The most irritating aspect of glam-rock is how badly it ages. At one time pushing the envelope on sexual role playing, a mere decade later it looks at best quaint. The best glam-rockers sidestepped the problem by being smart dressers (Annie Lennox' male drag from '83 would look good in any era and Freddy Mercury's graduation from skin-tight leotards to black vinyl was an embodiment of hairy-chested masculinity), or moved in different directions (the refined and elegant David Bowie). But the rest look silly and naive. Don't believe me? Have a look at Sir Elton, Rod Stewart, or Sir Mick from their '70s period. Only KISS and Alice Cooper refused to change.
The major appeal of KISS was always the goofiness of straight men in foot-high platform boots, skintight spandex, and face paint. Cooper is more subversive, and, as evidenced by his recent Chicago gig, more disturbing. The mascara is still there, as is the dress code from his early '70s heyday (a mop of tangled hair, black-leather wardrobe, S/M gear), but what's amusing is how his most shocking attributes have comfortably seeped into our world view. In '72 the sight of him dancing with a full-grown boa constrictor seemed perverse, but now I have to say I know several 'normal' people who have pet big snakes. His stage drag wouldn't be out of place in a leather bar or on the street. Necrophilia figured prominently in his stage shows, but in retrospect A.C.'s antics pale next to one Dr. Hannibal Lector.
A.C. was obviously onto more than show and tell when he broke out in '71, and the 'Bare Bones Tour' verified the fact. Stripped down and muscular, the new CD, The Eyes of Alice Cooper, is a throwback to '70s-era Detroit metal. Loud, crass, and smelly, it's rock without refinement, spontaneous and rude without apology. And for most of the show, A.C. delivered on it.
Opening with 'Hello Hooray,' the show was light on flash, hard on muscle. Looking and sounding remarkable, A.C. fronted a band that was a good 20 years his junior. Rough, tattooed, and bare-chested (my it's hot in here), they attacked A.C.'s discography with a young punk's swagger. The kicker was that A.C. met the challenge head on—he's definitely the man he used to be.
The first half of the show bolted from the gate;: 'Billion Dollar Babies,' a psychedelic 'I'm 18,' 'No More Mr. Nice Guy,' a salacious 'Be My Lover,' and 'Lost in America.' The new and savagely funny songs 'What do You Want from Me?' (with its ultimate sacrifice of 'I even burned my porn for you...') and 'High School to Old School' ('Nobody wants me hangin' around unless it's from a tree in the middle of town...') were white trash rock worthy of the most dire trailer park.
For 'Welcome to My Nightmare' he brought out the snake, and that's when the show lost heat. 'Only Women Bleed,' his ballad about wife abuse, may have been thoughtful, but the female dancer executing pseudo-ballet moves cluttered the vibe. 'Poison' and the wickedly funny 'Cold Ethel' cranked the velocity back up. Flinging a human-size ragdoll about like a soiled doily, he punched up 'Ethel''s demented punchline ('She's cool in bed/hell she oughta be 'cause Ethel's dead'). Reaching back for forgotten gems ('Halo of Flies,' 'Ballad of Dwight Frye,' 'Desperado') gave the show and him a timely bite. But if there was any doubt, the double barrel of 'School's Out' and 'Under My Wheels,' raging motor-city rockers both, closed the show with defiant fury.
A.C.'s best bit was at the finish. Two dancers, one in Britney drag and the other in a Madonna mask, took center stage and liplocked in an MTV-inspired kiss. They ended up in a fist fight with A.C. shaking his head in bewilderment. But it was dead-on and appropriate. As the master of outrage for more than 30 years, is it any wonder A.C.'s twisted comedy reflects the times we live in?
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