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Golden Oldies

“AT 79, HE CAME BACK AFTER 8 YEARS — NOT FOR FAME, BUT FOR HIS BROTHER.” Some nights aren’t about noise. They’re about the quiet between notes. 💔 At 79, Peter Criss walked onto a New York stage after eight years away. Not for a reunion. Not for headlines. For family. The Beacon lights were soft. His green drum kit shimmered like it remembered him. He spoke gently about Ace. Not a bandmate. A brother. “Beth” came out bare and fragile. “Hard Luck Woman” felt like a prayer. Then “Rock and Roll All Nite” arrived with Paul beside him, and old 1977 footage flickered behind them — sparks, smoke, young fire. Before he left, Peter looked up and said Ace was still lighting the sky. It felt less like a show… and more like a goodbye that wasn’t finished yet.

Peter Criss Returns to Stage After 8 Years in Emotional Tribute to Ace Frehley: “You’re Still Out There, Brother”

In a night drenched with nostalgia, emotion, and rock history, Peter Criss — the original drummer and founding member of KISS — took the stage once more after an eight-year absence to pay tribute to his late bandmate and brother in music, Ace Frehley. The event, titled “A Night for Ace,” was held at the historic Beacon Theatre in New York City and drew a sold-out crowd of die-hard fans. Many came adorned in vintage tour shirts and the iconic KISS makeup that once symbolized rebellion, youth, and the spirit of rock and roll.

Now 79, Criss stepped into the spotlight dressed in black, a silver cross gleaming softly under the lights. The moment was heavy with meaning. His voice, aged and sincere, carried the weight of decades shared onstage and off.

“Ace wasn’t just a bandmate,” he said, visibly moved. “He was my brother in every way that mattered. We fought, we laughed, and we made the kind of noise that shook the world. Man, I’d give anything to hear that Les Paul one more time.”

Chants of “ACE! ACE! ACE!” erupted from the audience as Criss wiped his eyes and took his place behind his legendary sparkle-green drum kit. The first song, “Hard Luck Woman,” rang out — stripped down, raw, and deeply soulful. Then came a tender rendition of “Beth,” his signature ballad. His voice, cracking with age and emotion, echoed through the theatre, leaving many in tears.

A Reunion Years in the Making

Halfway through the performance, Criss was joined by former KISS bandmates Bruce Kulick, Eric Singer, and in a surprise appearance that stunned the crowd, Paul Stanley. Together, they launched into “Rock and Roll All Nite” — not with pyrotechnics and theatrics, but as a heartfelt celebration of music, memory, and brotherhood.

Behind them, the screen lit up with archival footage of Frehley’s legendary 1977 solo — his guitar erupting in sparks and smoke, a snapshot of a time when KISS ruled the world. Criss stood motionless, hand over heart.

“That’s the Ace I’ll always remember,” he said softly. “The kid from the Bronx who made the stars seem reachable. You’re still out there somewhere, brother — lighting up the sky.”

Fans and Friends Remember

The night was hailed by fans as “the spiritual closing chapter of KISS.” Hashtags like #PeterForAce and #KISSLivesForever trended worldwide. One attendee shared, “Watching Peter Criss play again — for Ace — was like witnessing history complete its circle. No makeup. No fire. Just heart.”

Earlier this month, Frehley’s passing was confirmed by his family. Former bandmates Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley also paid emotional tributes at his funeral in New York, speaking of the legacy he leaves behind.

After the show, Criss released a short message online: “I didn’t want my first show in years to be under these circumstances. But Ace deserved it. We started this wild ride together — and tonight, I finished my part for him.”

A Lasting Tribute

According to Billboard, the performance will be released later this year as a live tribute album titled “Peter Criss: For Ace”, with all proceeds benefiting MusiCares — supporting musicians’ mental health and addiction recovery. A fitting tribute for two rock legends who gave their all, both on and off the stage.

In a career filled with spectacle and stadiums, this night stood apart — quiet in its reverence, thunderous in its love. For those who were there, it was more than a concert. It was goodbye. It was gratitude. It was rock and roll, stripped to its core.

Watch the Tributes

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Golden Oldies

THE ONLY TIME THE WORLD SAW “PRODIGY” DAVID GARRETT’S HANDS TREMBLE WHILE HOLDING HIS VIOLIN The world knows David Garrett as a rock star with a violin — proud, fearless, and impossibly fast. But inside the small room that smelled of old wood and fading memories, in Ida Haendel’s home, he was only a shy boy again. In her final days, David canceled his crowded schedule and flew back to be with her. She lay there, the hands that once shook the classical world now thin and fragile. She whispered, “Play for me — but not for an audience. Play for your soul.” David lifted his violin. No stage lights. No electronic band. He played Bach’s Chaconne — a piece of sorrow and redemption. Tears from the “prodigy” fell onto the body of his priceless Stradivarius. He played more slowly than ever before, as if trying to hold each second of her life in place. Ida said nothing. She only smiled faintly and closed her eyes, as though his music were a boat carrying her to the other side. After the funeral, David found a small piece of paper hidden inside Ida’s violin case — something she had slipped there during their last meeting. On it was a single, shaky handwritten line… a sentence that would forever change the way he played the violin.

