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Billion Dollar Babies Come of Age

Knee deep in a pile of U.S. currency totalling $1,000,000 Alice looked around at the mascaraed members of his band and the heavily made-up baby on his lap and grinned. Billion Dollar Babies was born.

Author: Barbara Graustark

The passing American tourist barely gave a glance to the plain brick building in one of London's residential areas as he scurried down the street in the wee hours of a brisk November morning. After all, the facade of the typically unornamented structure looked about as exciting as a bald-headed accountant at a General Motors' sales meeting. And the only thing on this tourist's mind was finding a little excitement in the heart of a great European capital that seemed to close up like a clam at eleven P.M.

But had this naive tourist been able to penetrate the tight security of the unobtrusive Morgan Studios, he would have discovered more excitement than he could handle. For deep within the rooms of the seemingly innocent building, above the all-night bar, the pool tables and the pinball machines, lurked a clan of rock and roll patriots wickedly scheming with their friends to overturn the musical establishment with their latest recording endeavor.

Giddy supersession: The identity of these underground revolutionaries? The members of the Alice Cooper troupe, on the first leg of their fall tour of Europe. And their conniving cohorts? Rock superstars Marc Bolan, Keith Moon, Harry Nilsson, Donovan, Rick Grech, and Mark Volman and Howard Kaylan (The Phlorescent Leech and Eddie). The occasion for the clandestine meeting was a spontaneous Cooper jam session to record Alice's latest LP assault on the Common Market, Billion Dollar Babies. But what followed that night — and in the days to come — would prove to be more of an assault on the senses of the group, itself.

First a beer-bloated, bleary-eyed Alice traded lead vocals on "Billion Dollar Baby" with a peasant-shirted Donovan. Next Alice donned earphones to join a flannel-shirted Harry Nilsson at the microphone and croon a thirty-minute long version of Harry's "Coconuts." Then a black-caped Marc Bolan and Alice teamed up to warble ballads from the old Broadway show, Pal Joey, sheet music in hand. Elvis Presley rockers followed, and the party soon dissolved into one giant musical free-for-all as the Morgan Studios bar happily ferried cases of booze and beer up to the merry throng. The hysteria finally climaxed with the recording of "Sick Things." "You tell me where to bite, you whet my appetite," hissed Alice into the microphone while producer Bob Ezrin fiddled with the controls. As the last notes of "Sick Things" faded into the background, a stray dog deposited his steamy heap on the floor of the studio room, sending the entourage into gales of intoxicated laughter. And when the gala finally dissolved, Keith Moon — victim of a cognac stupor ‐ wasn't the only partygoer carried out of the studio. Road manager Dave Limbert was left to tabulate the bar tab. "150 pounds. Let's see, that's about $400," he muttered, shaking his head in amused disbelief.

Building a billion: Bar tabs. Hotel bills. Rented Rolls Royce bills. At first, London seemed a totally typical city. But when the boys left the shadow of Big Ben to tour the Continent, money began to take on a new significance. Alice and the group were accustomed to using money, but they soon began to realize the extent to which others used money against them. From Glasgow's pop frenzy to Paris' gala Cooper welcome party, "the group really saw clearly the way every city is basically the same — striving for total decadence, whether the people realize it or not. The obsession with money — and the over­abundance of money — was the one universal thing we felt on the tour," said manager Shep Gordon. And thus was born the concept of Billion Dollar Babies, from the overstuffed wallet cover to the dust jacket photo of Alice knee-deep in a million dollars. "Actually," said Shep Gordon, "Billion Dollar Babies is a sign of the times."

But it was a sign that Alice had not noticed back in his Connecticut home weeks before the European tour, as he curled up in the small Practice Room in his favorite armchair popping beer tops and penning new tunes like "Mary Ann," and "No More Mr. Nice Guy." In Connecticut, the tone of the new tunes was in the humorous Cooper vein, hitting back at his critics with an obvious tongue-in-cheek:

I got no friends cause they read the papers
They can't be seen with me and I'm getting shot down
And I'm feeling mean...
My dog bit me on the leg today
My cat clawed my eye
My mom's been thrown out of the society circle
My dad has to hide...

"No More Mr. Nice Guy"
Mike Bruce/Alice Cooper

Sign of the times: But abroad, certain events conspired to turn the spoof — like good nature of "Nice Guy" and the burlesque "American dream" antics of their new single, "Hello, Hurray" into the full-fledged bitterness of "Generation Landslide" — a bitterness at a generation that was destroying itself — and its children — with greed.

