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Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs!: My Adventures in The Alice Cooper Group
     

Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs!: My Adventures in The Alice Cooper Group

4.3 4
by Dennis Dunaway
 

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"Before the world heard of KISS, the New York Dolls, Marilyn Manson, or Ozzy Osbourne, there was Alice Cooper, the original shock-rock band." -Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

As teenagers in Phoenix, Dennis Dunaway, bassist and co-songwriter for the Alice Cooper group, and lead singer Vince Furnier (who would later change his name to Alice Cooper) formed a

Overview

"Before the world heard of KISS, the New York Dolls, Marilyn Manson, or Ozzy Osbourne, there was Alice Cooper, the original shock-rock band." -Rock and Roll Hall of Fame

As teenagers in Phoenix, Dennis Dunaway, bassist and co-songwriter for the Alice Cooper group, and lead singer Vince Furnier (who would later change his name to Alice Cooper) formed a hard-knuckles band that played prisons, cowboy bars, and teens clubs. Their wild, impossible journey took them from Hollywood to the ferocious Detroit music scene, and along the way they discovered the utterly original performance style and look that would make them the stuff of legend.

Speaking out for the first time about his adventures in the Alice Cooper group, Dunaway reveals a band that was obsessed with topping themselves, with their increasingly outlandish shows and ever-blackening reputation. Dunaway takes readers into back rooms, behind brainstorming sessions, and into the most exclusive parties of the 1970s, revealing the talent, drama, and characters that drove two teenagers to create what would become America's highest-grossing act.

From struggling for recognition to topping the charts with a string of hits including "I'm Eighteen," "School's Out," and "No More Mr. Nice Guy," the Alice Cooper group was entertaining, outrageous, and one of a kind.
Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs! is a riveting account of the band's creation in the '60s, their strange glory in the '70s, and the legendary characters they met along the way.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“I still consider Dennis Dunaway to be one of my best friends. Dennis is one of the few true surrealists that I've ever met….This book carries on in Dennis' own private surrealistic world.” —Alice Cooper

“If you think you've heard all the Alice Cooper stories, think again...Though Alice was the iconic face of the band, Dunaway was the brains behind many of their best-known songs...It's safe to say that, without Dunaway, the group's now-legendary look and sound would have been vastly different. There might not even have been an Alice Cooper.” —Village Voice

“Dennis vividly details in the first person how the Alice cooperative of five endearingly misfit pioneering adolescents put the Woodstock generation to rest.” —Huffington Post

“A wonderfully detailed memoir” —Connecticut Post

“An informative, entertaining, and surprisingly cheerful work. The pacing is fast, the chronology is tight, and the balance of personal, professional, and cultural details is spot on... Dunaway's upbeat tone and flair for storytelling lift this work a step above the average musical memoir” —Library Journal

“A visit to the magical, blood-spattered world of the Alice Cooper Group, courtesy of Dunaway, the band's bassist, co-songwriter and "theatrical conceptionalist."... the book is more than just an homage to his old friend; it's a love letter to an era... An affectionate, sharp-eyed memoir.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Dennis tells the story from the inside out with wit and wisdom and adds brilliantly to the Alice Cooper Group mythos. There may be many versions of this story, but Dennis' is one of the most colorful, insightful and entertaining!” —Bob Ezrin, record producer

“Dennis Dunaway's book brought me right back to those days in Laurel Canyon. So many times, people ask me ‘what was it like in the 60's?' I give them a blank stare and say ‘if you can remember it, you weren't there' or ‘uh, I forget,' or ‘it was great'…Well now I'll just tell them to read Dennis' book.” —Robby Krieger, song-writer and guitarist for the Doors.

“The fact that it historically chronicles one of the greatest hard rock bands of all time is just icing on the cake” —Classic Rock Revisited

“For a fan of the Alice Cooper band, as I have been since my adolescence in the 1970s, Cooper bassist Dennis Dunaway's first-hand account of the group's humble beginnings, heady triumphs and arguably inevitable implosion is gripping stuff.” —Michael J. Fox, New York Times bestselling author of A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Future

“Steve Martin once said ‘Those French have a different word for everything.'--Dennis has a different view of everything, so he's the ideal chap to spend a night out with--and you have him for a whole book!!” —Ian Hunter

“A key player in the Alice Cooper sound, Dennis Dunaway propelled the band with his swirling-driving bass, and he now takes us backstage with an all-access pass to the Hall of Fame band that inspired us to make friends in the danger zone.” —Greg Harris, President & CEO, Rock and Roll Hall of Fame + Museum