Golden Oldies

THE VOICE SLEPT FOR TWO DECADES… UNTIL DEATH WOKE IT. Steve Perry once swore he would never sing again. He walked away from the band, from the spotlight, and buried his golden voice in solitude. Then Kellie appeared. A love that came late—but struck like lightning—just as she was fighting the final stage of cancer. They knew time was running out. On long nights in the hospital, Steve didn’t sing for arenas or crowds. He sang softly for just one person, trying to ease her pain. Before she passed away, Kellie made him promise something—cruel and loving at the same time: “Don’t hide anymore. Promise me you will live… and you will sing.” His comeback album was born from that promise. When Steve stepped into the studio to record No Erasin’, he asked for the lights to be dimmed. The engineers said he stared into empty space, as if Kellie were standing there in front of him. And there was a small handwritten note he left on the sheet music that day— a line so quiet and so painful that everyone who read it had to turn away, just to hide their tears.

Golden Oldies

THE LAST SPONTANEOUS WHISTLE… BECAME A FAREWELL SONG. Otis Redding was at the peak of his career and eager to change his musical style. He secluded himself in a houseboat in California, overlooking the bay, and wrote the melody for Sittin’ On The Dock of the Bay. At the end of the song, having forgotten the lyrics, he improvised a short whistle, planning to record the words later. But he never got the chance. Three days after recording the demo, the plane carrying him crashed into the icy waters of Lake Monona. The young singer, only 26 years old, died along with members of his band. The song was released after his death and became the biggest hit of his career. That carefree whistle at the end — meant only to “fill the space” — now sounds like an echo from heaven, haunting and heartbreaking, a reminder of dreams and plans left forever unfinished.

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Golden Oldies

THE ONLY TIME THE WORLD SAW “PRODIGY” DAVID GARRETT’S HANDS TREMBLE WHILE HOLDING HIS VIOLIN The world knows David Garrett as a rock star with a violin — proud, fearless, and impossibly fast. But inside the small room that smelled of old wood and fading memories, in Ida Haendel’s home, he was only a shy boy again. In her final days, David canceled his crowded schedule and flew back to be with her. She lay there, the hands that once shook the classical world now thin and fragile. She whispered, “Play for me — but not for an audience. Play for your soul.” David lifted his violin. No stage lights. No electronic band. He played Bach’s Chaconne — a piece of sorrow and redemption. Tears from the “prodigy” fell onto the body of his priceless Stradivarius. He played more slowly than ever before, as if trying to hold each second of her life in place. Ida said nothing. She only smiled faintly and closed her eyes, as though his music were a boat carrying her to the other side. After the funeral, David found a small piece of paper hidden inside Ida’s violin case — something she had slipped there during their last meeting. On it was a single, shaky handwritten line… a sentence that would forever change the way he played the violin.

Golden Oldies

THE VOICE SLEPT FOR TWO DECADES… UNTIL DEATH WOKE IT. Steve Perry once swore he would never sing again. He walked away from the band, from the spotlight, and buried his golden voice in solitude. Then Kellie appeared. A love that came late—but struck like lightning—just as she was fighting the final stage of cancer. They knew time was running out. On long nights in the hospital, Steve didn’t sing for arenas or crowds. He sang softly for just one person, trying to ease her pain. Before she passed away, Kellie made him promise something—cruel and loving at the same time: “Don’t hide anymore. Promise me you will live… and you will sing.” His comeback album was born from that promise. When Steve stepped into the studio to record No Erasin’, he asked for the lights to be dimmed. The engineers said he stared into empty space, as if Kellie were standing there in front of him. And there was a small handwritten note he left on the sheet music that day— a line so quiet and so painful that everyone who read it had to turn away, just to hide their tears.

Golden Oldies

THE LAST SPONTANEOUS WHISTLE… BECAME A FAREWELL SONG. Otis Redding was at the peak of his career and eager to change his musical style. He secluded himself in a houseboat in California, overlooking the bay, and wrote the melody for Sittin’ On The Dock of the Bay. At the end of the song, having forgotten the lyrics, he improvised a short whistle, planning to record the words later. But he never got the chance. Three days after recording the demo, the plane carrying him crashed into the icy waters of Lake Monona. The young singer, only 26 years old, died along with members of his band. The song was released after his death and became the biggest hit of his career. That carefree whistle at the end — meant only to “fill the space” — now sounds like an echo from heaven, haunting and heartbreaking, a reminder of dreams and plans left forever unfinished.

Golden Oldies

WHEN A MAESTRO MEETS A TRIO, TIME STOPS FOR ONE SONG. Andrea Bocelli steps into the soft light. Il Volo stands beside him, young and visibly nervous. No one speaks. There’s only a thin layer of silence before the first note rises. Bocelli’s voice is deep and steady, like a memory returning. The three voices beside him are brighter, trembling slightly with youth. As the melody moves forward, the hall grows quieter. In their eyes, something familiar appears. Not a lesson. Trust. Old songs suddenly feel new again, as if they’ve learned how to breathe. What stays with you isn’t just the high notes, but the invisible thread between master and students. And when the last sound fades, it feels like you’ve overheard a small secret of bel canto.