October 21, 2025 • 15 mins
He was the lightning that gave KISS its spark — a Bronx kid who turned distortion into escape and space into sound. In this haunting Jonny’s Dead Air tribute, we trace the life, rise, fall, and final flight of Ace Frehley — The Spaceman. From the cracked sidewalks of New York to the blinding lights of the world’s biggest stages, his journey is one of chaos, creativity, and cosmic destiny. When the amps finally went quiet, his music didn’t die — it just drifted into the stars.
A poetic requiem for a man who taught rock ’n’ roll to dream beyond Earth.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
A poetic requiem for a man who taught rock ’n’ roll to dream beyond Earth.
Written by Jonny Hartwell
Voiced by Jonny Hartwell
Music Credit: Reel World Audio.
A iHeart Radio Production
DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains discussions of sensitive topics...Listener discretion is strongly advised. While the stories you’ll hear are rooted in real events, not every detail is strictly historical—some moments are dramatized with creative license to bring the narrative to life. Please keep this in mind as you listen.
Jonny’s Dead Air Podcast
Written, hosted, and produced by Jonny Hartwell.
A production of iHeartRadio Pittsburgh.
Thanks for listening—and for keeping the light on.
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:00):
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hertwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio Space. The final
soundtrack A million miles from Earth, and you can still
hear it, the low growl of an amplifier warming up
in the void. He called himself the Spaceman, not because
(00:22):
of fantasy, but because he lived there between galaxies of
rifts and distortion, where feedback feels like gravity and silence
is the only applause that ever truly mattered. Some men
were born for fame, others were born for escape. Ace
Frehley was both, from the back streets of the Bronx
to the biggest stages on Earth. He played like a comet,
(00:45):
all fire, all flash, never slowing down long enough to
wonder if he'd burn out, And when he finally did,
he left a trail of light across the sky that
will never fade. This isn't just a story of a
guitar hero. It's the story of a man who built
a rocket out of six strings flew it straight into
the heart of rock and roll. So tonight we looked
(01:06):
to the heavens and remember the Spaceman. This is script fifteen,
Johnny's Dead Air Podcast tribute to Ace Frehley Ack One,
the boy who fell to Earth before the stage lights
in the silver boots. There was a kid in the
Bronx with too much imagination and not enough gravity. Paul
(01:28):
Daniel Frayley, the youngest of three born April twenty seventh,
nineteen fifty one. His father an electrical engineer, his mother
a church singer. Somewhere between science and spirit, Ace found
sound in a neighborhood of crack sidewalks and secondhand dreams.
He'd stare at the neon glow of jukeboxes and diner windows,
tracing guitar solos. In his mind, the Beatles had just landed.
(01:52):
Hendrix was breaking all the rules. His first guitar wasn't pretty,
a beat up, borrowed six string with two missing frets
and a body held together by tape. But when he
touched it, the world shifted. Electricity became emotion. He played
until his fingers bled, until his parents begged him to stop,
until he learned every solo by ear Chuck Berry, Jeff Beck,
(02:16):
Jimmy Page, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Hendrix, and Moore. And that's
when the neighborhood gave him a name. You're always spaced out, man,
they'd laugh, You're off in your own world, Ace the Spaceman. Others,
including wiki pages, said it was because he was Ace
with the ladies. Either way, the name stuck. A Bronx
garage dimly lit, the amp crackles to life. The boy
(02:39):
begins his launch sequence. He joined garage bands, played high
school dances, and every time he stepped on stage, the
world fell away. He wasn't chasing fame, he was chasing escape,
and music was the only rocket that could get him out.
In the still nights of the Bronx, when sirens faded
into the distance, he'd lie awaked, daring at the ceiling,
(03:01):
imagining galaxies. Guitars were his stars, and amps were his engines.
He didn't know it yet, but the countdown had already begun.
Act two, The Meteor takes flight, New York City, nineteen
seventy two. The city was grime and glitter punk on
the corner, disco, in the basement, ambition, in every dark alley.
(03:24):
A want ad appeared in the village voice, looking for
lead guitarists, flash style and attitude. A must Ace answered.
He walked into the rehearsal room, wearing mismatched orange and
red sneakers, a guitar case that looked more like it
had survived reentry, and a grin that could have powered
the amps himself. Inside Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, and Peter
(03:46):
Cris four strangers, one mission to become the loudest ban
on Earth. Ace plugged in and turned the knob to
obliterate and unleashed a solo that split the walls wide open.