“From inside the inner circle of the Alice Cooper band, bass guitar wizard Dennis Dunaway gives his refreshingly unique perspective telling the bands amazing story. Dennis chronicles his journey in vivid detail from an early 1960's high school band called the "Earwigs" transforming into "Alice Cooper," then in the 1970's becoming the most notorious band on in the world. A must read for every Alice Cooper fan!” —Neal Smith, song-writer and drummer for Alice Cooper

“Lived it, lost it, read it and loved it to death!” —Michael Bruce, founding member, Alice Cooper Group

“A touching portrait. Poignant, funny, sad and most of all, true!” —Joe Greenberg Co-Manager of Alice Cooper

“The original Alice Cooper Band were one of the all-time greats in what I consider the golden era of classic rock, and helped pave the way for all the arena rock bands that followed in their wake. As a kid I spent countless hours listening to their records and staring at the pictures on the sleeves, pondering the menacing gang dressed up in glitter drag, in the pre-internet days when your favorite bands were still a mystery. Dennis Dunaway had a front row seat to all the craziness, and lucky for us, came out the other side with his memories intact.” —Chris Shiflett, Foo Fighters

“Dennis Dunaway stands out as one of the most progressive bassist of the time. His unique sonic vision and absolute brotherhood connection to Glen, Michael, Alice and Neal created a raw, unpretentious, by the seat of your pants sound that captivated and inspired. And what is equally amazing is Dennis's absolutely clear and detailed recollection and articulation of the journey they took.” —Richard McDonald, Vice President of the Fender Musical Corp.

“The multi-faceted autobiography, penned with former Rolling Stone staffer Chris Hodenfield, appeals not only to hard core Alice Cooper fans like myself, but to readers with a general interest in the "rock biography" genre, as well as those who enjoy immersing themselves in the twists and turns of a whole-hearted adventure and an enduring love story set primarily in the heady music scene of the 1960s and '70s.” —The Newcastle Herald (Australia)

“An informative, entertaining, and surprisingly cheerful work. The pacing is fast, the chronology is tight, and the balance of personal, professional, and cultural details is spot-on. ... Dunaway's update tone and flair for storytelling lift this work a step above the average musical memoir. Recommended for music historians, children of the 1970s, and, of course, Cooper fans.” —Library Journal

New York Times bestselling author of A Funny Thing Michael J. Fox

For a fan of the Alice Cooper band, as I have been since my adolescence in the 1970s, Cooper bassist Dennis Dunaway's first-hand account of the group's humble beginnings, heady triumphs and arguably inevitable implosion is gripping stuff.
Library Journal
07/01/2015
Playing bass for the Alice Cooper Group from the group's origins as a high school talent show joke band to stadium-packing success, Dunaway amassed more than a lifetime's worth of road memories. With help from Rolling Stone staff writer Hodenfield, those reflections become an informative, entertaining, and surprisingly cheerful work. The pacing is fast, the chronology is tight, and the balance of personal, professional, and cultural details is spot-on. A few clunky phrases and run-on sentences are easily forgiven; especially memorable passages involving the band's farmhouse headquarters and their 100 percent pure Motor City roadie, Leo, will have readers laughing out loud, while the drink- and drug-fueled decline of guitarist Glen Buxton is poignant without being schmaltzy. A refreshing sense of graciousness even extends to issues surrounding the band's 1975 breakup. VERDICT Dunaway's upbeat tone and flair for storytelling lift this work a step above the average musical memoir. Recommended for music historians, children of the 1970s, and, of course, Cooper fans.—Neil Derksen, Pierce Cty. Lib. Syst., Tacoma
Kirkus Reviews
2015-05-24
A visit to the magical, blood-spattered world of the Alice Cooper Group, courtesy of Dunaway, the band's bassist, co-songwriter and "theatrical conceptionalist." Hard-rock fans of a certain generation think of Alice Cooper as the original shock rocker, a platinum-selling performance artist who took to the stage looking as if he stepped out of A Clockwork Orange, ranting and raving about billion-dollar babies and how school was out forever. Today, in comparison to the Marilyn Mansons of the world, Cooper's schtick seems almost quaint, but during his heydey, he was a frightening, formidable force in the rock world. A close friend from childhood on, Dunaway was with Cooper every step of the way, and he documents that story in this agreeable memoir. But does Cooper's place in the rock world merit a memoir from his bassist, and is the bassist a good enough memoirist to overcome his own lack of notoriety? The answer to both questions is a qualified yes. Dunaway makes a solid case for Cooper's place in the rock pantheon, continually pointing out not just the fact that he was an above-average singer, songwriter, and frontman, but also the role he played in incorporating theater into rock performance. To Dunaway's credit, the book is more than just an homage to his old friend; it's a love letter to an era. But it's not all roses. Readers looking for the kind of lasciviousness they expect from an Alice Cooper confidant won't be disappointed, as the author does plenty of sordid, albeit not-too-slimy dishing about the band's backstage shenanigans. Dunaway has a terrific memory, which is both a positive and negative: though the book can get bogged down in minutiae, the author leaves no stone unturned. An affectionate, sharp-eyed memoir that, while it doesn't add anything groundbreaking to the rock-lit canon, will appeal to Alice Cooper die-hards and fans of his brand of music.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781250048080
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
06/09/2015
Pages:
304
Sales rank:
168,690
Product dimensions:
6.30(w) x 9.40(h) x 1.10(d)

