Glasgow. A city that smells faintly of soot, triumph, and someone else's chips; cold, half-eaten, stepped on. The perfect setting, for a W.A.S.P. gig. Although It  wasn't a concert in the traditional sense. It was more a series of escalating dares between fire, feedback, and denim.

When Blackie Lawless came onstage the audience erupted. Someone spilled beer on me, and a security guard smelled of panic and Lynx Africa.

Then they proceeded to play their debut album in its entirety. "I Wanna Be Somebody" is still a cry so primal and ridiculous it looped back around and became profound. Half the crowd shouted it, the other half acted like they were trying to laugh through a midlife crisis.

During the medley of "Inside the Electric Circus" / "I Don't Need No Doctor" / "Scream Until You Like It", a woman near me screamed and did SEEM to like it. I hope they’re doing okay...

The guitars didn’t so much scream as accuse. One solo sounded as like someone had angrily trying to solder a microwave using only hatred. The drumming was an avalanche of fists. My trousers vibrated in a way I’m still not fully comfortable discussing.

By the end, my ears were ringing like dinner bells. I staggered out into the Glasgow night, mascara smudged (And I wasn’t even wearing any when I got there), with only one thought in my head: I need tea. Strong, scalding, restorative tea. And maybe a bath where I can scream underwater and reflect on my sins.

Words: Matt Denny

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

I THINK I was there. I MUST have been. There’s blood on my sleeve and a set of co-ordinates in my back pocket in someone else's handwriting. Bannerman's. Underground stone. Hot, wet, shaking. Maybe it was last night. Maybe it hasn’t happened yet. Time did something funny in there. Slid sideways.

I remember the wall. Cold against my spine, or maybe it was breathing. Hard to tell. Could’ve been me. It could’ve been the wall.

I came to watch. That I know. Not to move. Not to feel. Just to witness. Someone needs to remember this properly when it’s over. I think I forgot what I was meant to remember.

Nero Bellum arrived by not arriving. One blink—nothing. The next—there. Smoke, red light, some metallic hum in my teeth. His shadow hit the ceiling before his feet hit the floor. He didn’t walk. He slid. Or maybe the floor moved for him. I looked down to check. The tiles were twitching. Not metaphorically. Actually twitching. I think one licked my boot.

Then “Devils Work”. Or what I assumed was it. It could’ve been a fire alarm. It could’ve been someone screaming backwards into a pipe. The noise didn’t feel like noise. It was weight. It came through the speakers and pushed the air out of my lungs in reverse.

People started jerking forward, twitching in place like wires were being yanked from inside their bones. Someone fell. Someone else fell on them. Nobody noticed. I stood still. I tried to blink slower as I didn’t want to miss anything important. A vole appeared from beneath the drum riser. A serious little fella. It might’ve had glasses. It was hard to tell in the strobe.

“The Poison Will Deaden The Pain” melted the centre of the room. I saw it happen. One second—people. The next—just blur. Hands, faces, teeth. Bellum was the only thing not vibrating. Just prowling through the distortion, mouth open, arms twitching like he was pulling threads only he could see. I thought he was bleeding, but it was just light. Or sweat. Or memory.

Every track hit with a new shape. “I Choose Violence” came with static in my eyes. I couldn’t see properly for the whole thing. I felt like someone shoved me into a microwave and hit purée. The synth lines crawled under my skin. I scratched at my arm and found ink I don’t remember writing.

There was a moment louder than the rest. I swear to God the bass spoke. Not metaphorically. Not poetically. ACTUAL words. I couldn’t hear them, but they were there. In the corners.

Nero stared out over us like we were ants he'd decided not to crush just yet. Or maybe he was somewhere else entirely. His mouth moved. Lyrics, probably. Or instructions. Or prophecy. My ears were bleeding by then, so I just smiled and pretended I understood. The strobes stopped briefly, and I swear I saw the crowd aging in fast-forward. Just for a second. Then we were back inside it.

I don’t remember hearing the final song. I remember feeling something explode behind my right eye. I leaned into the speaker and let it rattle my thoughts loose. When it ended, I wasn’t sure what year it was.

Everyone exhaled at once. The collective moan of the overused. People fell into each other. Some collapsed. Some crawled. One couple kissed with the urgency of people escaping a burning building. I stayed. Couldn’t move yet. My knees felt fictional.
Cleanup came. Gloves. Mops. One of them looked at me and flinched. I smiled. Didn’t mean to.

Outside, the night was wrong. Too empty. The cars looked fake. I followed the last few disciples up the hill. They limped like they’d left something behind and weren’t sure if it mattered. One of them turned and looked straight at me like I was part of it now. I tasted metal in the back of my mouth and it didn’t go away. Neither did the vole.

Tonight's gig coming in at 9 minutes of the sound of AOL dial-up internet through damaged speakers, out of 10.

Words: Matt Denny. 

The new album, "And Then Oblivion" by PSYCLON NINE is out now, via METROPOLIS RECORDS.