interviews.
Neutral, patient, unrevealing. We’ll see. Ace said. Gene smiled. Not meanly. Just the smile of someone who knows better. I’m sure it’ll be great, Ace. I’m just saying, my album’s got some heavy hitters. Real commercial stuff. Cher’s singing on one track. We’ve got strings, horns, the whole production. Your approach is more stripped down.
Yeah. Ace said. Which is fine. Gene added quickly. Different styles. That’s the whole point of this experiment, right? See who the fans really connect with when we’re not hiding behind the costumes. Eddie Kramer stayed quiet, but his jaw tightened slightly. He’d worked with Hendrix. With Zeppelin. He knew the difference between music that needed production to survive and music that was strong enough to stand naked.
Gene looked around the studio. How many songs you got done? Seven tracked. Three more to go. I’ve got 12 finished. Gene said. Not bragging. Just stating facts. Full production. Mixed four of them already. We’re ahead of schedule. Ace nodded. Picked up his guitar again. Started tuning. Gene took the hint. Well, good luck with the rest.
I’m sure it’ll be interesting. He walked toward the door, then paused. Turned back. Hey Ace, no hard feelings, but I think we both know whose album is going to move the most units. It’s just business. The fans know my name. They know Paul’s name. You and Peter, you’re fantastic musicians, but let’s be realistic about the marketplace.
Ace didn’t defend himself. He never did. The door closed. Eddie Kramer sat very still at the mixing board, staring at the meters. Waiting to see if Ace would acknowledge what just happened. Address the dismissal. Show some anger or hurt or competitive fire. Ace adjusted his high E string. Played a harmonic. Listen to it decay completely before speaking.
Let’s do another take of Rip It Out. He said quietly. They worked until 4:00 a.m. Ace said maybe 30 words the entire session. Just played. Listened. Adjusted. Played again. Two weeks later, Paul Stanley called Ace. Asked how the album was coming. Ace said fine. Paul mentioned he’d heard Gene stopped by Ace’s studio.
Asked if Gene had any helpful feedback. He liked it. Ace said, which wasn’t exactly true, but also wasn’t worth correcting. Gene’s album is going to be massive. Paul said. He’s got serious production value. Share, for Christ’s sake. That’s going to get radio play everywhere. Probably. Ace agreed. Your stuff’s more guitar focused, right? More of a musician’s album.
Something like that. That’s cool. Paul said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t particularly cool. Different audiences. I’m going more classic rock. Gene’s doing the big theatrical thing. Yours will probably do well with the guitar heads. We’ll see. Ace said. After he hung up, Ace sat in his home studio, just a spare room in his Connecticut house with an amp and a four-track, and played the riff Gene had called soft.
The one that would become New York Groove. He discovered the song through a friend. An obscure track from 1975 by a British band called Hello. Nobody in America had heard it. It had a simple, infectious melody. A groove that felt effortless. Ace had reimagined it, slowed it down slightly, changed the guitar tone, made it feel less bubblegum and more lived in.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t complicated. It wouldn’t impress other guitarists with technical prowess. It was just a good song. And Ace played it honestly. Subscribe and leave a comment because some moments only make sense when we remember them together. September 18th, 1978. All four albums released simultaneously.
Same day. Same marketing push. Same promotional campaign. The initial sales projections favored Gene. He had the production budget. The guest stars. The radio-friendly singles. Music industry analysts predicted his album would outsell the other three combined. Paul’s album was expected to do well with Kiss’s core fan base.
People who loved the anthems and the showmanship. Peter’s album was a wild card. Jazz-influenced. Personal. Nobody knew what to expect. Ace’s album? Industry consensus was that it would sell to completists, die-hard Kiss fans who wanted to own all four records, guitar enthusiasts, a niche audience. Week one sales came in.
Gene’s album, solid. Good numbers. Not spectacular, but respectable. Paul’s album, similar range. Decent performance. Peter’s album, lower than expected, but steady. Ace’s album, out-selling all of them. Not by a little, by a significant margin. Week two, the gap widened. New York Groove was getting radio play.
