“You need to get to a hospital, sir.”
“Not possible,” I said. “I have to get to a concert or twenty thousand people are going to be really pissed.”
Eventually they relented and agreed to let me go, but not until I had signed a waiver declining medical attention. I called my road manager and explained sheepishly that there had been a slight mishap at the homestead, but that I was on my way to the airport. He booked me on a later flight, and I remember getting on the plane and washing down some Valium with a Bloody Mary. I fell asleep for most of the flight, and upon arrival, jumped into a waiting limo and headed straight for the venue, where I quickly threw on my makeup and performed a great show—as usual.
All in a day’s work.
In April 1982, shortly before KISS went into the studio to begin recording Creatures of the Night, I was home in Connecticut, preparing for my inevitable departure from the band. What I mean by “preparing” is simply this: I wasn’t writing songs for KISS and I wasn’t participating in most band business, including public appearances. Simply put, I had lost interest. The days passed in a blur of drinking and drugging, interrupted by the occasional outing with friends.
On opening day of trout season, I went fishing with Anton Fig and an acquaintance of mine named Alf, whom I’d met through my guitar roadie. Alf, who lived in Ridgefield, Connecticut, not far from my home, was brilliant when it came to finding and catching trout (which is not the easiest thing to do). Alf led us around half of Connecticut to just about every little backwater creek in the state. We caught a dozen good-sized trout and then went back to his place to get a cold drink (or two… or three). Alf was also a home brewer whose specialty was apple wine that he stored in big fermenting barrels in his basement. He used a lot of sugar, so the wine was really sweet, but it was also strong—“probably twenty-five percent alcohol,” Alf boasted. “So go easy on it, boys.”
Anton and I each had a couple glasses of this shit, which would have been enough on its own to provide a nice buzz. On top of the beer we’d been drinking all day (hey, come on—who doesn’t drink beer when they’re fishing), it left us damn near shitfaced. Not that we were concerned. We climbed into my Porsche and headed back to my house.
The last thing I remember before the accident is telling Anton to buckle his seat belt. Then, according to the accident report, we must have hit a patch of sand on the shoulder of one of those serpentine New England country roads and lost control of the car. We careened into a stone wall, which slowed the Porsche just enough to prevent us from being killed, and then slammed head-on into an oak tree. If it had been a cheap car we likely would have died instantly.
At first we weren’t sure how bad it was. My face and head were bleeding slightly, and my lower leg was sore; Anton’s back was aching. But we both got out of the car and walked away—amazing, considering the car had been crumpled to half its normal size. We both declined medical treatment, and the police officers who investigated the accident were incredibly nice and accommodating, offering to give us a ride back to my house.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “We have a cooler full of trout in the car.”
I popped the rear hatch of the Porsche, not sure what carnage would present itself. But the cooler was intact, so we moved it to the patrol car for the ride home, which was only about five minutes away.
Incredibly enough, there were no tickets dispensed as a result of the accident. The damage appeared to be limited to personal property: my car. The local police were not ball-busters. I lived in a small, affluent community, and the cops believed their job was to protect the taxpayers, rather than harass them. They did that in those days, especially in a tight-knit community where people have money, and where cops don’t have much to do except make sure everyone is okay. Times have changed, obviously.
So the officer dropped us off at my house, where Jeanette and Anton’s wife were waiting for us.
“What happened?” Jeanette asked.
“Nothin’. Never mind.”
She reached up and gently dabbed at my face.
“Your nose is a mess.”
I pulled away and laughed dismissively, then put the cooler on the counter. “Let’s just cook the fish, alright?”
“You guys look like hell,” she said.
I’m sure we did, but between the beer and the apple wine, we were feeling no pain. I gave them both a little story about the accident, leaving out the part about all the drinking, said we were fine, and then commenced cleaning the trout. For the next few hours we cooked and ate and drank. It wasn’t until around eleven o’clock that night that the throbbing started, first in my ankle, and then in my head.
