Back In Black - AC/DC

 

Provenance: No big story behind this one, I'm afraid. The story is that this is the sixth-biggest selling album ever, and it's by AC/DC. 

Review: This one should be easy, no? It's baby's first hard rock record. It's part of the headbanger's canon. No self-respecting air-guitarist would go without.

However, I have been a bit of a contrarian in the past, making sport of sacred cows such as Deep Purple and Kiss. At least I haven't doled out any shoeings as a pose; my opinions may seem wrongheaded to you, fair reader, but they're forged in white heat of honesty. So with that being said, what do I find amiss with Back In Black?

Er, nothing much. It's pretty fantastic.

As a fan, I hold the uncontroversial opinion that Bon Scott was the greater frontman whilst maintaining that Back In Black is the best overall AC/DC album. This, despite the fact that, with the advent of Brian Johnson, its shorn of many of the aspects Scott brought to the band that made them so indelibly AC/DCish - the boozy bonhomie, leery (albeit often self-deprecating) innuendo and a bucketload of sleaze. Johnson is a different beast altogether, a man who sounds on the brink of imploding every time he opens his mouth, as strained and intense as Scott was relaxed and cheery. Upon listening today, it struck me as it never has before that Johnson actually sounds a fair bit like Dan McCafferty of Nazareth, another fella who sounded like he was dying every time he sang.

So what makes Back In Black so good? Some obvious points - catchy, precision-tooled riffs in every song; a big, roomy production coupled with unfussy music; the eye-popping weirdness of Brian Johnson; and the fact that, amidst the heavy blooz 'n' bluster, there can be detected the occasional stab at grandeur. There's a quality approaching stateliness in 'Hell's Bells' and 'Rock 'N' Roll Ain't Noise Pollution', a quality that even the tautology of the latter's chorus line cannot diminish. Back In Black was the first AC/DC album after Scott's passing, and the tolling of the bell that signifies the start of the album pulses with a rare power, no matter how many times you care to listen.

I should also observe that some of the plus points I've briefly sketched out would prove the seeds of AC/DC's downfall as a creative force, even as they became the stadium behemoth they are today. As with Def Leppard's Hysteria, also produced by Mutt Lange, Back In Black is shorn of any twisty intricacy - not that AC/DC would ever be confused with Bach, but this is definitely them at their most stripped-back. It works here, bold riffs against a stark canvas, but on later albums where the ideas weren't quite up to snuff, it began to sound boring.

Likewise, where Brian Johnson sounds quite demented here, there's little variation from album to album. Again, the effect wore off, and whilst a better singer in technical terms than Bon Scott, he doesn't possess Scott's ability with mood, colour and shading. Feel free to disagree with me on this, but I've listened to a whole lotta DC, and these are the conclusions I've reached. Also, whilst commendably keeping the spirit of sleaziness alive, 'Let Me Put My Love Into You' and 'Givin' the Dog a Bone' barely reach the qualifying bar for single-entendre. Still, very good rock songs both!

Listen to me, harping on about all the things AC/DC did subsequent to Back In Black. Suffice it to say, I can't add much to the fund of knowledge about the album - it's there, it's brilliant, and right now around the world fumbled attempts at 'Back In Black' emanate from one thousand guitar shops. I suppose it's remarkable in the sense that it's both an elegy and a celebration, yet never comes across as either mawkish or, at the other end of the spectrum, inconsiderate. How do you mourn the death of your revered frontman? By making one of the greatest rock and roll records of the era. 

Ain't No Doubt - Jimmy Nail

I have recently been down with covid. Big whoop, I'm hardly unique in that regard. I am double-jabbed and boosted but still had to endure a few days of true discomfort and a post-virus honeymoon comparable to jet-lag. I'm fine now, thanks.

In the throes of the illness, however, I couldn't do very much past lie on my bed, or if I fancied a change of scenery, lie on my sofa. Unable to even contemplate anything half as interactive as a video game or playing an instrument, one Friday night I meekly submitted to whatever was on television - the best option being a rerun of Top of the Pops from 1992.

And sandwiched between Def Leppard and Wet Wet Wet, I experienced something quite remarkable - Jimmy Nail performing eventual number one smash, 'Ain't No Doubt'.

I am aware of Jimmy Nail's musical career, despite being more familiar with his acting (by which I mean I used to watch Auf Wiedersehen, Pet). I reckon most people my age and above could probably croon the chorus to 'Crocodile Shoes' ("shoo-oo-ooes"), plus I have a foggy memory of Nail serenading starters of a distance race, probably the Great North Run, with his tune 'Running Man'. I can neither find footage nor even reference to this ever taking place, but I did find out that Nail took on the half-marathon run himself in 2006. Celebrity participants for that year's edition included, per The Northern Echo, "Carol Vorderman, Amanda Burton [...] and Chris Tarrant's estranged wife, Ingrid." I also found a blogpost that discusses the plausibility of Jimmy Savile's marathon times, as well as this incredible photo:

For the uninitiated, that's then-England right-arm fast bowler Steve Harmison and Sting, either starting the Great North Run or recreating their favourite scenes from Barry Lyndon. Sting looks downright buccaneering, no? Harmy, meanwhile, looks like he's been dressed by his mum for his first day at big boy school.  