Related Subjects

Read an Excerpt

Snakes! Guillotines! Electric chairs!

My Adventures in the Alice Cooper Group


By Dennis Dunaway, Chris Hodenfield

St. Martins's Press

Copyright © 2015 Dennis Dunaway and Chris Hodenfield
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-4840-5



CHAPTER 1

SCHOOL'S IN ...

"WHEN WEIRD PEOPLE BECOME THE MASSES, WE'LL BE FAMOUS."

— VINCE


VINCE'S CHAIR SCREECHED across the paint-speckled linoleum. All around the art class, heads popped up like a bunch of startled antelope. Everyone was instantly on the brink of illicit laughter. Vince turned to see if Mrs. Sloan had noticed. What he saw were her staring eyes, peering over the top of her reading glasses, locked on him, signaling to all that she was in charge.

Vince had a reputation for clowning his way out of trouble. So the class just waited. Mrs. Sloan was attractive and well liked, but she usually maintained a stern attitude. It was just about to meet its match.

Vince's eyes grew big as he mimed the TV character Barney Fife. He mouthed a silent, "Sorry." He was like an actor in the spotlight and could just as easily have turned into Inspector Clouseau or Stan Laurel or any one of a dozen characters in his repertoire. So now he acted out the shaky lawman, nervously picking up his chair and easing it over the floor next to mine.

A snot-snorkeling giggle erupted in the far corner of the room. It was from Maurice Kluff, a kid who always wore bright orange socks. Mrs. Sloan snuffed out his laughter with a deadly stare.

The class settled down, and Vince and I went back to flipping through a heavy book about modern art. It was our pirate's treasure. We came upon a Salvador Dalí painting of Sigmund Freud, vivid in its Surrealism.

Vince looked at the next one and pointed to each word in the title: Soft Construction with Boiled Beans (Premonition of Civil War). He laughed and muttered, "Boiled beans?"

I propped my chin on my fist and studied the picture. Vince did the same, like we were modeling for that statue The Thinker.

Before I could come to a grand conclusion, Vince started nodding his head up and down like one of those wobble-headed dogs in the back window of a Chevy.

"Neat," he said.

"Really neat," I elaborated.

On the next page, another sweeping Dalí painting showed a grotesque structure that looked like a stack of disjointed body parts. It was crowned with a butt-ugly head. But right off, Vince spotted Freud again. It was the same image as the previous portrait, only smaller. The tiny Freud suddenly seemed even more amazing in the context of Dalí's full-blown vision.

What happened in that moment of discovery? I'd like to say we knew something big had happened. Something did happen.


* * *

I'd entered Cortez High in the fall of 1961. The school, on the northern edge of Phoenix, had just opened and didn't have air-conditioning yet. Every room felt like a furnace. The rules there weren't set in stone yet, so the kids were testing and pushing the limits all the time.

I joined the Cortez track-and-field team. Coach Emmett Smith noticed that I was pretty good at going the distance. Big glory. I soon found out that cross-country was about as popular as the parched dirt we ran on. During our meets, the bleachers were entirely buttless. The janitor and his dog watched us.

I met one of my future musical partners on that team. John Speer had dark curly hair, a big barrel chest, and the stamina of a bull. He had a great sense of humor, too, even if was clouded with pessimism. We developed a friendly rivalry.

Not everyone at Cortez got along as well as the guys on our team. A lot of times guys settled their differences with their fists after school. Any kid who wanted to build a reputation had to prove it regularly in the parking lot.