When the last note rung out, silence filled the room.
Jean looked at Paul, Paul looked at Peter, and then
(04:07):
Jeane smirked, well, he's definitely weird enough. The band had
found its missing piece. The rocket now had its fuel.
A cramp basement in queen's sweats, smoke and sparks, makeup,
smears across mirrors, Bottles clink against amps. Four silhouettes and
platform boots take the stage for no one but themselves.
(04:29):
The first crash of drums, the first snarl of Jean's bass,
and the first scream from Paul, and then Ace his
less Paul lifts into orbit, a squeal of feedback, a
burst of blue light, and it's like a Ufo, landing
in the middle of rock and roll. They didn't look human.
They didn't play like it either. Within months, they became
(04:52):
kiss fire, breathing blood, spitting, a circus of sin and sound.
But beneath the makeup, there's magic. Four kids who believe
they could become gods, and they did. The costumes grew,
the crowds exploded, Detroit, rock City, Strutter, Deuce, songs that
(05:13):
turned arenas into temples. Ace's solos weren't just notes, they
were liftoffs. When his less Paul started smoking on stage,
fans believed it was real and he had tapped directly
into something cosmic. For a while, they were invincible. Act three,
(05:33):
Kissing Goodbye and the Comet Cometh. Next Act three, Kissing
Goodbye and the Comet Cometh. But every meteor burns brightness
before it breaks apart. The money came, the fame came,
and then the friction. Gene and Paul wanted perfection. Ace
(05:54):
wanted freedom. When the music stop and the masks came off,
so did the allude us. Still one perfect flash of time.
Ace wasn't just in kiss. He was kiss the heart,
the flash, the electricity, the spaceman who made the stars
seem close enough to touch. Fame doesn't just lift you up,
it presses you down as well. For Ace Frehley, the
(06:17):
altitude was starting to hurt. By the late seventies, the
machine that was Kiss had grown too big, too loud,
too perfect. Managers, merch makeup meetings, everything was scheduled except Sanity,
the band that was all about loud rock and roll anthems,
turns in a concept album. Ace hates it, so does
(06:41):
the public. Ace's contempt with the new direction is obvious.
Ace was the chaos, the spark, the human in the costume.
But to others, he was the wild card, the guy
you had to manage, not follow. He'd show up late
or not at all, sometimes drunk, sometimes brilliant, sometimes both.
When he did play, he was lightning, but lightning doesn't
(07:03):
take orders. The crowd screams for an encore. Inside Ace
sits alone, still in the Spaceman suit, staring at his reflection,
the silver paint cracked, the eyes behind it. Tired, he
picks up his guitar, his old less Paul, still singed
from years of fire and feedback, and plays a soft rift,
(07:24):
not a kiss song, something else, something freer, the band opens,
a stage hand yells you're up. Ace just smiles and says, hmm,
not tonight, And just like that, the Spaceman walked off
stage and out of orbit. The next few years were
a blur of static headlines, car crashes, and rehab, but
(07:44):
between the chaos there was creation. In nineteen eighty seven,
he re emerged, leather jacket, mirrored, shades less, pall in
hand as Freeley's comet. The name fit. He wasn't just
a planet anymore. He was a flash, burning, bright, unpredicted,
stable and beautiful. The single rock soldiers told his story,
a man trying to survive his own legend. The fans
(08:07):
followed him. The energy returned for a time. Ace was
flying again on his own terms. But the orbit never lasts.
The industry moved on, the money ran out, and the addictions,
the same ones he thought he'd escaped, came back stronger
than ever. A'ce freely once the life of Kiss is
now all alone in the dark, A star flickering, a
(08:30):
handful of fans pressed to the front of the small stage.
A steps into the light, sweat dripping through his hair,
and launches into shock me. The tone is rough, the
solo shaky, but then halfway through he smiles, because, just
for a moment, the universe bends again. The sound is
still there, the space is still infidite, and the Spaceman
(08:53):
is still alive. Back four in orbit, Next, back for
back in orbit, Every legend gets one more curtain call
for Kiss. It came in the mid nineties. The makeup
(09:14):
was back, the Pyro, the armor, the promise, four original members,
one final launch, the reunion tour. Ace Frehley was back
back in orbit. The fans wept, screamed, painted their faces
once more. It wasn't nostalgia. It was a resurrection. The
(09:34):
band that had once ruled the galaxies was back to
remind Earth how it felt to believe. The house lights fall,
the logo burns, Smoke curls like fog from another planet.
