Alice Cooper in Memphis: "Enjoyable as the schlocky theatrics are, they are mere window-dressing for a setlist peppered with absolute bangers"

One: Walking In Memphis

For music lovers, Beale Street in Memphis is paradise. At one end, there’s a sign overhead reading “Home of the Blues”, and a stroll up the street provides a truly remarkable soundtrack. Music pours out of every corner, with celebrated venues at every turn.

There’s Coyote Ugly, where the crowd stand and chat around the unused boxing ring that acts as the bar’s centrepiece; the late Jerry Lee Lewis’s Café and Honky Tonk, with its stunning Creole balcony outside; and BB King’s Blues Club, named for the iconic late guitarist.

Not to mention King Jerry Lawler’s Hall of Fame Bar & Grille – the titular owner of which is the WWE legend famed for his wrestling bouts with Andy Kaufman – and the obligatory Irish pub, Silky O’Sullivan’s. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg; Memphis is the kind of city filled with musical and cultural landmarks.

For me, yesterday had emphasised the point. After almost getting stranded in Oxford, Mississippi – loss of phone coverage meant I had to forego Uber and instead source, with painful difficulty, an expensive taxi for the journey back – I returned to Memphis mightily relieved, and headed out for pizza.

Ambling down the street afterwards, I randomly came across Sun Studios, where rock and roll had been midwifed in the middle of the last century, thanks to recordings by the aforementioned Lewis, Johnny Cash and, of course, Elvis Presley.

Credit: Paul Nolan

Tonight, a Tuesday, Beale Street is considerably quieter than it had been over the weekend. I’d excitedly arrived down on Saturday night, when it had been teeming with crowds. I was considering which club I might hit first when someone nearby said to me, “Hey man, can you get me inside?” I was wondering what the hell was meant by that, when a police officer stopped me in my tracks.

It was only then that I noticed the street was blocked off by barricades, with signs nearby ominously declaring, “NO FIREARMS”. “Have you got ID, sir?” the officer asked. “Er, no,” I meekly replied. Thus it was that I spent the evening eating dinner and listening to music down the street in the Hard Rock Café. I came back the following evening with ID at the ready, only to find the barriers had been removed; clearly, the authorities are most concerned with something kicking off on Fridays and Saturdays.

Indeed, throughout my stay in Memphis, it’s hard not to get a sense of a city on edge. After a series of other crimes that had left people shaken, a couple of weeks before I arrived – in the sort of incident that has become tragically normalised in American life – a mass shooter live-streamed a rampage on Facebook. The horrific episode left three dead and three others injured.

“I’m telling you man,” my driver had emphasised on the journey to Mississippi. “You go in somewhere and look at one of these guys the wrong way, they gonna blow your ass away. And whatcha gonna do without your ass? You need your ass.”

Two: The Lorraine Motel

“Damn boy, you run like a marine,” a guy tells me as I scamper across the street at the top of Beale. “I wish!” I yell back. After a short trip down Elvis Presley Boulevard, where there’s a statue of the King, I cross another road and arrive at the Orpheum Theatre, where tonight I’m going to see a performance by shock-rock king Alice Cooper.

Excited as I am for the gig, I’ve arrived early and have a bit of time to pass. In the week or so I’ve been in town, I’ve been meaning to visit the Civil Rights Museum, which I’ve learned is built on the site of the Lorraine Motel, where Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4, 1968. Google’s directions send me on a 10-minute walk down the street – past a group of people sitting on deck chairs and enjoying a smoke outside a cigar emporium – until I come to a sign for the building.

On a grass clearing outside, there’s a photo exhibition about Black American culture, which covers figures from the Civil Rights era right up to modern icons like Kendrick Lamar and LeBron James. I’m reading some of the text when I notice an incongruously old-fashioned building at the bottom of the clearing, with a small group of people outside. Some stand with arms crossed and look at the building contemplatively, while others take an occasional photo.

I wander down and am somewhat taken aback to discover that the Lorraine Motel has been preserved as it was on the day of Dr King’s assassination. A couple of vintage Cadillacs are parked below the balcony, where outside Room 306 a wreath hangs to mark the site of the shooting. It is an amazingly powerful – and chilling – experience to stand at the commemorative plaque and take in the scene.

Dr King’s death was one of four major political assassinations in ’60s America, along with Malcolm X, John F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy. It is haunting to think that nearly 60 years later, the upcoming US midterms suggest the country is more divided than ever. That, though, is a discussion for another time and place. Right now, the sun is setting and it’s time to go – there’s the far less weighty matter of a rock gig on the evening’s agenda.

