Live Review: Ace Frehley

4 May 2015 | 12:51 pm | Brendan Crabb

Playing to a steadily filling venue, both supports struggled to garner a substantial reaction, although it wasn’t for lack of effort. Witchgrinder acquitted themselves professionally to the task, but a half-hour of the Melburnians’ heaving, pounding industrial metal was perhaps too hard-edged for this crowd, confused expressions commonplace. The response was marginally more welcoming for Graveyard Rockstars, select punters politely nodding approval. The Sydneysiders’ energy and horror/punk-infused, hedonistic hard rock seemingly won a few converts, while others clearly weren’t buying what their slamming grooves were selling.

Despite former band-mates’ attempts to downplay his contributions and legacy via ongoing revisionist Kiss-tory, the sold-out venue evidenced that Ace Frehley still possessed considerable cache among grizzled fans of the veteran rockers. Especially so for those punters who donned Spaceman make-up; when smoke emitted from his guitar late in the set, said devotees were in raptures.

Such trademark party tricks aside, crowd-pleasing was also the modus operandi regarding song selection during the 90-minute-plus performance. New cuts were greeted with lukewarm applause, but it was ‘Kiss Klassics’, assorted solo hits (cocaine-inspired favourite Snowblind) and renowned cover songs (widespread singalong for Hello’s New York Groove, The Rolling Stones’ quirky 2000 Man) that commanded the audience’s attention. A taut, efficient and well-versed band were the ideal foil for shades-sporting Frehley’s laconic, composed presence and loose playing style. The accompanying musicians often assumed lead vocal duties – drummer Scot Coogan showcased an impressive Paul Stanley impersonation during Love Gun and Strutter – affording the main-man greater latitude to embrace the role of guitar hero. 2 Young 2 Die was dedicated to late Kiss drummer Eric Carr, before Detroit Rock City and Deuce’s one-two punch proved a fitting finale. Frehley is proudly carrying on the Kiss tradition of big, dumb but infectious arena-sized rock, just within smaller rooms, and thankfully so.