by Morgan Sylvia I can put an exact date to my earliest memory of Alice Cooper. On November 2nd, 1978, he appeared on The Muppet Show, performing Welcome To My Nightmare with several of Jim Henson's puppets. Many of those 'monsters' looked like something right out of Where The Wild Things Are, which was much more in my wheelhouse at the time. At five, I wasn't exactly blown away by his imagery, or by the way he weaves songs and stories and entire eras together. I wasn't in awe of his groundbreaking shock-rock theatrics or curious about his unique relationship with his stage persona. I wasn't yet impressed by his stamina, his ability to stay afloat decade after decade and still keep putting out great music. I was far, far too young to appreciate his stage shows, which I have yet to see in person. That all came later. Fast forward about ten years. I'm a rebellious, misfit teenager and a budding metalhead. Alice was in his Poison era, but I was more interested in his earlier stuff. I preferred Billion Dollar Babies and School's Out over Trash. Anyway, I picked up a cassette copy of Alice Cooper's Greatest Hits at some point. I don't recall exactly when or where. What I do know is that it changed my life. I was already writing by then. I got bit by the writing bug pretty early. By high school, I was spending most of my free time either reading, writing, attempting to play guitar, or riding horses. I was far, far away from ever considering writing as a career. It was just a hobby, something I liked to do. And then I heard Desperado. To be fair, this probably isn't his best song. It isn't the coming-of-age anthem that I'm Eighteen is, or the summer freedom theme of a generation, School's Out. It wasn't as creepy as Cold Ethyl, as ethereal as Welcome To My Nightmare, as snarky as No More Mr. Nice Guy, or as heartwrenching as Only Women Bleed. I suspect that few of Alice Cooper's fans list it among their favorites. But even so, it's Desperado that I connect to the most. Why? I heard a story in that song. Before long, I started to see the story. Eventually, I decided to write my version of that tale out. I think I still have the piece somewhere. As best as I can recall, it was about a hitman and his target, a saloon whore, out in the Wild West. Of course, I named it after the song. Desperado was the first—and to this date the last—Western I ever wrote. More importantly, it was the first story I wrote all at once. I sat down before my typewriter (yes, I'm that old) and wrote the whole thing in one shot. I didn't write it so much as I channeled it. I remember just sitting there afterwards, holding a stack of freshly-typed papers, and wondering what the heck had just happened. Was I possessed? Was I crazy? Was I remembering a past life? Nope. Turns out, I was a writer. As a writer, there is nothing better than those moments where words just pour out of you. I call it brainvomit. It may very well be some form of madness. I don't know what it was about that song, but something about it resonated with me, and opened a floodgate in my mind. Desperado isn't the only song that has kicked me into the zone, but it was definitely the first. Things get a bit weirder from there. For some reason, that tape started sounding very, very strange shortly after I wrote that story. It actually sounds like it was backward-masked. Just on one side, which is even weirder. I still have that cassette somewhere. It still sounds fucky. To be honest, it sounds creepy as hell. There were a few other odd occurrences that happened around then, concerning the story and the song. Nothing mindblowing, but enough to tell me that I have some crazy juju with that song. But that's another can of worms. Soon after that, I started writing what is now called fan fiction. I wrote novels' worth of crap about my favorite TV characters and movie stars and musicians. I still have that stuff, too. It literally fills a trunk. My parents started letting me write in Dad's man cave downstairs. I imagine the unending clacking of the typewriter was probably driving them nuts: a year or two later, they got me a word processor. I kept listening to Alice Cooper as I got older. I blasted School's Out at the beginning of every summer, and cranked I'm Eighteen incessantly when I hit that milestone. To this day, whenever I meet friends in a bar with a jukebox, I always play Welcome To My Nightmare, partly because I love it, and partly because it's so long … more bang for my buck. I've bought his albums and his comic books. I loved his creepy cameo in Prince of Darkness. But Desperado is still my favorite. (For the curious: here's a link to the live version of the song.) I've always wanted to see Alice Cooper live, but something has always prevented it: work, money, timing, something. As of now, he's still tied with Iron Maiden for the #1 spot on my concert bucket list. So far, the closest I have come is seeing an uncannily realistic Alice Cooper impersonator, who was the unannounced entertainment at a bar I met some friends at one night. (If I recall correctly, he actually jumped up onto our table at one point.) Hopefully, one day I'll see the real Alice. Until then, I'll keep buying his records. That's small thanks, but it's the least I can do for the man who broke down that invisible barrier between my imagination and the blank page. about morgan sylvia
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