Greed first lifted its scaly head when the tour led the band to Munich's Circus Krone Theater, a mighty circus hall in the center of town. Alice had expected no trouble from his enthusiastic German supporters; but lo and behold, he was met at the door by ominous-looking Munich policemen, a strange breed of fierce, leather jacketed Hell's Angels bent on keeping Alice's snake Yvonne out of the ring. "We cannot have a snake in here," they announced, while members of the band watched in outraged fascination. "We cannot expose our children to something like this." "I thought this was a circus hall," one member of the entourage sneered, but to no avail. There seemed no way of solving the problem of getting past the imposing guards. Until Alice's manager calmly reached for his billfold — and pulled out $166 to guarantee Yvonne's place on stage.

Money talks: Similar incidents began to stamp themselves in Alice's mind. The Germans had been staunch Alice fans, as far back as the release of their first LP, Pretties For You. And there seemed no doubt that Alice could easily fill any German hall. But while roadies were setting up their equipment onstage at a Hamburg Theater to the cheers of impatient fans, the band was backstage solving yet another hassle over money. Their Hamburg promoter was arguing over the size of the crowd, claiming it was smaller than expected. According to one newspaper source, the promoter thought Alice was lucky not to pay him for the evening's work! Refusing to shell out his contractual dues, the scheming businessman balked — until Shep Gordon calmly took out his contract with the same promoter for a show in Essen, Germany, several days later. Burning a corner of the paper, he patiently waited until the whole document had gone up in smoke before flicking the ashes to the ground. The promoter quaked... and gave in. Again, money had spoken louder than vocal protests. And slowly Alice was realizing the universal power of the dollar. "Alice had always conceived of himself as just a little kid making millions," revealed road manager Dave Libert. But suddenly, Alice was a victim of his own game. And when he returned to England, plopped himself into a chair in central London's Blakes Hotel, and frantically penned "Billion Dollar Baby," Alice fully realized that he, too, was just another rich "baby."

Billion dollar baby
Reckless like a gambler, million dollar maybe
Foaming like a dog that's been infected by the rabies...

Knee-deep in moola: But nowhere was Alice better equipped to expose the concept of the "billion dollar babies" than on his LP's dust cover. One morning last December, while the band slept soundly in their London hotel, a plane left New York City carrying its booty of $1,000,000 in U.S. currency from Alice's Fourteenth Street bank. When the plane landed in London, two American Brinks guards were replaced by three British Secur-a-cor guards and one Scotland Yard official in a tightly watched maneuver. Then the Lloyds of London — insured cache was whisked away to its secret London hideaway, where the group assembled before the inquiring lens of photographer David Bailey. The armed guards stood rigidly at attention while the band members literally attacked the cash, flinging stacks of hundred dollar bills into the air. Meanwhile a tiny tot looked on with uncomprehending eyes — she was the heavily mascaraed daughter of Carolyn Pfiefer, Alice's European press lady. And little Lola patiently posed while the band, looking for all the world like gleeful getaways from the Great Train Robbery, jumped knee deep into the bounty. As twenty white rabbits nibbled at the hundred and fifty-dollar bills, Alice grinned with satisfaction. The completion of Billion Dollar Babies was almost at hand.

Last straw: When the group returned to London for that famous Bailey shooting session they found that, with the exception of Donovan's vocal work on "BDB" and Bolan's guitar work on the single, "Hello, Hurray," most of the material recorded at Morgan with the all-star lineup "just wasn't up to par. Everybody got off on it, but it just wasn't right for the LP." So the group hastily packed their bags for a short rest-stop recording session on the Canary Islands, off the coast of Spain, where they had rented a luxurious hotel as yet not even open to the public. The staff were brought in especially for the band's needs, and $1000 worth of equipment was set up for recording in a small room nearby. 'Alice sat down with the boys to write new numbers, but again outside influences would conspire to influence his train of thought — shifting it in the direction of Cooper morbidness at its shock-treatment best. "First," recalls Dave Libert, "they wouldn't let us bring the snake on the Island. We paid them off with $31, but even then the maid wouldn't come in to clean the room."

Work by day, havoc by night: By day, Alice and producer Bob Ezrin brought in especially for the band's penned "I Love The Dead," a resounding shocker mixing the themes of love and death in the tradition of School's Out's "Blue Turk."

I love the dead before they're cold
Their bluing flesh for me to hold
Cadaver eyes upon me see — nothing...

By night, they roamed the discotheques of Las Palmas... wreaking havoc. "We went to this discotheque one night," recalls Dave. "Alice and Mike were in the car waiting for me. I was inside trying to find out if this chick was coming with us. 'Hey, you coming or not?' I asked her. All of a sudden, this Spanish guy half my size literally picked me up and threw me across the room. When I came out of my daze I went to get him, but the waiter held me back. I was furious. I ran out to tell Alice, and the next night the three of us went back to get him. I wanted to get him before he had a chance to apologize. Well, he snuck up on me and said 'I'm sorry,' and I turned around and slugged him. And he had brought all his friends with him! But we tore them apart. By the time the fight was over, we had knocked two guys out and destroyed three more. Then we hopped into a car and split — fast!" Dave paused, then grinned. "Alice may look skinny, but he's a mean fighter."

Several days later, Alice would prove to be a mean songwriter, as well. Perhaps it was the accumulated events of the past few weeks on the road that led Alice to rage in "Generation Landslide" — with stinging accusations reminiscent of "Dead Babies" — against the corruption of a younger breed of children by their hapless parents. Perhaps the money grubbing promoters and officials who all seemed to have their arms stretched for handouts impressed upon him the theme of "Generation Landslide."

But decadent brains were at work to destroy
Brats in battalions were ruling the streets
Sayin' generation landslide closed the gap between 'em
And l laughed to myself at the men and the ladies
Who never conceived of us, Billion Dollar Babies...

He's no revolutionary: While "Generation Landslide" smacks of rebellion and exposes Alice's insight into the European and American generation battles, Alice would be the first to claim that politically he's no revolutionary preaching a leftist credo. "Elected," previously released as a single, fit well into Billion Dollar Babies, satirizing the meaninglessness of political inspirations. Alice reveals, "I can't stand politics. I think it is the most boring subject in the world. If elected, I would impeach myself!" Why, then, the presentation of "Elected" throughout his European stage tour and on his new American junket? "A lot of people accuse us of trying to change the world... We don't even like politics. Yet in a way rock is a lot of politics because it affects parents. The main political thing about Alice Cooper is that you can hit a policeman in the head with a brick and the next day he's not going to feel it. But if his kid comes home wearing eye make-up — well, it's going to cut a little deeper than that!"

Alice has never been squeamish about digging deep. And if his latest LP doesn't totally overturn the musical establishment, it will at least dig a deep ditch under the fifty-five home towns the Cooper band visits this spring. If just a small percentage of the estimated 300,000 Cooper watchers leave their concert halls humming "I Love The Dead," the shock wave will send reverberations humming back home — to "the men and the ladies/Who never conceived of us Billion Dollar Babies."

Magic Alice On The Road

While Billion Dollar Babies (Warner Bros.) was racing up the charts, New York's Alice Cooper office was in a flurry of active preparations for his newest venture, a three month extended tour of the U.S. The Amazing Randi stood colorfully garbed in one corner of the Greenwich Village townhouse, playfully sending supersonic jet flashes from his fingertips streaming across the room. "I'm teaching Alice some magic tricks," he revealed, while his rainbow-featured cockatoo looked on silently from Randi's sarong-covered shoulder. With a flick of the magician's wrist, magic wands appear to change instantly into delectable floral bouquets, and red handkerchiefs turned green. What was Alice doing cavorting with the Amazing Randi, star of late-night TV variety shows? Preparing for his three-ring circus, a new act richly laden with Houdini-like disappearing tricks, beheadings, and quick-change disguises.

And from the moment Alice slinks onto the runway singing his hit single, "Hello, Hurray," to the fiesta-like grand finale, complete with onstage dancing and drinking, the show is a Cooper thriller in the best bloodiest tradition. Magic dominates the evening. A guillotine chops off Alice's head with a thud, and as the singer's body is temporarily hidden from view, the four remaining band members emerge from the shadows with four plaster masks of his face held aloft. The Amazing Randi himself, always in the background supervising, appears onstage to saw Alice's slender body in half. The resurrected Alice releases glowing flashes from his fingertips, and simultaneously, thirty feet above his head, duplicate flashes stream across the stage, igniting the darkness with their eerie glow. Bloody heads, levitating bodies, magic wands - how does Alice feel about his new role as rockdom's new Houdini? As he hisses in "Hello, Hurray," "Loving every second, every moment, every scream."