Synopsis
In the beginning Alice Cooper was the name of a rock group. Then my stage name. And then a monster. Now I’ve written a book that tracks Alice’s evilution, how he and I became almost fatally intertwined, and how I’ve tamed him at last. After over thirty records and sixty-plus years, the story of Alice Cooper has become a tangle of embellishments, elaborations and outright fabrications, that I think it’s time to sort reality from myth: the slaughtered chickens, the bans and record burnings, the evangelical terrors, Ouija boards and poltergeists, resurrections and revenge from the grave, the cross-dressers, thieves, drug addicts and hopeless alcoholics, the house fires and car crashes—all will be revealed for what they really were.
I’m also coming clean about the extent of my addictions, my blackout years, the creative process fuelled by alcohol, drugs and round-the-clock TV, my scramble to the top of the pile and the terrible slide back down. I want to talk about the origin of Cold Ethyl, the guillotine and the dead babies, the best and worst of my reviews, my feelings of guilt and regret after people got hurt or died, what life was like on the road until the wheels came off the bus, what a romantic I am at heart and how I’ve stayed married for half a century even after my wife came at me with a frying pan.
And I want to talk about God. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna bang you on the head with a Bible, I just want to describe how it is that I found Him dwelling in me. Alice, that inveterate liar, was a voice in my ear for so long, whispering lies and sweet nothings, pretending to be my better conscience and my inspiration, pretending to be me, that I think it’s only right to present both sides of the story: the angel on one shoulder, the devil on the other.