Three: Feed My Frankenstein

After getting dinner at a nearby restaurant, I set off again for the Orpheum. The walk affords me to time to consider my history with Alice Cooper. Although I’d been aware of the singer from the early ’90s thanks to hits like ‘Poison’ and his celebrated Wayne’s World cameo, I first became a proper fan when he made a memorable TV appearance on Clive James’ talk-show later in the decade.

Cooper’s status as one of the great rock interviewees immediately became apparent, as he regaled the audience with tales of his hard-partying ’70s heyday. At the time, the singer was part of the notorious Hollywood Vampires drinking crew. With fellow tearaway Keith Moon among the charter members (also including John Lennon and Ringo Starr), the group’s HQ was the Rainbow Bar in West Hollywood.

Alice Cooper. Credit: Rob Fenn

Following the inevitable stint in rehab, Cooper – the son of an evangelist – became sober and ever since has been a devout Christian. Naturally, Cooper also gave James his account of an incident that permanently sealed his reputation as the dark lord of hard rock: at a Toronto gig in the ’70s, the star was famously supposed to have killed a chicken onstage.

“I don’t know why someone would bring a chicken to a gig,” shrugged Cooper to James. “I mean, you try to imagine a guy getting ready for a gig in the ’70s: ‘Okay, I’ve got my house key, I’ve got my drugs – and, oh yeah, I better go and get the chicken.’” Unschooled in agricultural best practice – “I’m from Detroit for Christ’s sake,” the singer protested to James – Cooper reflexively threw the chicken back to its owner. Trampled to death by the crowd, the poor creature became a martyr to rock and roll, and an enduring urban legend was born.

However, the anecdote that bought the house down involved Cooper’s pet snake, Boa Derek, which he got in the habit of taking on tour throughout the decade. With Cooper enjoying a particular intense night of revelry, the snake escaped its owner’s attention and slithered into the hotel’s plumbing system – only to re-emerge from the toilet of country singer Charley Pride. “Doesn’t Charley Pride have a high-pitched voice?” asked James. “He does now,” replied Cooper.

Subsequently, my Cooper fandom was confirmed by the inclusion of his classic ‘I’m Eighteen’ on the soundtrack of the Sex Pistols doc The Filth & The Fury, and I was similarly enamoured of the immortal teen rebellion anthem ‘School’s Out’. Latterly, Cooper’s influence is evident everywhere in rock, whether it be the horror-themed theatricality of Ghost; Gun N’ Roses dropping Cooper covers into their live shows; or Dave Grohl – in costume as Dave Letterman – paying his respects with an interview and live collaboration, whilst sitting in as guest host on a special Halloween edition of Jimmy Kimmel Live!

Back in the present, there’s a decent crowd outside the Orpheum and you can feel the anticipation building as you near the venue. Inside, the ornate lobby recalls the baroque splendour of the Olympia theatres in both Dublin and Paris. Like most rock acts of his stature, Cooper is clearly doing tidy business on the merchandising front: the huge queue for the merch table – where t-shirts start at $50 – extends back into the lobby and almost out onto the street.

In time-honoured fashion, I order a couple of drinks at the bar and head inside. I’ve never seen Cooper play live and I’ve deliberately avoided spoilers about this tour, which is called Detroit Muscle. All I know is that the singer is promoting the Detroit Stories album from last year, and that there’s a decent smattering of hits in the setlist. As the pre-show music plays over the PA and everyone drinks and talks, I find myself thinking about Cooper’s excellent memoir Golf Monster – the title alluding to the sport he’s latterly become obsessed with – which I’d been reading on the flight over.

Born Vincent Fournier in 1948, Cooper notes his Irish roots in the book, and also recalls his youthful adventures in the Detroit neighbourhood of Corktown, named for the Rebel county due to the influx of immigrants from Leeside. Cooper has other Irish links: his ex-guitarist Damon Johnson currently plays in Thin Lizzy, while the guest musicians on Detroit Stories include one Larry Mullen.

As show-time nears, I look over and see a father leading his young son by the hand up the aisle. The Dad is wearing a Cannibal Corpse top and the kid is resplendent in an American Psycho t-shirt. Thank God – or should that be Satan? – families have such wholesome material to bond over these days. Five minutes later, the house-lights dim, the crowd whoop, and a booming sample of Cooper announces: “I know you’re hungry for love – and it’s feedin’ time!”

