If you grew up in the 1970s with a poster of a band that looked like they’d just stepped off a UFO — faces smeared in greasepaint, outfits stitched from leather and lightning bolts, guitars that belched smoke like malfunctioning rockets — you probably owe a chunk of your teenage rebellion to Ace Frehley. Not Gene Simmons with his fire-breathing bass or Paul Stanley’s starstruck strut, but Frehley, the silver-eyed Spaceman whose riffs sliced through the chaos like a laser beam from a B-movie spaceship. As he once put it in a rare moment of cosmic understatement, “I’m just a kid from the Bronx who got lucky.” Lucky? Tell that to the millions who picked up a guitar because Ace made it look like the coolest way to thumb your nose at the universe.

Paul Daniel Frehley, who died on Oct. 16 in

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