The worst hombre in school, though, was a big hulk named Ruben. He had three older brothers who would come pick him up after school, all jammed into a white Corvair that sagged down low. The brothers would be peering out with their dangerous stares, making the Corvair look like a nest of rattlesnakes.

Ruben's favored shtick went like this: He'd come up to you with an outstretched paw you couldn't refuse, then crush your hand till you dropped to your knees in agony; then he'd drag you to the trash can and drop you in it. Your pain made him happy.

Then a skinny little freshman named Vince Furnier showed up. He was the least likely human for anyone on earth to fear, and this struck Ruben as funny. So he "volunteered" Vince to join his handshaking reign of terror. Side by side, they looked like cartoon characters, Tweety Bird and Spike. Ruben would stand in the shadows while Vince, his scrawny puppet, lured their prey.

Vince would introduce passing kids to Ruben, who'd come out grinning and raising his paw. As long as Ruben was entertained, Vince had immunity from the dreaded handshake from hell. Vince was in his glory, and seemed perfectly happy to lure these victims. After all, it wasn't his fault — Ruben was making him do it.

In our school, Journalism class was considered an all-girls thing. Naturally I signed up for the class, which also meant writing for the student newspaper, the Tip Sheet. The girls saw me as an interesting novelty and showered me with special treatment and outright pampering. Oh, I was bad. The girls didn't want me to get all stressed out over missing a deadline, so they'd write my stories for me. I even won an award for one.

The guys on campus also gave me special treatment: They called me a pansy. John Speer gave it to me the worst. But after a while, seeing what a cushy life I had in that class full of cuties, Speer and the other slobs recognized my genius. Vince joined the class as soon as he could and became the Tip Sheet's sports editor.

Although he was a year younger, Vince was a character, and I was drawn to him instantly. Making friends seemed so effortless for him. He didn't need to go anywhere to find new friends — not even across a room. He drew people in with his congenial magnetism.

When we met, Vince's family had just moved in from Detroit, and it was only the latest move. A kid whose family picks up and moves all the time learns how to shed friends and make new ones. Sometimes it's just too tough to adapt. Vince's older sister Nickie dealt with all the moving around by just avoiding friendships. That cut down on the number of sad goodbyes she had to endure.

Vince took the opposite approach. No matter where he was, he treated everyone like a friend. He could talk to anybody about any subject. He'd quickly figure out what the person wanted to hear and then he'd say it, even if he had to stretch the truth to do so. You might even say he preferred exaggeration. In his world, the plain old truth was just so dull that he had to dress it up in its Sunday best. Yet he knew exactly how far he could stretch his embellishments.

After all, his father, an aeronautics engineer, was also a part-time minister. (He was a cool guy, though, with an interesting hairdo and a riverboat gambler's pencil-line mustache. Funny — in all the sketches that Vince compulsively drew, the characters often had that suave mustache. Vince and his father shared that duality of being strongly religious and extra hip.) So with religion in the home, Vince believed in being truthful and would never have lied. This was not entirely out of respect for his father; he held the same beliefs. Yet, as I said, he did have a constant need to exaggerate, which he rationalized as a simple matter of making the truth more interesting. There's nothing bad about that!

To make his enhancements believable, he spoke with casual confidence and laughed a lot, as if to say, Wow, I can hardly believe that myself. His laughter signaled to everyone, and perhaps to himself, that it was only a fun conversation, nothing serious. It was easy to enjoy Vince's conversation, too, because he never tried to make himself look better than other people.

And we're talking about a teenager named Vince, not our sinister stage character named Alice. We're talking about the skinny underclassman with a relaxed but energetic manner, the witty guy with an unlimited repertoire of tales.

That limitless stream of wonderfully enhanced tales is a big part of why I like Vince so much. It's a big part of how he charms the world.

Vince's universal congeniality didn't cramp our closeness as friends. We were best friends. What created our tight bond was our mutual interest in Surrealism and Pop Art. Vince and I were so inseparable that people rarely talked about either of us as individuals.

Girls liked us, even though Vince and I were pretty shy in that department. I was pathetically shy. For an introvert like me, I had to gain friends by association. Still, I was voted as having the "Best Personality" in the 1965 Cortez High School yearbook, although I never felt that popular. I'm sure the football quarterback was scratching his helmet over that one.

Art class was the place where Vince and I hatched plans for revolution. We'd sit in back and talk quietly of artists and art movements. One day, he showed me the famous Magritte painting of the businessman whose head is obscured by a green apple. I realize now how this influenced Vince's style of odd character portraits. But it was also easy to segue the conversation to the latest hit song, like "Surfin' Safari."