You wanted the best, You got the best, the hottest
band in the world. Kiss, Explosions fire, and from the
(09:55):
rising platform, the space Man appears, silver boots, blue lightning
bolts under his eyes. And for a few years, the
magic was back. But old galaxies carry old gravity. Fame brings, friction,
money brings, management, and time brings truth. Ace wanted to play,
to have fun. But Kiss wasn't a band anymore. It
(10:18):
was an industry, contracts merchandising the brand, and in that
world there is no room for chaos, not even for
the man who made Lightning sing. Backstage, the show is over,
The cheers fade like echoes, and a hangar. Ace sits
in a small dressing room, the makeup half wiped, a
(10:39):
cigarette burning down between his fingers. Jean and Paul are
already gone. He looks up at his reflection one last time,
the blue streaks across his eyes, the starburst glimmer in
the mirror. He smirks, I guess I'm flying solo again,
And just like that, the Spaceman left the mothership Act five,
(11:02):
the Final Descent. He returned to solo life, smaller stages,
fewer lights, but maybe maybe more peace. He'd play, tell stories,
laugh about the madness, sometimes sober, sometimes not, but always
but always ace, Because even as the band kept touring,
the brand kept growing, and the makeup lived on, there
(11:24):
was always something they could never reproduce. That spark, that swing,
that sound that made kids pick up guitars and dream big.
That sound belonged to one man, and no matter how
high the rockets flew the stars, always remembered who built
that ship. Space is beautiful, but it's cold. After the reunion,
(11:49):
Ace drifted through years, through decades, through memories blurred by
fame and flame. He'd tour small venues, appear at convention,
sign autographs. Besides, I had the very makeup that once
made him immortal. He joke about the wild days, called
himself a survivor, and in many ways he was. But
(12:09):
even survivors get tired of orbiting. The spotlight doesn't fade
all at once. It flickers smaller shows, smaller checks, smaller
circle of friends. Ace had faced the dark before, but
this time it wasn't backstage, it was inside. Health Scares came,
rumors swirled, and then came the silence. The hotel room
(12:31):
is quiet. A half packed guitar case rests on the bed.
The TV glows with muted static. On the nightstand, a
less Paul pick a photo from the old days, four
young men in makeup, immortal and unbreakable. He picks up
the guitar, plucks a single string. It vibrates through the room,
(12:52):
pure and lonely. He smiles. I guess that's the one,
he whispers, then silence when words spread. The next morning,
it hit like thunder across the universe of rock. The
headlines read Ace Frehley, Original Kiss guitarist dead at seventy four.
(13:12):
How he died is immaterial, because Ace Frehley didn't die.
He just returned from where he came from the space.
The sound, the silence. The spaceman had left Earth, but
the glow of his trail still lights every guitar solo
that dares reach the heavens. Act six, the epilogue, The
(13:38):
stars remember. Next Act six the epilogue, The stars remember.
The stage is dark now, the amps are cooled down,
the makeup's been wiped away. But somewhere, a single blue
light shines against the black. It's Ace, the bronx kid
(14:02):
who dreamed of galaxies, the guitarist who turned noise into flight,
the man who made millions believe that rock and roll
could be cosmic. Ace Frehley didn't just play guitar. He
painted with it. Every bend, every squeal, every shimmering delay
was a brushstroke on the edge of infinity. He didn't
(14:24):
care about perfection. He cared about feeling. And when he
hit that note, the crowd screamed. And the smoke curled
around him. It was as if the universe leaned in
to listen. A teenager in a garage a poster of
Kiss on the wall. That's how legends live on, not
in gold records or obituaries, but in the sparks that
(14:48):
they leave behind. So tonight, as the moon hangs low
and the sky crackles with static, somewhere beyond o'rion's belt,
a less Paul echoes through the stars. A guitar solo,
sh shimmering like starlight, drifts across the galaxy he wants
to imagine as a boy in the Bronx. Ace Frehley
has found his stage again, Only this time it's infinite.
(15:14):
The crowd is made of consolations. To quote the Kiss
song Rocket Ride, Lady Space, you better wake up fast.
Countdown is coming on. Take a rocket ride. The gravity
that used to hold you down just don't exist no more.