Not because of aggressive promotion, not because of label push, because program directors heard it and put it in rotation, because people called requesting it, because it had something the other singles didn’t. It felt real. By week three, New York Groove had entered the Billboard Hot 100. Gene’s album had no charting singles.
Paul’s album had no charting singles. Peter’s album had no charting singles. Ace Frehley, the quiet one, the Spaceman, the guitarist who never gave interviews, who rarely spoke at band meetings, who let Gene and Paul handle the business, had the hit. Away from the spotlight, Ace made the choice no one expected.
He didn’t gloat, didn’t call Gene, didn’t mention the sales figures to Paul, didn’t do victory laps in the press. When a reporter from Rolling Stone asked him about out-selling his bandmates, Ace said, “We all made good records. People like different things.” When the same reporter pressed, asked if he was surprised his album beat Gene’s, Ace shrugged.
“Music isn’t a competition. But privately, something shifted. Eddie Kramer called him 3 weeks after release. You hear the numbers? Yeah. Ace said. Gene called you yet? No. There was a pause. Then Eddie laughed, not cruelly, but with the satisfaction of someone who’d witnessed doubt proven wrong. That riff he called soft, that riff is gold certified.
Ace didn’t respond immediately. He was in his garage, working on a motorcycle engine. Phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, hands covered in grease. It’s a good song. Ace said finally. It’s more than good, Ace. It’s the biggest solo hit to come out of this whole experiment. Gene spent three times your budget and you buried him.
Eddie. I’m just saying. You didn’t need the strings. Didn’t need the guest stars. Didn’t need the big production. You just played. After they hung up, Ace cleaned his hands and went back to his home studio. He picked up his Les Paul, the same guitar he’d been holding the night Gene laughed, and played through New York Groove one more time.
Not to celebrate. Not to prove anything. Just to make sure it still felt right. What followed silenced everyone in the room. December 1978. Kiss was rehearsing for their next tour. First time all four members had been in the same room since the solo albums dropped. Nobody mentioned the sales figures directly. Not during the first day of rehearsal.
Not during sound check. Not during the production meetings. But the energy was different. Gene was quieter than usual. Paul seemed distracted. Peter watched Ace carefully, like he was waiting for something. On the second day, during a break, Gene approached Ace near the equipment cases. They were alone. The rest of the crew was outside smoking.
Your album did really well. Gene said. Not a question. A statement. Thanks. Ace said. New York Groove is everywhere. I heard it in a cab yesterday. Ace nodded. Gene shifted his weight. For the first time in their decade-long partnership, he looked uncomfortable. I was wrong about that song. When I heard it in the studio, I thought it was too soft.
Ace looked at him. Waited. I underestimated it. Gene continued. Underestimated what you were doing. Still, Ace said nothing. Anyway, Gene said, trying to find solid ground again. Congratulations. Really. You earned it. Ace picked up his guitar, plugged it into the nearby amp, played a quiet, clean chord, just testing the tone.
We all made good records. Ace said, echoing what he told the reporter. People like different things. Gene stood there a moment longer, then nodded and walked away. But something had shifted. And they both knew it. Share and subscribe. Some stories deserve to be remembered. The solo album experiment proved something nobody anticipated.
The quietest member had spoken the loudest. Ace Frehley’s album went platinum. New York Groove became a rock radio staple that outlived the spectacle. The song Gene called soft charted higher than anything Gene, Paul, or Peter released. Years later, in interviews, Gene would praise Ace’s album. Call it underrated. A hidden gem.
But in 1978, in that studio, Gene had laughed. Ace never mentioned it. Never brought it up. Never needed to. Because the sales numbers did all the talking Ace refused to do. He kept that Les Paul. The one he was holding the night Gene dismissed his work. It sits in a case in his home studio. He doesn’t play it often anymore.
But sometimes, late at night, he takes it out, plugs it in, plays that riff. Not to prove anything. Not to remember vindication. Just to remember what happens when you trust the music more than the noise around it. The real power wasn’t in the platinum record. It was in never needing to defend it.
Disclaimer : This content may be created by AI for entertainment purposes. Any resemblance to real persons, events, or places is coincidental.