I loved hot rods, and Vince favored sporty cars like Volkswagen's Karmann Ghia. We agreed that whichever the ultimate dream car was, Brigitte Bardot should be riding in the passenger seat wearing pointy harlequin sunglasses and a polka-dot dress with her blond hair blowing in the breeze.

Vince's conversation overflowed with television references. He'd watch anything and everything: The Steve Allen Show, The Twilight Zone, The Ernie Kovacs Show, Peter Gunn, The Untouchables, Ozzie and Harriet, The Andy Griffith Show, My Three Sons, The Dick Van Dyke Show. When programming ended at ten o'clock, the screen would show a test pattern of an Indian chief's head before it went to static snow. Vince claimed that he'd even watch the static Indian chief.

That day in art class we snapped back to reality when we noticed Mrs. Sloan standing behind us.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you two," she glowered as she plugged in a portable record player. "You two think you're so hip. I want you to sit quietly, if that's possible, and listen to this."

She handed an album jacket to Vince. On it was a photo of a couple of young bohemians walking down the middle of a snowy city street. The guy appeared to be engaged in a game of pocket pool while the girl clung to his arm. The title was The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan.

Mrs. Sloan lowered the needle on the record. Out came a strumming acoustic guitar sound and a froggy voice asking socially pertinent questions.

We'd never heard this kind of seriousness in a song. Vince laughed at the guy's weird voice, but he had to admit it seemed like important stuff.

We also had to admit we'd just been out-cooled by our art teacher.

It hits me now, all these years later, how Vince and I were knocked off balance by this woman and sent down our slightly crooked path.

Mrs. Sloan was so tough-minded. There were no indulgent pats on the head from this woman. She'd tell us right out that we weren't Living Up to Our Fullest Potential.

Maybe she didn't care for our stunts. Once, when Vince returned from the bathroom wrapped from head to toe in toilet paper, staggering like he was a wandering mummy, the class erupted in laughter. But Mrs. Sloan just grabbed a pitcher of ice water from her desk and dumped it over his head. "Touché!" she said.

For the rest of the day, slivers of wet toilet paper fell from Vince, blowing his image as a sharp dresser.

Mrs. Sloan had stunts of her own. One day she presented the class with a black bag. "You've been struck blind," she said, and told each of us to reach inside and touch the bag's contents and then draw whatever we think we'd felt. "Let your hands be your eyes."

Vince slinked his hand into the bag and then yanked it out fast. "Whoa, what is that?" he said, aghast. He held out his hand as if it were contaminated.

I watched my own hand disappear into the bag. Ugh. Whatever was in there was nasty. It felt like dry leather, a twisted spine with a tail, and a head with needle-sharp teeth.

One by one, the students were grossed out by this thing in the bag, while Mrs. Sloan, perched on a stool, grinned like the Cheshire cat.

It was only the next day, after we'd put our interpretations down on paper, that Mrs. Sloan hauled out the object of our terror. What she pulled out was far more disturbing than the grossest of our drawings. "It's a dried-up devilfish from the Gulf of Mexico," she said, beaming while holding up the petrified thing.

Diane Holloway's arm shot up. "May I go wash my hands?" she pleaded. All the girls rushed over to the sink.

You think this experiment had an influence on me and Vince? You think?

Vince liked to draw. His character sketches were a zany stew of Magritte, Peter Gunn, and MAD magazine. The characters were heavily stylized and usually looked like him. If he wore a sharkskin suit and a pencil-thin tie to school that day, so did the character on the pad. Or he'd do himself as a beatnik, and you could almost hear the bongo drums pattering in the background.

My own paintings had bold slashes of color and rarely any discernible subject matter. I just liked letting go. My artistic orgasms usually came out looking like an explosion in a scarf factory.

Mrs. Sloan's painting style was also somewhat vivid, so I looked to her for guidance. One day, I found her standing in front of my canvas with her hand to her cheek, staring at my painting in unnerving silence. Finally, she turned and said, "When everything is screaming, nothing is screaming."

Her comment puzzled me for days. But the next time my brush went to work on a canvas, I gave my screams some solitude to shatter.

Little life lessons. Vince and I would later apply this advice to song structure, album order, set lists, and theatrical presentations.

Another of Mrs. Sloan's pieces of wisdom came from her method for getting a fresh viewpoint on a problematic composition. "Just hold it up to the mirror," she said. "Sometimes the reversed image reveals the imbalance." The artwork's problem, she explained, becomes hidden — the brain simply gets accustomed to the imbalance and your objectivity is gone.

