When Ace Frehley Killed Kiss to Save Himself

 

An idea that seemed brilliant on paper: each member of Kiss would release their own solo album at the same time. Four albums with the Kiss logo, but with four distinct visions. In 1978, it sounded like innovation, a sophisticated way to release tensions after years of touring, egos, and makeup, while saturating the market. But it was also a risky move: when the Beatles tried something similar with the White Album, the result was an irreversible fracture. Kiss would be no exception.

Paradoxically, guitarist Ace Frehley’s album ended up being the most faithful to the band’s true spirit. While Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons sought to expand their brand into more commercial territory, and Peter Criss got lost in the confusion of his own persona, Frehley did the opposite: he went back to the roots. And he didn’t do it to please anyone. He did it because he needed to prove, to them and to himself, that he wasn’t just “the guitarist with silver makeup.” He was the electric soul of Kiss, the only one capable of keeping the fire alive when everything else was starting to melt.

The Ace Frehley album not only revitalized the band’s classic sound but surpassed it. It was a return to the raw, direct rock of early Kiss, with a technical level the band no longer achieved. Eddie Kramer’s production, the same mastermind behind Alive! and Rock and Roll Over, delivered that precise blend of grit and clarity. On drums, Anton Fig, a studio musician who would become an unofficial member of the band, held the energy when Criss could no longer deliver. The rest was pure Frehley prowess: bass, guitars, vocals. Everything. An act of independence that sounded more Kiss than Kiss itself.

The album opens with “Rip It Out,” a punch to the table. Sharp riffs, dry drums, a cry of liberation. Mid album, “Snow Blind” and “Ozone” explore escape: drugs, space, speed, rootlessness. They’re songs that feel like flight but also like a search. Then comes “New York Groove,” the unexpected gem. A cover of the British band Hello that Frehley didn’t even want to record, but which ended up defining his career. The song became a New York anthem, adopted by stadiums, commercials, and generations that might never have heard the rest of the album.

And then there’s “Fractured Mirror.” An instrumental. No riffs, no vocals, no fire. Just reflections. It’s the crack in the mirror, the moment when Ace Frehley stops being a character and reveals the man behind the makeup. That closing track changed the album’s narrative: it wasn’t just a hard rock record anymore; it was a self portrait. A biography in electric code.

From that point on, Frehley was no longer the “Spaceman” but an autonomous figure, a complete artist. His individual success disrupted the balance within Kiss. For the first time, the audience wasn’t just chanting for the band, they were chanting for him. And while “New York Groove” took the media spotlight, what truly mattered was the quiet transformation it sparked.

Years later, when guitarists like Dave Grohl stepped up to the microphone or when Joan Jett took control of her destiny after The Runaways, that spark was already lit. Ace Frehley was more than a solo album: it was a declaration of independence within corporate rock. The sound of a man breaking his mask, one note at a time.