​HANGIN' WITH MR. COOPER BY CHAD LUTZKE

 
I remember it was the 70s, though unsure of the exact year. The entire decade contained a glorious potpourri of wonderfully eerie things for a boy my age to look at. But never to touch. Not at my age. Mother made sure of that.  
 
Film, pop culture, and musicians were exhibiting a dark side the likes of which we’d never seen before.  The Exorcist, The Omen, the wagging, blood-soaked tongue of Gene Simmons and the rumors surrounding just where exactly that tongue came from and did he really bite it every night to bleed for the crowd? My parents’ ominous bookshelf loaded with a genre that was slowly creeping into the mainstream with books like Jay Anson’s Amityville Horror, Felitta’s Audrey Rose, and William Peter Blatty’s purple-colored paperback with a face that to this day has me wondering what in hell it is exactly.
 
But none of the above held the same power over me as Alice Cooper (okay, maybe Gene did). None as alive and enigmatic as a malnourished man in ripped long johns that surrounded himself with the very thing I was so attracted to--monsters.
 
I don’t remember when my obsession started. It could have been after the Muppet Show appearance--though I swear the affair had already been established by then--or it could have been the televised concert aired by Blue Jean Network. Or it could have been the 8-track of The Alice Cooper Show Live that somehow made its way into my hands. Either way, by the time Alice had played locally, I was enamored. At my age, it wasn’t so much the music as it was the imagery. Being a fan of all things horror, I could tell this was my thing.  Alice was from my tribe. And I wanted nothing more than to be in the same room he was in while the monsters bound and hanged him.
 
My local paper teased of his appearance only one city over at Wings Stadium in Kalamazoo, Michigan. The ad displayed a picture of Alice hanging from a noose, succumbed to the punishment dealt him by an angry mob. Or perhaps self inflicted...for our enjoyment. I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be there when it happened. To see Mr. Cooper sing amongst the cyclops, the spiders, the nurses and the plastic dolls. And while I drew up the courage to ask Mother if I could attend the upcoming event, I knew the inquiry would be done in vain. I wasn’t even into double digits yet.  Almost. But not yet.
 
Her adamant ‘no’ spun my life into intermittent fits of crying, and a hollow feeling in my gut--an emptiness--knowing that The Alice Cooper Show would be so close, but that I would be denied the pleasure.  
 
After missing the concert, whenever we drove by the stadium, I gazed upon the building as though it were a church and Christ himself was inside. I pictured Alice hanging there, crimson leaking from his mouth. Even the building itself held special properties for me. To this day, the building still represents the place where Alice hung from somewhere inside. And fortunately for me, nearly a decade later I would finally see him on that sacred ground.
 
And I did watch him hang.
 
One of the records I spun on my less-than-stellar stereo was KILLER.  The bright red hue with the head of snake warned of the dangers inside. Songs about dead babies and running women over, lyrics that would take my imagination to mostly inaccurate places while I was determined to make Alice much more sinister than the satirical gentlemen really was.
 
A pure, unapologetic rock & roll riff straight from the school of Chuck Berry opens the album that leads into a blues-oriented romp with the gritty line “The telephone is ringin’” that was intermittently yelled at perfectly timed bumps--a line that’ll have even your mom singing at each go-around. Well, maybe not my mom.
 
Be my Lover has a sexy swagger with a story to tell.  Even if you’re not the lyrical type--like me, when you don’t pay much attention to what’s being said until maybe years down the road--you’ll still pick up on the story being told and into the second listen will be reciting the Mae West-like “Ohh” that leads into the tune’s third chorus.
 
A chaotically progressive buzzing of guitars begins the darker tone of Halo of Flies that flirts with horror film soundtracks and driving diddies with a dash of nursery-rhyme melodies in an early bridge that ultimately leads to pure garage-rock-chugging as Cooper belts out “I crossed the ocean where no one could see. And I put a time bomb in your submarine.” The song as a whole is a blender full of hypnotizing riffs and unpredictable (yet pleasant) melodies at varying tempos. There’s a lot here and at over eight minutes is the longest song on the record.
 
Sticking with the darker tone, as Alice paints a picture of the wild west and the quick draw of the killer in Desperado. The chorus is full of Alice’s throaty snarl as he boasts of his gun-toting skills, while the verses ring of Jim Morrison’s sing-talking style.  Matter of face, rumor has it that Alice intentionally paid homage to his deceased friend with this song. On a side note, and you may not see it like I do, but bits of this song remind me a little of very early IRON MAIDEN. Perhaps the brits drew influence from Alice in their earlier days.
 
You Drive Me Nervous charges in with a Stooges-esque punk rock feel and gives the rebellious teen something to shake their fist at while Alice preaches about the control our parents hold over us, and we don’t like that.  Not one bit. It drives us nervous.
 
The sleazy rock anthems continue with Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. Alice’s voice was made for songs like this--that cracking, raspy scream holds just the perfect amount of aggression and righteous anger while still holding a tune. It just wouldn’t be Alice Cooper without it. A scream for the voiceless among us. It’s part of what makes Alice, Alice, and this song presents that attitude in full force.  
 
Dead Babies is one of my favorites from this album. I love the subject matter and the build into the chorus where I can’t help but sing along. We even get a little taste of THE BEATLES nestled in at the end of each chorus. To the uneducated, the conservative, and of course to the parents, this was nothing more than shock rock lyricism--two words forced together that should never be. A taboo chant. Dead Babies! But those of us paying attention hear the cry of a neglected child, a warning to parents to pay attention and get your ass out of the bottle! The song itself is as haunting as the title and the building bridge puts a chill down your spine as Cooper screams Goodbye! to Little Betty.
 
Killer, the final track on the album is a tribal, vaudeville-ish tune that, while good, for me is probably the weakest song on here. It feels like background music dreamt up by Cooper and the rhythm section of The Doors’ that finally ends with a clever funeral march complete with ghostly church organ. But honestly, it’s a decent closer if Alice wanted to leave us on a bewildering note.
 
Overall, KILLER is the perfect album to introduce anyone to Alice Cooper. It’s got the high velocity rock & roll, the sleazy sound of a Detroit garage, the bouncy anthemic catches, and the brooding atmospheric darkness all wrapped in one, sprinkled with lyrics that are never to be taken too seriously.  This is essential Alice.

Chad lives in Battle Creek, MI. with his wife, children, and far too many dogs. Chad loves music, rain, sarcasm, dry humor, and cheese. He has a strong disdain for dishonesty and hard-boiled eggs. He has written for Famous Monsters of Filmland, Cemetery Dance, Rue Morgue, and Scream magazine. His fictional work can be found in several magazines and anthologies including his own collection, Night As A Catalyst and his novellas Of Foster Homes And Flies, Wallflower and most recently Stirring The Sheets have all garnered serious praise. He can be reached via www.chadlutzke.com

CHECK OUT THE PREVIOUS ADVENTURES OF ALICE IN SUMMERLAND BELOW 
​

COMING SOON GINGER NUTS OF HORROR PRESENTS ALICE IN SUMMERLAND
​
 ​EASY ACTION BY WILLIAM TEA

 PRETTIES FOR YOU BY BRACKEN MACLEOD

LOVE IT TO DEATH BY JOHN BODEN




 


Become a Patron!

BOOK REVIEW: LAKE LURKERS BY EMMA JOHNSON