From She to Alive: How Ace Frehley’s 1975 Solo Inspired Pearl Jam’s Eternal Anthem

When KISS stormed NBC’s The Midnight Special in 1975 with their electrifying seven-minute version of “She,” they didn’t just perform—they detonated. It was a moment that fused hard rock, blues swagger, and theatrical fury into something that felt both dangerous and precise. The camera lights bounced off the chrome of Ace Frehley’s Les Paul as the band carved through the song with arena-level volume, compressing stadium chaos into a TV studio built for pop.

Ace’s tone that night was molten and metallic, but what made it unforgettable was his phrasing. He didn’t race through scales or show off for the lens—he built tension, phrase by phrase, letting notes breathe before striking again. Each bend felt like it could crack the air itself. Even in black-and-white broadcast clarity, the shimmer of his sound radiated through the screen, announcing a guitarist who could turn distortion into storytelling.

That solo would become a secret thread running through the future of rock. More than fifteen years later, a young Seattle guitarist named Mike McCready was sitting in his room, replaying that same performance over and over. He wasn’t trying to copy Ace Frehley’s notes—he was trying to understand his pulse. The attitude, the pauses, the vibrato—all of it felt alive. And that feeling would soon resurface in one of the defining songs of the 1990s.

When Pearl Jam began shaping “Alive” in early rehearsals, the bones of the song were already powerful: Eddie Vedder’s voice told a story of grief and survival, while Stone Gossard’s rhythm gave it weight. But when McCready began crafting the solo, he reached for the same energy Ace had once wielded on The Midnight Special. The idea wasn’t mimicry—it was channeling that sense of release, that upward spiral from pain into triumph.

The “Alive” solo is now legendary for its soaring emotion, but its DNA can be traced straight to that KISS performance. The way McCready lets the first bend hang before diving into a flurry of melodic runs mirrors Ace’s phrasing in “She.” Both solos are less about technique and more about catharsis—screaming through the guitar rather than playing it. It’s rock’s most sacred inheritance: emotion over perfection.

In 1975, Ace’s solo represented liberation. KISS were still clawing their way to superstardom, hungry and underestimated. On that TV stage, he played like a man with something to prove, blurring the line between rhythm and lead, melody and chaos. For McCready, that spirit translated perfectly to the grunge era—a reminder that even in angst and darkness, music could still explode with light.

When Pearl Jam recorded “Alive,” they were unknowingly extending a bridge back to the glam-rock era. McCready’s tone—rich, crying, and drenched in sustain—echoed Ace’s blend of blues phrasing and space-age flair. And yet, it sounded completely new, reborn in the context of the early ’90s. The lineage wasn’t imitation; it was evolution. The Spaceman’s cosmic swagger had found new life in Seattle’s flannel-clad rebellion.

What’s striking is how both performances capture the same human truth. Ace’s “She” solo and McCready’s “Alive” solo are built on emotional tension, on the edge between control and surrender. When Ace hits his peak on The Midnight Special, his face lifts skyward, lost in the moment. When McCready does the same in “Alive,” his entire body leans back into the sound, as if the notes are pulling him upward. Two eras, two worlds, one expression.

For Ace Frehley, the 1975 performance solidified his legend. That night, the world saw not just a guitarist but a persona—half showman, half sonic architect. Every flick of the wrist, every grin beneath the silver paint screamed confidence and defiance. For McCready, watching that years later was a revelation: you could be both emotional and powerful, technical yet human. That was the lesson the Spaceman taught a future generation.

In interviews decades later, McCready would often describe the influence not in terms of licks, but in terms of feeling. He admired Ace’s sense of melody, the way he made every solo sing rather than shred. That’s why the “Alive” solo climbs—it isn’t just a display; it’s storytelling through motion. Ace had done the same on “She”, building a narrative arc with his guitar that mirrored the rise and fall of the song’s emotional temperature.

Both pieces also share a cinematic quality. Ace’s “She” felt like a film sequence unfolding in real time—slow pans, close-ups, explosions of light. McCready’s “Alive” achieves the same effect in audio, capturing a performance that feels three-dimensional. Each sustained note acts like a camera cut, shifting the perspective, widening the emotional landscape. It’s no coincidence that both became visual icons—one through television, the other through MTV.

And now, looking back after Ace Frehley’s passing in 2025, the connection feels even more poignant. The influence didn’t just live in guitarists who copied his sound—it lived in the emotional language of rock itself. Every modern solo that balances melody and madness owes something to that night in 1975. Watching it today, knowing he’s gone, the solo feels less like showmanship and more like a message beamed from another world.

Pearl Jam’s “Alive” immortalized that message in a new generation. McCready’s reverence turned into reinvention, and through him, Ace’s influence reached arenas far beyond what The Midnight Special ever imagined. It’s fitting that both songs carry the same theme—resilience. “She” was power reborn, “Alive” was survival redefined. Each one became a testament to how music transcends time.

What Ace did that night went beyond guitar playing—it was the creation of an emotional vocabulary. He taught future musicians that distortion could cry, that noise could communicate longing, that confidence could mask vulnerability. That language carried forward, mutating but never disappearing. McCready’s hands may have changed the accent, but the sentence remained the same.

In the end, The Midnight Special and Alive are separated by decades but united by spirit. Both performances transform personal energy into communal release. The audiences—one in 1975, one in 1991—reacted the same way: awe, surrender, connection. The solos became something larger than notes; they became anthems of transcendence. And that is the truest mark of influence—when inspiration turns into legacy, and legacy turns into immortality.