The curtain drops and the band kick into the glam-metal anthem ‘Feed My Frankenstein’. Amidst a cloud of dry ice, Cooper strides out decked head-to-toe in black leather, rounded out by his trademark dripping eye make-up, as well as a top hat and cane. Though the Orpheum is a fully seated venue, everyone immediately rises to give the singer an ovation, and we all remain standing for the remainder of the gig.

Credit: Paul Nolan

If the lyrics of the ‘Feed My Frankenstein’ are worthy of Spinal Tap (“Well, I ain’t no veggie / Like my flesh on the bone / Alive and lickin’ on your ice-cream cone”), it’s perhaps explained by the fact that – as I’m surprised to learn after the gig – it’s a cover of a tune by Zodiac Mindwarp, the UK group who gained a certain degree of traction in the mid-’80s for their satirical take on hard rock.

Simultaneously a celebration and pisstake, the song perfectly encapsulates the Alice Cooper aesthetic. It’s a potent stylistic approach I’ve continually found myself drawn to as a music fan. Put simply, if an artist doesn’t have a healthy sense of humour, it is – paradoxically – hard to take them seriously.

Four: Off With His Head, Man!

The two-tier stage is intended to recall a haunted castle, and it’s fair to say Cooper probably didn’t have too much competition for the premises on Daft. Populated by a grotesque, stomach-churning cavalcade of weirdos and freaks – insert your own gag about the Fianna Fáil/Fine Gael Ard-Fheiseanna here – the production provides rip-roaring entertainment.

Early in the set, a huge monster lumbers out from the side of the stage, only to be chased off by a hunchback in a cowl (again, there’s probably a metaphor to be constructed here about FF and FG rotating the Taoiseach’s office). Later, the hunchback returns to pick up Cooper’s sword when he drops it, before being pursued into the wings by the irate singer. Further proof – if it were needed – that when it comes to high camp, Cooper remains alpine.

Enjoyable as the schlocky theatrics are, they are mere window-dressing for a setlist peppered with absolute bangers, all of them immaculately performed by a virtuoso band (and I mean virtuoso – at one point, drummer Glen Sobel does double stick twirls between beats). The show really goes into orbit with ‘I’m Eighteen’, which finds Cooper waving around a crutch during the barnstorming choruses. It’s followed by similarly epic takes on ‘Poison’ and ‘Billion Dollar Babies’, the latter concluding with a demonic infant rampaging amongst streamers and confetti.

Venue security are okay with fans getting closer to the stage for pictures, so for the duration of one song, I’m able to make my way down the aisle and get afew shots of Cooper in full flight. Such proximity allows even greater appreciation of his mesmerising stage presence, and it’s hard not to be struck again by the humour – and even occasional hilarity – of his posing and preening.

Elsewhere, it’s reassuring to note that the centrepiece of Cooper’s show remains as it has for decades. As the band strike up a macabre groove, the singer threatens to ritually sacrifice a baby doll, before being dragged off by a motley crew of goons. He then reappears in a straight-jacket to perform the eerie rocker ‘Steven’, which climaxes with Cooper being led away to a guillotine.

Credit: Paul Nolan

After a suitably suspenseful build-up, the blade drops, and the singer’s bloodied head is held aloft by a zombified dame in a garish red dress. It’s a stunning grand guignol set-piece that remains as luridly satisfying as ever. The main set concludes with Cooper donning a long, stars-and-stripes coat for ‘Freedom’, a vaguely libertarian ode to America that’s as close as he will ever come to a political statement.

The encore can only end one way: an uproarious version of ‘School’s Out’ – also interpolating the chorus of ‘Another Brick In The Wall’ – played amidst balloons and cascading confetti. As well as being a total belter of a tune, the song also boasts one of the funniest lyrics in rock history: “Well we got no class / And we got no principles / And we got no innocence... We can’t even think of a word that rhymes!”

Afterwards, as the band take their bows to raucous cheering, Cooper signs off with a final statement: “May all of your nightmares be horrific.” As a Kildare football fan, I’m unlikely to have trouble on that front.

Five: EPILOGUE

A short while later, I’m waiting for an Uber in a quiet spot around the corner. As I reflect on a great day in a fascinating American city, I’m vaguely aware of a guy stopping beside me for a smoke. He’s quickly approached by another man and hassled for a cigarette. The conversation breaks up, and as my car pulls around the corner, the first guy meets my eye.

“Hustled out of 20 bucks ’cos I can’t say no!” he says, shaking his head. I nod and laugh. As I get in the door of the car, he calls back to me over his shoulder. “Have a good night, boss.”