I don’t know if this story is true or just some rock-and-roll folklore, but I want it to be true. So let’s say it is.
The story goes that back in the ‘70s, Alice Cooper was meeting a reporter from The New York Times for lunch at one of those restaurants where they iron the tablecloths and no one has ever uttered the word “weed” out loud. He showed up in full costume, looking his usual ghoulish self in black leather, eye makeup, and hair like a haunted rat’s nest. He knew the reporter wasn’t there to talk to Vincent Furnier. He came to meet with Alice Cooper, patron saint of Theatrical Doom.
At the next table were four men—the kind raised on red meat, suspicion, and a strong sense of who’s allowed to wear eyeliner. Anyway, they started making disparaging comments about “guys who wear make-up,” purposely loud enough for Alice to hear. Alice, being either a saint or a bat—or maybe both—finished his lunch, got up to leave and then walked over to their table and laid a perfectly manicured hand on one man’s shoulder and said, “Great to see you again, pal.” And then he left. Just like that. Can you imagine the conversation those guys must’ve had after that?
It would’ve been so easy for someone of Alice Cooper’s celebrity to go feral on those guys who didn’t get him—who preferred to judge him. Instead, Alice chose a mic-drop moment of grace over making a scene. Oh, the unnerving decency.
If you didn't already know, the real Alice Cooper is a man of deep faith. It’s eyeliner, guillotines, snakes, and Jesus! He is the son and grandson of pastors. His father-in-law was also a Baptist minister. Which means he comes from a long line of men who wore suits they didn’t like and believed in the power of potluck salvation. So, yeah, Alice Cooper has a pretty sturdy pew in the Church of Surprising Grace.
Of course, he lived big, struggled hard, and overdid just about everything you can overdo. It was the whole buffet of rock stardom: fame, addiction, enormous amounts of money, and the long, quiet hangover of having gotten everything and still feeling like your insides are made of dryer lint. And as Alice himself once admitted, “You soon realize that that’s not the answer, that there’s a big, big nothing out there at the end of that.”
Here’s the thing about that: even beneath all the bizarre theatrics and the deafening volume, we’re all searchers—people looking for something holy in the distortion. Musicians are just ordinary people asking the same big questions, only with louder amps.
Like most prodigals, he eventually made his way back to the Source. That place where the air feels a little clearer and the noise dies down, and you can almost hear something true again.
And that big, big nothing? That void we try to outdrink, outspend, outsex, or outrun? That’s usually where God puts a hand on your shoulder and says, “You done yet?”
A post-script: I met Alice Cooper in 1975 while I was in Florida, staying at The Diplomat Hotel on a week-long vacation with my mom and sister. One afternoon, while we slathered ourselves in Johnson’s Baby Oil, cooking our bodies like bacon in a Florida skillet while smoking cigarettes by the pool, out walks the Godfather of Shock Rock. No makeup, no fake blood, no boa constrictor draped around his neck. Just looking for a cot wearing a black football jersey and a swimsuit, carrying golf clubs—a regular guy who just happened to have invented glam-horror rock and made eyeliner an act of rebellion.
I recognized him right away and mustered up the nerve to ask for an autograph and a quick photo. What struck me was how polite and gracious he was. I was a fan then, and I still am.
Post-postscript: If there’s one thing that unites all teenagers, it’s the last day of school. Even the “browners” — those kids who actually liked math class and carried slide rules like accessories — were secretly counting down the seconds till they could trade in their textbooks for two solid months of sunburns, loitering with friends, and trying not to get grounded.
So... as the school year wraps up, how could we ever forget the most righteous, epic, anarchic teen anthem of all time? School’s Out. Just the opening riff makes me want to set my notebooks on fire and run wild and free into the hot summer sun! (If it ever arrives!)
Thanks so much for reading! If you haven’t already, hit this thing below:
Thanks for sharing Catharine..very believable!