There are moments in life when the music stops, and you realise that the soundtrack to your youth is one track shorter. This is one of those moments.
Ace Frehley, the original Space Ace, the man behind the most incredible makeup in KISS, and the architect of some of rock’s most iconic guitar riffs, has died at 74. The news hit hard, like the opening chord to “Shock Me” played through a Marshall stack at full volume.
For those of us who grew up worshipping at the altar of rock and roll, Ace was more than just a guitarist. He was the embodiment of everything that made KISS dangerous, exciting, and utterly irresistible. While Gene Simmons breathed fire and Paul Stanley preened for the cameras, Ace was the wildcard, the rebel who looked like he’d just stepped off a UFO and couldn’t quite figure out what he was doing on Earth, but knew exactly what to do with a Les Paul.
Let’s be honest: he had the coolest makeup. The silver and black Space Ace design wasn’t just face paint; it was a declaration of independence. While the rest of the band went for demons and cats and stars, Ace chose to be from another planet entirely. That wasn’t just makeup; that was a lifestyle choice. And somehow, impossibly, he lived up to it.
His guitar work speaks for itself. “Cold Gin.” “Shock Me.” “Rocket Ride.” Those weren’t just songs; they were masterclasses in rock guitar that walked the perfect line between raw power and melodic genius. His solo on “Alive!”, that descending run that every kid with a guitar tried to copy in their bedroom, became part of rock’s DNA. The man could make a guitar scream, weep, and soar, often in the same solo.
Beyond the pyrotechnics and the makeup, Ace was refreshingly, almost defiantly, human. He struggled with his demons, made no apologies for being who he was, and somehow remained one of the most beloved figures in rock history. He was the people’s guitarist, flawed, funny, and phenomenally talented.
His influence stretches far beyond KISS. Listen to any garage band worth its salt, any punk rocker who secretly loves a good guitar solo, any metal shredder who understands that sometimes less is more, and you’ll hear echoes of Ace Frehley.
The Spaceman may have left the building, but the music remains. Every time someone plugs in a Les Paul and lets it howl, every time a kid discovers “Alive!” and realises what a guitar can really do, every time someone puts on silver face paint and decides to be from outer space—Ace Frehley is still here.
Rock and roll has lost one of its true originals. The galaxy is a little darker tonight.
Rest easy, Space Ace. Thanks for the riffs.
