No Regrets by Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky Page B
Authors: Joe Layden Ace Frehley John Ostrosky
Ads: Link
I didn’t like the effect, and had no desire to seek it out intentionally. I didn’t want to lose control. Two guys in one of my bands, Neil and John, tripped regularly. Me? I preferred alcohol. That I could handle (or so I rationalized). I knew that I was going to have a career in music someday, and I wanted a better life for myself. I saw guys tripping on acid, incapacitated months down the road, and it didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t think it was worth taking something with the chance I could end up with permanent brain damage or incapacitating mental illness (the irony, of course, is that eventually I wound up with both, despite abstaining from heroin and acid). It wasn’t worth rolling the dice when I wanted to accomplish bigger things.
For better or worse, naïvely or not, that was my line in the sand.
Instinctively, I realized I had to remain clearheaded enough to take advantage of whatever opportunities came my way. There is a reason I chose the persona of the Spaceman when I joined KISS: I believe wholeheartedly in cosmic intervention; everything happens for a reason.
I was nineteen years old when I went to the New York Pop Festival, on Randall’s Island in the East River, in the summer of 1970. This was yet another mini-Woodstock, with an amazingly eclectic lineup of musicians that included Mountain, Steppenwolf, Jethro Tull, Grand Funk Railroad, Richie Havens, Sly and the Family Stone, Dr. John, Van Morrison, and Eric Clapton.
Oh, and one other person.
Jimi Hendrix.
The whole thing was kind of surreal. You have to remember, for a kid like me, who used to walk around Roosevelt High with a copy of
Are You Experienced?
under his arm, seeing Hendrix was like a Catholic getting to meet the pope. Hendrix was nothing short of godlike. By the summer of 1970, unfortunately, Hendrix was nearing not only the end of his career, but the end of his life; within two months he’d be dead of a drug overdose. Still, on that day at Randall’s Island (the last concert he’d ever perform in New York), he seemed at the peak of his powers—a living, breathing guitar hero.
I went to the show with some friends I used to hang out with at Poe Park, a little spot in the Bronx where Edgar Allan Poe lived out his final years, and where the Bohemian crowd around Fordham University used to gather. (I once organized a concert for one of my bands there.) But we separated shortly after we arrived. They were content to get high and listen to the music with the masses. I wanted to get closer. This had become a habit for me. Just as I’d managed to sidle up to Murray the K a few years earlier at the RKO Theatre, I suddenly found myself inching toward the stage at Randall’s Island.
Maybe it was because I looked like a rock star, even if I wasn’t one at the time. I was tall and skinny, with hair that went halfway down my back. I wore lemon yellow hot pants, a black T-shirt adorned with a snakeskin star, and checkered Vans sneakers. I fit in with the performers, more so than the crowd. As the day went on I kept my eyes on the entrance at the side of the stage, and I started to notice that some of the guys who had performed were walking out and watching other bands. In those days things were pretty laid-back. They didn’t distribute official passes or laminates to the band members and road crew. If you belonged there, you just went about your business. Most people abided by the rules.
Not me.
I watched musicians walking in and out, in and out, offering nothing more than a nod or wave to security as they passed by. Then it dawned on me.
Shit… I think I can get in there!
So I walked up to the stage entrance, bold as hell, and looked one of the security guys right in the eye. He gave me a quick, visual once-over, head to toe, and nodded approvingly. I returned the gesture, didn’t even smile (couldn’t break character, after all), and walked on by.
Just like that, there I was, backstage at the New York Pop Festival.
Now I
For better or worse, naïvely or not, that was my line in the sand.
Instinctively, I realized I had to remain clearheaded enough to take advantage of whatever opportunities came my way. There is a reason I chose the persona of the Spaceman when I joined KISS: I believe wholeheartedly in cosmic intervention; everything happens for a reason.
I was nineteen years old when I went to the New York Pop Festival, on Randall’s Island in the East River, in the summer of 1970. This was yet another mini-Woodstock, with an amazingly eclectic lineup of musicians that included Mountain, Steppenwolf, Jethro Tull, Grand Funk Railroad, Richie Havens, Sly and the Family Stone, Dr. John, Van Morrison, and Eric Clapton.
Oh, and one other person.
Jimi Hendrix.
The whole thing was kind of surreal. You have to remember, for a kid like me, who used to walk around Roosevelt High with a copy of
Are You Experienced?
under his arm, seeing Hendrix was like a Catholic getting to meet the pope. Hendrix was nothing short of godlike. By the summer of 1970, unfortunately, Hendrix was nearing not only the end of his career, but the end of his life; within two months he’d be dead of a drug overdose. Still, on that day at Randall’s Island (the last concert he’d ever perform in New York), he seemed at the peak of his powers—a living, breathing guitar hero.
I went to the show with some friends I used to hang out with at Poe Park, a little spot in the Bronx where Edgar Allan Poe lived out his final years, and where the Bohemian crowd around Fordham University used to gather. (I once organized a concert for one of my bands there.) But we separated shortly after we arrived. They were content to get high and listen to the music with the masses. I wanted to get closer. This had become a habit for me. Just as I’d managed to sidle up to Murray the K a few years earlier at the RKO Theatre, I suddenly found myself inching toward the stage at Randall’s Island.
Maybe it was because I looked like a rock star, even if I wasn’t one at the time. I was tall and skinny, with hair that went halfway down my back. I wore lemon yellow hot pants, a black T-shirt adorned with a snakeskin star, and checkered Vans sneakers. I fit in with the performers, more so than the crowd. As the day went on I kept my eyes on the entrance at the side of the stage, and I started to notice that some of the guys who had performed were walking out and watching other bands. In those days things were pretty laid-back. They didn’t distribute official passes or laminates to the band members and road crew. If you belonged there, you just went about your business. Most people abided by the rules.
Not me.
I watched musicians walking in and out, in and out, offering nothing more than a nod or wave to security as they passed by. Then it dawned on me.
Shit… I think I can get in there!
So I walked up to the stage entrance, bold as hell, and looked one of the security guys right in the eye. He gave me a quick, visual once-over, head to toe, and nodded approvingly. I returned the gesture, didn’t even smile (couldn’t break character, after all), and walked on by.
Just like that, there I was, backstage at the New York Pop Festival.
Now I
Similar Books