“My back is killing me,” Anton said. “What the hell is going on?” The answer, of course, was that we had been in shock, attributable partly to the body’s natural response to pain and trauma, but also to all the chemicals coursing through our systems.
“Come on,” Jeanette said. “We’re going to the hospital.”
We went to the emergency room, where doctors informed me that I’d broken my nose and suffered a hairline fracture of the ankle. I’d feel like crap for a while, maybe a long while, but I’d be okay. Anton, meanwhile, had sprained his back. And what did they prescribe for our discomfort? Percocet and Valium.
Jackpot!
We went back home, loaded up on painkillers and tranquilizers, and passed out.
It wasn’t until the next day, when I got another look at the car, that I fully understood how lucky we’d been. If his seat belt hadn’t been buckled, Anton probably wouldn’t have survived the accident, and I don’t think I could have lived with that—killing a friend because I was loaded. I thank God I never seriously hurt anyone (other than myself) because of my stupidity. As it was, Anton would experience back problems for some time afterward. If not for the fact that he was such a good and loyal friend, he probably would have sued, but that’s not the way Anton rolls.
The injuries I sustained in that accident affected me for several months and contributed to my lack of enthusiasm over getting back into the studio with KISS. Really, though, I had no interest in remaining with the band. The breakup was not nearly as explosive as you might think. It happened over the course of several months, with numerous conversations and meetings involving me and the guys, as well as our management team. Paul actually came up to the house and we hung out and talked for a while. We went to a mall in Stamford, Connecticut, did some shopping, and tried to recapture some of our old friendship. I look back on that now and realize it was a generous gesture on his part. Paul tried very hard that day to talk me out of leaving, but there wasn’t much he could do to change my mind.
“Paul,” I said, “I’m really unhappy. It’s not that I want to leave, but I feel like I have to leave.”
I remember a conversation with my attorney, in his office. He struggled to convince me that quitting KISS was the stupidest thing I could do.
“I know it feels right to you at this moment,” he said. “But it’s not. It’s a terrible business move.”
I knew that if I didn’t leave the group, I was going to die. Everything about my life was in disarray at that time. I felt no connection to KISS anymore and wasn’t happy with the direction the band was taking. I distinctly remember waking up one day and having a cup of coffee in the kitchen while glancing out at our beautiful dining room with marble floors. I suddenly became filled with despair and began entertaining suicidal thoughts.
Shit! Is this it? Is this what I worked for and dreamed about my whole fucking life? Is this how it’s going to end?
I felt trapped, and so I did what I always did when I was anxious: I escalated my alcohol and drug use to numb myself.
It’s hard to point a finger at one particular problem. Each thing fed something else: the drugs, the drinking, the band, my marriage. Obviously if I wasn’t drinking and doing all the drugs, my judgment wouldn’t have been so clouded and I might have made a more intelligent and sound decision. But it wasn’t l
ike I decided overnight. I’d been thinking seriously about leaving KISS for more than a year, maybe longer. After the success of my solo album, I knew I was more creative when I had some distance from other guys in the band, so it was probably only a matter of time before we split. And again, it was all about the money for them; it was never about the money for me. I sat in my attorney’s office one afternoon and listened to him make his case. The numbers were staggering. We’d just renegotiated our record deal to the tune of nearly $15 million. That didn’t include merchandising or concert revenue, which, combined, were probably worth another $20 million.
Per person.
“Please, Ace,” my attorney said. “Think about this very carefully.”
I had been thinking carefully, if not clearly. Here I was, a kid from the Bronx, a guy who had known what it was like to get by on practically nothing, and now I had a mansion in Connecticut, a fleet of cars, and more money than I could spend. But who did I know up there? Who were my friends? My coke dealer? I was suffering from an assortment of maladies, culture shock and loneliness among them. I was spinning out of control and I didn’t know how to stop. About the only place where I felt like I had any power was my professional life. Maybe if I quit KISS, everything else would fall into place. To this day I still believe that if I hadn’t left the band, they would have found me dead somewhere. I would have OD’d or driven my car into a tree and ended it all. I told that to my attorney and his response was one of disbelief.
