Me, Alice: The Autobiography of Alice Cooper

I pushed that car as much as I drove it. It cost so much to pay for it that I never had the money for gas. When it was only three months old Glen and I were tooling down the highway and I suddenly realized I was driving into the side of a green station wagon. My 390-horsepower engine crumbled in a loud explosion. I had this terrible sinking feeling when I realized that woman behind the steering wheel of the other car was crying. She jumped out the door and started punching me in the head yelling, “You moron, you could have killed me.” There were flames coming out of my engine, and I stood shoveling dirt on it with my hands while she hit me and shouted.

Glen was hopping around by the side of the road holding his toe, which was broken when he smashed it against the dashboard because his feet were almost up on the windshield when the accident happened. (It wasn’t my fault. She only had her driving permit for three days and she made an illegal left turn.) The experience was so awful I’ve never driven a car since and never bothered to renew my license.

Glendale Community College was an ugly expanse of cinder block and desert, hot and lifeless. All the action was in the air-conditioned cafeteria where the band and I set up camp at a long table in the middle of the room. Anybody who came near us was ripped to pieces with wisecracks. We had no mercy, this red-blooded American rock band, and sent many a flat-chested girl heading for the ladies’ room in hysterics. It was into this den that three more important people came into my life, completing what was to become the Alice Cooper band.

We were all seated around Formica clubhouse one day when a limbering guy sat down at the table with his lunch, pulled out a cap pistol and shot us all dead. This was Mike Allen, who also distinguished himself by carrying a Man From Uncle badge and ID card. Glen said to him, “You’re a crazy motherfucker,” and Mike Allen laughed a lot. Mike became our amp-boy — which is what we called the big guy who carried the equipment for us skinny guys. He signed on with us and stayed for the next four years.

It turned out that Mike Allen had a wealth of unused and unwanted knowledge stored up in his head. While at first we thought his six-foot six-inch frame was only good enough to carry our equipment, it turned out he knew a million disconnected facts. It was like we were a rock and roll Star Trek and he was Dr. Spock. He knew the amperage of amplifier fuses and who pitched for Brooklyn in the 1950 World Series. He could also explain the embolism, if anybody ever wanted him to, and sometimes he offered little facts just to make conversation. He had gone to St. Mary’s High School in Phoenix, a parochial factory that was enough to estrange anybody from the real world. He was very square actually, like me.

Mike Allen never swore or drank or used drugs the entire time I knew him. He was the cleanest living guy in the world. He was a virgin. He said he wanted to save it for his wife. I used to say, “Mike, the first time you get her you’re gonna blow her up.” But he was serious about it, even years later on the road when girls used to try to rape him and deflower him. His ultimate idol was John Wayne. He really wanted to be just like him!

Years later, when wee were to lose him somewhere in the web of touring and travel, Mike Allen returned to Phoenix and became a nurse. Within a year of getting his nursing degree he invented a mechanical respiratory system, patented it and sold the rights for two million dollars.

I met Dick Christian not long after Mike Allen. Dick was drawn to us in much the same way Mike had been. He called us the “Outsides Convention” because he said we reeked of sarcasm and unrest. Dick knew a lot about sarcasm and unrest. Like us he was not quite in step with the rest of Glendale Community College. His parents had sent him to a Jesuit prep school to curb “emotional outbursts.” It was an ironic cure.

Dick probably understood alienation better than anyone I have ever met. That, sparked with imagination and guts, made him a loyal and understanding friend. He was handsome, tall, curly hair, and knew when and how to be a phony.

Dick became our unofficial manager. We really didn’t want him to manage us because we needed someone with experience, but he was always there helping, plugging along anyway, dressing up in ties and jackets to try to intimidate club owners to pay us without too much trouble.