Ace Frehley nineteen fifty one to twenty twenty five, The
(15:36):
man who taught us all how to play like we
came from somewhere else. I hope you enjoyed. Script fifteen
Johnny's Dead Air Podcast tribute to Ace Frehley I'm Johnny Heartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
And welcome in. I'm Johnny Hertwell and this is Johnny's
Dead Air Podcast, a production of iHeartRadio Space. The final
soundtrack A million miles from Earth, and you can still
hear it, the low growl of an amplifier warming up
in the void. He called himself the Spaceman, not because
(00:22):
of fantasy, but because he lived there between galaxies of
rifts and distortion, where feedback feels like gravity and silence
is the only applause that ever truly mattered. Some men
were born for fame, others were born for escape. Ace
Frehley was both, from the back streets of the Bronx
to the biggest stages on Earth. He played like a comet,
(00:45):
all fire, all flash, never slowing down long enough to
wonder if he'd burn out, And when he finally did,
he left a trail of light across the sky that
will never fade. This isn't just a story of a
guitar hero. It's the story of a man who built
a rocket out of six strings flew it straight into
the heart of rock and roll. So tonight we looked
(01:06):
to the heavens and remember the Spaceman. This is script fifteen,
Johnny's Dead Air Podcast tribute to Ace Frehley Ack One,
the boy who fell to Earth before the stage lights
in the silver boots. There was a kid in the
Bronx with too much imagination and not enough gravity. Paul
(01:28):
Daniel Frayley, the youngest of three born April twenty seventh,
nineteen fifty one. His father an electrical engineer, his mother
a church singer. Somewhere between science and spirit, Ace found
sound in a neighborhood of crack sidewalks and secondhand dreams.
He'd stare at the neon glow of jukeboxes and diner windows,
tracing guitar solos. In his mind, the Beatles had just landed.
(01:52):
Hendrix was breaking all the rules. His first guitar wasn't pretty,
a beat up, borrowed six string with two missing frets
and a body held together by tape. But when he
touched it, the world shifted. Electricity became emotion. He played
until his fingers bled, until his parents begged him to stop,
until he learned every solo by ear Chuck Berry, Jeff Beck,
(02:16):
Jimmy Page, Eric Clapton, Jimmy Hendrix, and Moore. And that's
when the neighborhood gave him a name. You're always spaced out, man,
they'd laugh, You're off in your own world, Ace the Spaceman. Others,
including wiki pages, said it was because he was Ace
with the ladies. Either way, the name stuck. A Bronx
garage dimly lit, the amp crackles to life. The boy
(02:39):
begins his launch sequence. He joined garage bands, played high
school dances, and every time he stepped on stage, the
world fell away. He wasn't chasing fame, he was chasing escape,
and music was the only rocket that could get him out.
In the still nights of the Bronx, when sirens faded
into the distance, he'd lie awaked, daring at the ceiling,
(03:01):
imagining galaxies. Guitars were his stars, and amps were his engines.
He didn't know it yet, but the countdown had already begun.
Act two, The Meteor takes flight, New York City, nineteen
seventy two. The city was grime and glitter punk on
the corner, disco, in the basement, ambition, in every dark alley.
(03:24):
A want ad appeared in the village voice, looking for
lead guitarists, flash style and attitude. A must Ace answered.
He walked into the rehearsal room, wearing mismatched orange and
red sneakers, a guitar case that looked more like it
had survived reentry, and a grin that could have powered
the amps himself. Inside Paul Stanley, Gene Simmons, and Peter
(03:46):
Cris four strangers, one mission to become the loudest ban
on Earth. Ace plugged in and turned the knob to
obliterate and unleashed a solo that split the walls wide open.
When the last note rung out, silence filled the room.
Jean looked at Paul, Paul looked at Peter, and then
(04:07):
Jeane smirked, well, he's definitely weird enough. The band had
found its missing piece. The rocket now had its fuel.
A cramp basement in queen's sweats, smoke and sparks, makeup,
smears across mirrors, Bottles clink against amps. Four silhouettes and
platform boots take the stage for no one but themselves.
(04:29):
The first crash of drums, the first snarl of Jean's bass,
and the first scream from Paul, and then Ace his
less Paul lifts into orbit, a squeal of feedback, a
burst of blue light, and it's like a Ufo, landing
in the middle of rock and roll. They didn't look human.
They didn't play like it either. Within months, they became
(04:52):
kiss fire, breathing blood, spitting, a circus of sin and sound.
But beneath the makeup, there's magic. Four kids who believe
they could become gods, and they did. The costumes grew,
the crowds exploded, Detroit, rock City, Strutter, Deuce, songs that
(05:13):
turned arenas into temples. Ace's solos weren't just notes, they
were liftoffs. When his less Paul started smoking on stage,
fans believed it was real and he had tapped directly
into something cosmic. For a while, they were invincible. Act three,
(05:33):
Kissing Goodbye and the Comet Cometh. Next Act three, Kissing
Goodbye and the Comet Cometh. But every meteor burns brightness
before it breaks apart. The money came, the fame came,
and then the friction. Gene and Paul wanted perfection. Ace
(05:54):
wanted freedom. When the music stop and the masks came off,
so did the allude us. Still one perfect flash of time.
Ace wasn't just in kiss. He was kiss the heart,
the flash, the electricity, the spaceman who made the stars
seem close enough to touch. Fame doesn't just lift you up,
it presses you down as well. For Ace Frehley, the
(06:17):
altitude was starting to hurt. By the late seventies, the
machine that was Kiss had grown too big, too loud,
too perfect. Managers, merch makeup meetings, everything was scheduled except Sanity,
the band that was all about loud rock and roll anthems,
turns in a concept album. Ace hates it, so does
(06:41):
the public. Ace's contempt with the new direction is obvious.
Ace was the chaos, the spark, the human in the costume.
But to others, he was the wild card, the guy
you had to manage, not follow. He'd show up late
or not at all, sometimes drunk, sometimes brilliant, sometimes both.
When he did play, he was lightning, but lightning doesn't
(07:03):
take orders. The crowd screams for an encore. Inside Ace
sits alone, still in the Spaceman suit, staring at his reflection,
the silver paint cracked, the eyes behind it. Tired, he
picks up his guitar, his old less Paul, still singed
from years of fire and feedback, and plays a soft rift,
(07:24):
not a kiss song, something else, something freer, the band opens,
a stage hand yells you're up. Ace just smiles and says, hmm,
not tonight, And just like that, the Spaceman walked off
stage and out of orbit. The next few years were
a blur of static headlines, car crashes, and rehab, but
(07:44):
between the chaos there was creation. In nineteen eighty seven,
he re emerged, leather jacket, mirrored, shades less, pall in
hand as Freeley's comet. The name fit. He wasn't just
a planet anymore. He was a flash, burning, bright, unpredicted,
stable and beautiful. The single rock soldiers told his story,
a man trying to survive his own legend. The fans
(08:07):
followed him. The energy returned for a time. Ace was
flying again on his own terms. But the orbit never lasts.
The industry moved on, the money ran out, and the addictions,
the same ones he thought he'd escaped, came back stronger
than ever. A'ce freely once the life of Kiss is
now all alone in the dark, A star flickering, a
(08:30):
handful of fans pressed to the front of the small stage.
A steps into the light, sweat dripping through his hair,
and launches into shock me. The tone is rough, the
solo shaky, but then halfway through he smiles, because, just
for a moment, the universe bends again. The sound is
still there, the space is still infidite, and the Spaceman
(08:53):
is still alive. Back four in orbit, Next, back for
back in orbit, Every legend gets one more curtain call
for Kiss. It came in the mid nineties. The makeup
(09:14):
was back, the Pyro, the armor, the promise, four original members,
one final launch, the reunion tour. Ace Frehley was back
back in orbit. The fans wept, screamed, painted their faces
once more. It wasn't nostalgia. It was a resurrection. The
(09:34):
band that had once ruled the galaxies was back to
remind Earth how it felt to believe. The house lights fall,
the logo burns, Smoke curls like fog from another planet.
You wanted the best, You got the best, the hottest
band in the world. Kiss, Explosions fire, and from the
(09:55):
rising platform, the space Man appears, silver boots, blue lightning
bolts under his eyes. And for a few years, the
magic was back. But old galaxies carry old gravity. Fame brings, friction,
money brings, management, and time brings truth. Ace wanted to play,
to have fun. But Kiss wasn't a band anymore. It
(10:18):
was an industry, contracts merchandising the brand, and in that
world there is no room for chaos, not even for
the man who made Lightning sing. Backstage, the show is over,
The cheers fade like echoes, and a hangar. Ace sits
in a small dressing room, the makeup half wiped, a
(10:39):
cigarette burning down between his fingers. Jean and Paul are
already gone. He looks up at his reflection one last time,
the blue streaks across his eyes, the starburst glimmer in
the mirror. He smirks, I guess I'm flying solo again,
And just like that, the Spaceman left the mothership Act five,
(11:02):
the Final Descent. He returned to solo life, smaller stages,
fewer lights, but maybe maybe more peace. He'd play, tell stories,
laugh about the madness, sometimes sober, sometimes not, but always
but always ace, Because even as the band kept touring,
the brand kept growing, and the makeup lived on, there
(11:24):
was always something they could never reproduce. That spark, that swing,
that sound that made kids pick up guitars and dream big.
That sound belonged to one man, and no matter how
high the rockets flew the stars, always remembered who built
that ship. Space is beautiful, but it's cold. After the reunion,
(11:49):
Ace drifted through years, through decades, through memories blurred by
fame and flame. He'd tour small venues, appear at convention,
sign autographs. Besides, I had the very makeup that once
made him immortal. He joke about the wild days, called
himself a survivor, and in many ways he was. But
(12:09):
even survivors get tired of orbiting. The spotlight doesn't fade
all at once. It flickers smaller shows, smaller checks, smaller
circle of friends. Ace had faced the dark before, but
this time it wasn't backstage, it was inside. Health Scares came,
rumors swirled, and then came the silence. The hotel room
(12:31):
is quiet. A half packed guitar case rests on the bed.
The TV glows with muted static. On the nightstand, a
less Paul pick a photo from the old days, four
young men in makeup, immortal and unbreakable. He picks up
the guitar, plucks a single string. It vibrates through the room,
(12:52):
pure and lonely. He smiles. I guess that's the one,
he whispers, then silence when words spread. The next morning,
it hit like thunder across the universe of rock. The
headlines read Ace Frehley, Original Kiss guitarist dead at seventy four.
(13:12):
How he died is immaterial, because Ace Frehley didn't die.
He just returned from where he came from the space.
The sound, the silence. The spaceman had left Earth, but
the glow of his trail still lights every guitar solo
that dares reach the heavens. Act six, the epilogue, The
(13:38):
stars remember. Next Act six the epilogue, The stars remember.
The stage is dark now, the amps are cooled down,
the makeup's been wiped away. But somewhere, a single blue
light shines against the black. It's Ace, the bronx kid
(14:02):
who dreamed of galaxies, the guitarist who turned noise into flight,
the man who made millions believe that rock and roll
could be cosmic. Ace Frehley didn't just play guitar. He
painted with it. Every bend, every squeal, every shimmering delay
was a brushstroke on the edge of infinity. He didn't
(14:24):
care about perfection. He cared about feeling. And when he
hit that note, the crowd screamed. And the smoke curled
around him. It was as if the universe leaned in
to listen. A teenager in a garage a poster of
Kiss on the wall. That's how legends live on, not
in gold records or obituaries, but in the sparks that
(14:48):
they leave behind. So tonight, as the moon hangs low
and the sky crackles with static, somewhere beyond o'rion's belt,
a less Paul echoes through the stars. A guitar solo,
sh shimmering like starlight, drifts across the galaxy he wants
to imagine as a boy in the Bronx. Ace Frehley
has found his stage again, Only this time it's infinite.
(15:14):
The crowd is made of consolations. To quote the Kiss
song Rocket Ride, Lady Space, you better wake up fast.
Countdown is coming on. Take a rocket ride. The gravity
that used to hold you down just don't exist no more.
Ace Frehley nineteen fifty one to twenty twenty five, The
(15:36):
man who taught us all how to play like we
came from somewhere else. I hope you enjoyed. Script fifteen
Johnny's Dead Air Podcast tribute to Ace Frehley I'm Johnny Heartwell,
thank you so much for listening.
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Crime Junkie
Does hearing about a true crime case always leave you scouring the internet for the truth behind the story? Dive into your next mystery with Crime Junkie. Every Monday, join your host Ashley Flowers as she unravels all the details of infamous and underreported true crime cases with her best friend Brit Prawat. From cold cases to missing persons and heroes in our community who seek justice, Crime Junkie is your destination for theories and stories you won’t hear anywhere else. Whether you're a seasoned true crime enthusiast or new to the genre, you'll find yourself on the edge of your seat awaiting a new episode every Monday. If you can never get enough true crime... Congratulations, you’ve found your people. Follow to join a community of Crime Junkies! Crime Junkie is presented by audiochuck Media Company.