“But Ace… it’s fifteen million dollars! That buys a lot of therapy.”
I just shook my head. “You’re not listening to me, and I don’t know how else to explain this to you. I’m going to kill myself if I don’t get out of this situation.”
Gene eventually weighed in as well, tried to convince me that there was plenty of opportunity for me to do side projects even while working with KISS.
“Go off and do your own records,” he said. “We don’t care. Have fun. But don’t quit the band. It’s not necessary.”
No one understood. I needed to get away from them. They didn’t approve of my lifestyle, and I didn’t approve of what they were doing with the band. I couldn’t be a part of it anymore. What’s worse than having a ton of money and not having a good time? I would gladly have given up millions to walk away. In fact, I did. Although it wasn’t officially announced until 1983, I quit the band in ’82, and I think it saved my life.
Barely.
SMOKEY AND THE BANDIT (REVISITED)
May 21, 1983
It started on a Friday afternoon, around five o’clock, with a phone call to Buddy, a close friend and drinking partner who ran a successful jewelry business in Manhattan.
“I’ll be there in a little bit,” I said.
“You bringing the DeLorean? I haven’t had a ride yet.”
“Sure, why not.”
We met at Buddy’s place at Nineteenth Street and Sixth Avenue, and then headed to a little bar called Harvey’s a few blocks away. I’m not sure exactly how long we stayed there, but I know that by the time we walked out, I was already too high to get behind the wheel of any automobile, let alone a DeLorean, but I was oblivious to it, and so was Buddy. You’d think I would have learned a lesson after nearly killing myself and Anton when I smashed up my Porsche, but it never really sank in. Even though I had moved on with my career, my reckless behavior continued.
On our way back to Westchester, we passed through upper Manhattan, driving wildly. A police car spotted us and gave chase, but luckily we eluded them by taking side streets and running a few red lights. Somehow we made it back to Buddy’s house without having an accident or getting arrested. When we walked into his joint I quickly passed out on the couch. The following morning we got up and started drinking beer for breakfast, and the whole process started all over again. Later that afternoon we ended up in White Plains at a bar called Cheers, which was owned by Buddy’s cousin. It was the day of the Preakness horse race, and everyone was having a good time, but we started to have a little too much fun, and realized we needed to split to avoid a confrontation—or worse. By the time we left the parking lot, I had already smashed into two cars. As we pulled into an intersection on Post Road, I ended up rear-ending a third car ever so gently. Unfortunately, at the same time a police car was passing us in the opposite direction and witnessed the love tap. The impact was so slight that I presumed there was no damage to either car, but the other driver got out of his two-hundred-dollar piece of shit looking pissed.
I also got out of the car, but I couldn’t find any damage. At that point the police officer approached and asked for my license and registration. Since I had been driving with a suspended license for DWI, I knew I was going to be arrested, I went back to my car and pretended I was retrieving it from the glove compartment. My survival instincts kicked in, and I made a judgment call.
“Buddy, get out of the car.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” he said.
“Just get the fuck out of the car!”
“Ace, man… don’t do anything stupid.”
“I laughed. Don’t worry about it. I’m outta here!”
As soon as Buddy got out, I pulled down my gull-wing door and put the pedal to the metal, leaving a patch of burnt rubber in my wake.
Now, I’ve done a lot of crazy things in my life, but this one was one for the record books. For the next hour I played a real-life game of Grand Theft Auto, leading police on a high-speed chase through Westchester County. I flew through red lights, bouncing off other cars and embankments, narrowly avoiding a major catastrophe. Although I was pursued by a half dozen police cars, only one cop had the balls to pull up alongside me. I was going about sixty miles an hour against traffic on the Bronx River Parkway. He simply pointed a finger at the shoulder of the highway—a universal symbol for “Pull over, asshole.”
The officer couldn’t keep up with me in his unmarked Chevy Nova. As I shifted into fifth gear, I politely smiled and waved bye-bye… and left him in the dust.
After losing the cops I pulled into a deli to make a phone call. Steam and smoke were rising from the hood and the undercarriage, and the car looked like it had been through a war zone. I surveyed the damage and just laughed to myself.
Hey, I pulled a “Smokey and the Bandit” and got away with it!
In my insanity, I figured I would just walk into the deli, call up one of my friends, and have them come pick me up. I’d report the car stolen and let the cops spend the next few days chasing around some phantom thieves who took my DeLorean for a joyride. What I didn’t realize was that the owner of deli had called the cops after observing me and the condition of my car outside.
I called my buddy, Crazy Joe. “Yeah, pick me up in a few minutes. I’m reporting the car stolen.”
What I had failed to notice was that the street was filling up with police cars. As I exited the deli, I was confronted by a dozen or more cops with gun barrels drawn and aimed at my head. It reminded me of a scene from The Blues Brothers.
“Put your hands up!” one of the officers shouted. “Don’t move!”
I froze in my tracks, as they cuffed my hands behind my back. I wondered how I was going to explain the more than six grand I had in my pockets at the time. I mean, who carries that much cash, aside from someone looking to buy drugs, which of course was exactly what I had in mind.
Luckily, I hadn’t succeeded. Six grand could buy a lot of blow in those days, and I can only imagine the charges I might have faced if I’d managed to make a score before the cops gave chase. As it was, they booked me on charges of drunken and reckless driving. I was fortunate, though. A couple of the cops knew who I was and immediately started making conversation. When we arrived at the police station in White Plains I was treated like a celebrity by several of the younger officers. I posed for pictures and signed autographs. Then they took my mug shot—a keeper if ever there was one. In the photo I’m wearing a T-shirt with an Andy Warhol silkscreen of Marilyn Monroe on the front. Ma
rilyn’s eyes were made of clear plastic with floating pupils and everyone got a kick out of it. Most of the officers and detectives were friendly, but one cop wasn’t even slightly amused. He was a black sergeant, new on the job, and he quickly became agitated by the special treatment I was apparently receiving from the other cops.
“Put this guy in a cell!” the sergeant shouted. “I don’t care what group he’s with.”
The room fell silent for a moment. I tried to break the tension with the following line:
“Yo! I’m with the Temptations!”
Everyone cracked up. Well, everyone except the sergeant, who stared at me disdainfully, in much the way he probably stared at any wiseass drunk. He was about to throw my ass in a cell when another young cop stepped forward and intervened. His name was Jimmy Jenter, and he was the cop in the Chevy Nova who had signaled for me to pull over earlier.
“Hey, Sarge,” he said. “Can I take him back to my office and see if I can get someone to bail him out?”
The sergeant said nothing at first, then waved a hand dismissively.
“Yeah, sure. Get him out of here.”
Jimmy took me to a back room, let me make a phone call, and gave me a cup of coffee. He seemed like a pretty serious guy, a little older than he looked, but he wasn’t pissed at me. His demeanor was calm and professional. While I was waiting for my ride, he told me that he was a recovering alcoholic and had been sober for three years. He’d recently lost a nephew to a drunk driver, which should have made him want to kick my ass, but he revealed not a trace of anger.
“Look, I’ll probably never see you again,” he said before I left the station. “But if you ever get tired of living like this, and you want to do something about it, give me a call.”
He handed me an Alcoholics Anonymous card with his name and phone number on it. Out of courtesy, I tucked it into my wallet, thanked him for all his help, and left with my buddy Joe, who had bailed me out. Little did I know at the time that Jimmy would end up being a lifelong friend.
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