This was another life lesson we took with us to the world of music: If you're writing a song and it's problematic, do it on a different instrument, play it through a tiny speaker, perform a reversal on it, and hear it fresh.

The film version of West Side Story influenced how Vince and I dressed that year. We bought white sneakers and rubbed dirt on them so we'd fit right in with either the Sharks or the Jets. One night, we hid behind some bushes at the end of my block, and when a car drove by, we'd jump out and fake a rumble. The car sped on, and we cracked our knuckles, confident that our staged scene had left the driver terrified.

Little frauds like that were the highlight of our drab existence. We didn't own cool cars. We weren't California surfers. Our sex lives, if we were lucky, stuck to the pages of Playboy. But we knew that something more was out there. Vince had seen the stories.


* * *

Our daily conversation was a rummage sale of pop culture effluvia, all spoken in very authoritative terms, and music was becoming more and more the focus.

I had already lived through three pretty significant revelations about music. My first big eye-opener — and ear-opener — happened on a scorching 102-degree day in Phoenix, "the Valley of the Sun." I was happy to be in an air-conditioned movie theater balcony, devouring my popcorn and watching a double bill of Peter Pan and Hercules Unchained. During the intermission, the red velvet curtain swished closed over the screen and some guys began setting up a drum set and amps on the narrow stage. Then the announcer tapped the mike.

"And now," he said, "the Fox Theater is happy to present — [squeak] — Phoenix's own Duane Eddy and the Rebels!"

The theater was suddenly filled with the blistering electric guitar of the Twang Meister himself. The word twang is always used to describe Duane Eddy's lowdown guitar sound, but it doesn't really describe the barreling thunder he created in hits like "Rebel Rouser" and "Forty Miles of Bad Road." You've got to understand, this was so many years before anything like acid rock or heavy metal. Duane Eddy was one of the early kingpins of heavy guitar raunch. Guys like Duane, Link Wray, and Bo Diddley laid it down early.

Duane Eddy — even his name sounded like a guitar lick — was strutting one way across the stage while his wailing saxophonist slid the other way. "Go git 'em, man!" yelled the drummer. "Go! Go! Go!"

A guy on the far side of the theater balcony belted out a bloodcurdling "Yeeee-haw!"

The Rebels rocked through three of their guitar instrumental hits, then waved like heroes and trotted off behind the curtain.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Snakes! Guillotines! Electric chairs! by Dennis Dunaway, Chris Hodenfield. Copyright © 2015 Dennis Dunaway and Chris Hodenfield. Excerpted by permission of St. Martins's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Dennis Dunaway was the bass player, songwriter, and theatrical conceptionalist of Alice Cooper and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2011. Their hit single "School's Out" was inducted into the Grammy Hall of Fame in 2015. Dennis continues writing songs, recording, and playing live concerts with Blue Coupe. Dennis lives with his wife, Cindy, in Connecticut. They have two daughters, Renee and Chelsea.

Chris Hodenfield was a staff writer at Rolling Stone, Playboy, Sports Illustrated, and many other periodicals. He currently writes about music, film, and automobiles, and lives with his family of five in Connecticut.

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Snakes! Guillotines! Electric Chairs!: My Adventures in The Alice Cooper Group 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 4 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Read plenty of books on rock stars and this one sorry to say didn't do a lot for me . Just a lot of trivial information . Just didn't have that WOW factor .
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A terrific book about high school buddies who end up a very successful band, proving that all through the fame, fortune and flash, you can still remain just regular people. I laughed and cried. Wonderful rock literature.
djbuddy More than 1 year ago
I'm stunned that his book only has ONE review!! This is a MUST read for any fan of not only The Alice Cooper Group but also any fan of classic rock or what it was like in the 1970s, whether you were alive or not!! Dennis Dunaway captures the very essence of the time, and really gives a warm inside view of the time, as well as the friendship among he and his bandmates. I was lucky enough to meet Dennis Dunaway AND Alice Cooper in the last year to personally thank them BOTH for being my introduction to rock music when I was almost 12 years old in 1973 and to be able to talk with them about this great music (The Alice Cooper band - often underated IMHO because the show overshadowed what great tunes these are) and what it was like. If you did not have that experience I can't recommend this book highly enough. It's a smooth fun read, and will leave you wanting more. It's like spending time with a pal who happened to be in one of the greatest rock groups of all time! :-) Thanks for reading my review/two cents!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago