Article Database

Alice has his own hang-up

Author: Bob Greene

CHICAGO — The last time I had seen Alice Cooper, he was recording an album called Killer at the RCA studios in Chicago. Alice, who is a male rock and roll singer, was very excited at that time about the possibilities presented by one of the songs on the album.

The name of the song was Dead Babies. Alice was not concerned that the song dealt with possibly the most offensive theme in the history of popular music. Rather, he was trying to thing of a way to present it on stage.

"I've got an idea," he finally said. "We'll have a baby doll on stage, see? And then we'll bring a hatchet out and I'll chop the doll up and throw pieces to the audience."

That was last summer. In the months since then, the album has come out, it has begun to sell well, and Dead Babies has become a part of the stage routine. Alice chops the doll up every night. The response from the young audiences has been generally enthusiastic. Young girls in the first few rows fight for pieces. This probably signifies nothing, except perhaps that the end of the world maybe well be nigh.

Alice was back in Chicago with his band the other night for a concert. I found him backstage looking for a television set so he could watch a football game. He was dressed for work, in a pair of leotards with holes in the legs and "Alice" written across the front in sequins. His eye were done up to look like sunbursts. There is a certain sexual ambivalence in the Alice Cooper stage routine.

A groupie with the apparent intelligence of a wicker chair entered the dressing room, "Hey Alice, what have you done to your hair?" the girls said.

"Nothing," Alice said. "I just haven't washed it in a month."

The girl nodded. "Hey Alice," the girl said. "Who was that dog that could talk that was on the TV a long time ago?"

Alice pulled up his boots. "Cleo," he said. "On The People's Choice."

Another girl found her way into the dressing room, reaching into a cooler, and came out with a beer. She left the room. No one knew who she was. She reappeared a minute later. "I don't dig Budweiser," she said. "Don't you have any Michelob left?"

A young lady named Monica, who has been travelling with the band, was visibly upset about this. "The nerve of these people," she said. "Just coming in here and taking Alice's beer. That's the trouble with Alice, he's just too nice a guy. He can't say no to anybody."

The girl with the beer appeared a third time. "Where are you staying, Alice?" she asked him.

"Don't tell her, Alice," Monica said.

But he did.

"See what I mean?" Monica said. "He'll let anybody do anything. I called my aunt and uncle when I got into town to tell them I was here. You know what? They wanted to have Alice and the band to the house for dinner. I tried to explain to them that it might not work out so well. Alice wants to go, but I think it could be the end of my uncle."

"How's this for a movie?" Alice said. "Godzilla Meets Bambi. Did you see that? Godzilla just smashed Bambi to pieces."

Then it was time to earn the money. The band walked out to the wings of the theatre. "And now... the legendary Alice Cooper!" the stage announcer screamed. The rest of the band walked out and took their instruments. Alice hesitated for a few seconds. The crowd was screaming in anticipation of seeing what they have been led to regard as a mad pervert.

"Oh, well," Alice shrugged. He ran on.

In the next hour or so, he chopped up the baby doll and threw it to the audience; let a live boa constrictor wind its way around his body; induced the less inhibited members of the audience to dive into the orchestra pit by dropping souvenirs just out of their grasp; thrust dollar bills at them from a sharp skewer; and had himself hanged from a full-size gallows as the rest of the band held flaming torches.

In the dressing room, after the show, he had a final beer. "What we need," said Alice Cooper, "is a gimmick." (Chicago Sun-Times)