Photography: Tyler Howells (At The Cardiff Utilita Arena Show)
As I travelled into Edinburgh for tonight’s entertainment, I kept wondering who this Cooper woman was and whether she could be the same one I met on a Sunday in Milwaukee in the rain. She was the ugliest woman I had ever seen. Cheekbones like broken glass and a smile that looked like it belonged to a taxidermist’s first attempt. But lord, did she know how to command a room.
Turns out, ALICE COOPER isn’t a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense. More like a ghoul in a tuxedo, caked in mascara and bile, dragging a leather sack of rock ‘n’ roll theatre behind him like Santa Claus’s deranged brother. The Playhouse was packed—boiling with pensioners in eyeliner, teenage goths pretending they’re not with their dads, and me, nursing a can of Monster like it was communion wine.
When the curtain dropped, it felt more like an exhumation than a concert. A dollhouse of doom wheeled in on squealing casters. Nurses, nooses, toy boxes full of snakes. The band hit like a chainsaw through a wedding cake. Cooper himself emerged like a resurrected vaudeville demon, waving a sword, then a crutch, then a baby doll’s disembodied head. He doesn’t sing so much as spit prophecy. And somehow his voice, all gravel and grave-dirt, STILL carries with the command of a man who’s seen the inside of more padded cells than stages.
“Bed Of Nails” came early and hit hard. People lost their minds. Grown men in IRON MAIDEN shirts screamed like toddlers seeing Santa at the garden centre. “Poison” sent the balcony into a swaying mess of clasped hands and haunted expressions. At some point, he was beheaded, then resurrected, then strangled a puppet. It was hard to follow. Narrative coherence wasn’t the point.
What struck me wasn’t the music—though it slapped—but the devotion. Alice could’ve walked onstage in a paper crown and just whispered nursery rhymes for 90 minutes and they’d have STILL cheered. But he didn’t. He gave them the full nightmare. Confetti. Guillotines. Smoke. Applause so desperate it felt like a séance.
By the end, I was soaked in fake blood (Not mine) and adrenaline (Probably mine). I still don’t know if that was the same Cooper I met in Milwaukee (Mill-e-wah-que), but if it was, she’s cleaned up nicely. Still terrifying. Still commanding. And still, somehow, rock’s reigning corpse bride. If this is retirement age, then God help the rest of us.
Words: Matt Denny
Turns out, ALICE COOPER isn’t a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense. More like a ghoul in a tuxedo, caked in mascara and bile, dragging a leather sack of rock ‘n’ roll theatre behind him like Santa Claus’s deranged brother. The Playhouse was packed—boiling with pensioners in eyeliner, teenage goths pretending they’re not with their dads, and me, nursing a can of Monster like it was communion wine.
When the curtain dropped, it felt more like an exhumation than a concert. A dollhouse of doom wheeled in on squealing casters. Nurses, nooses, toy boxes full of snakes. The band hit like a chainsaw through a wedding cake. Cooper himself emerged like a resurrected vaudeville demon, waving a sword, then a crutch, then a baby doll’s disembodied head. He doesn’t sing so much as spit prophecy. And somehow his voice, all gravel and grave-dirt, STILL carries with the command of a man who’s seen the inside of more padded cells than stages.
“Bed Of Nails” came early and hit hard. People lost their minds. Grown men in IRON MAIDEN shirts screamed like toddlers seeing Santa at the garden centre. “Poison” sent the balcony into a swaying mess of clasped hands and haunted expressions. At some point, he was beheaded, then resurrected, then strangled a puppet. It was hard to follow. Narrative coherence wasn’t the point.
What struck me wasn’t the music—though it slapped—but the devotion. Alice could’ve walked onstage in a paper crown and just whispered nursery rhymes for 90 minutes and they’d have STILL cheered. But he didn’t. He gave them the full nightmare. Confetti. Guillotines. Smoke. Applause so desperate it felt like a séance.
By the end, I was soaked in fake blood (Not mine) and adrenaline (Probably mine). I still don’t know if that was the same Cooper I met in Milwaukee (Mill-e-wah-que), but if it was, she’s cleaned up nicely. Still terrifying. Still commanding. And still, somehow, rock’s reigning corpse bride. If this is retirement age, then God help the rest of us.
Words: Matt Denny
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