I'm straying wildly off course, so let's bring this back to Jimmy Nail's 1992 Top of the Pops performance of 'Ain't No Doubt'. Let's have a look, shall we?

I'm hardly a clotheshorse myself, yet I feel compelled to comment upon matters sartorial (again). For his big night out Nail offsets a fairly elegant - but quite large, as was de rigueur - suit with a shirt that appears to be a tribute to the oeuvre of Piet Mondrian. Nail is otherwise Nail, not quite the gargoyle he's oft been made out to be, and in fact quite redolent of then-Arsenal skipper Tony Adams. Handsome, in a craggy way.

I reckon Nail and his duettist (Sylvia Mason-James) are performing live as I can actually hear the sprechgesang verses clearly, as opposed to the darkly-muttered imprecations of the studio version. Nail also tones down the Midlantic accent adopted on the record without quite reverting to his native Geordie. Affecting an American twang has long been a facet of pop, but half this song is 'talked' and the execution thus sounds deeply weird.

'Ain't No Doubt' also seems to be three songs in one - the faintly housey keyboards and talked verses are bargain basement Frankie Knuckles, there's some rather melodic R&B in the bridge, and the chorus is a weird hybrid all of its own. Pitched halfway between a US military drill chant and the kind of gang-vocal detonation employed by the Backstreet Boys or N'Sync, it's devastatingly effective. The image of a middle-aged Jimmy Nail, Mondrian shirt and all, poppin' and lockin' at the head of a troupe of tracksuited teenyboppers briefly flashed through my mind.

Never mind, because Nail's ultra-low energy performance is still utterly compelling. I've expended more puff doing up my shoelaces. Still, the bit at 0.27 where he mimes his paramour's heart "walking down the street" by waggling his fingers made me snicker; and I was rolling about at 1.27 when Nail prompts Mason-James that her part is coming up like he's signalling for a goal kick:

But please, go back and watch this moment if you haven't done so already; the incredibly awkward body language is even funnier than the static image when seen in context. All this, incidentally, whilst a brass section duck and swoop in the background with a display of kineticism better suited to a Bruno Mars concert. 

Yet, when the dust settles at the end of the year and Spotify reveals my 'most played', there's a chance that 'Ain't No Doubt' will be top ten. Here's why - Nail actually has a great voice that's perfectly suited to the track; the chorus is a proper blockbuster; the bass line that the music rides atop is superb; and overall, it's one of those songs that gnaws and nags due to that supreme attribute of good pop, catchiness. I've found myself humming 'Ain't No Doubt' in idle moments many times over this past week. If you've given the video a couple of spins perhaps you will, too...

Loud And Clear - Autograph

Provenance: In my mid-teens I made a series of compilation CDs that consisted wholly of stuff I'd downloaded from Napster. They bounced all over the place in terms of genre, there were five of them all told, and I'm very sorry that I can't locate them any longer.

Disc three had 'Turn Up The Radio' by Autograph as the lead off track, a real fizzer. Anyway, some years later one of the many smooth-brained fuckwits that post on the message board I used to frequent convinced me to invest in a few Autograph albums, as apparently the material was of a uniformly high quality.

Our survey said...

Review: ...EEEH-EEEURGH!

Apparently, I'm lucky enough to be in possession of a 'remastered and reloaded' edition of Loud And Clear, according to the Rock Candy blurb. I guess that's analogous to gazing at a turd on an ultra-high definition TV set. Where the turd wins out is that, mercifully, it makes no sound. Ironically, the remastered Loud And Clear sounds like it was recorded at the bottom of my toilet, so it's anybody's guess just how wretched this bilge was back in 1987 the first time around.

It's difficult for me to say much, clever or otherwise, about Loud And Clear because melodic hard-rock this generic almost defies description. I recall that in a When Saturday Comes review of benighted reality show Wayne Rooney's Street Striker, Simon Tyers described the set layout as "an advertising copywriter's view of what constitutes a back street"; and there are parallels here. If you asked a competent session musician unburdened by too much knowledge of 1980s rock to knock out a few tunes reminiscent of the era, it would sound an awful lot like Loud And Clear.

Also, I know this seems gratuitously sneery, but in an age where frontmen had cool fucking names (if nothing else), Steve Plunkett just don't do it. Steve Plunkett sounds like the guy who organises the office rugby world cup sweepstake. Steve Plunkett makes everyone a coffee, even if he doesn't drink it himself. Steve Plunkett writes a column for the programme of his local non-league football team. Steve Plunkett is a massive dweeb. The bar that Autograph had to step over to have an acceptable 1980s frontman nom-de-guerre was not high - you make the cut by finding one better than Steve 'Sex' Summers in my estimation - so it's almost impressive that they managed to limbo spectacularly beneath it.

I don't even feel like describing the music at any length; it almost feels sufficient to say that I prefer Bad English. All the up-tempo songs are moronic, and feature the same uninspired freeze-dried guitar work that is mildly admirable from a technical standpoint and utterly forgettable. If I was forced to be charitable (oxymoron, I know, I know) I might actually pick the ballad-y 'Everytime I Dream' as a not particularly shit piece of music. Also, I am not entirely ill-disposed towards 'Just Got Back From Heaven', which boasts some cute keyboard work. It's a shame that they don't use the keyboard with a bit more flair, as it's mostly deployed to parp unimaginatively underneath equally pedestrian chord sequences.

Just some variety, that's all I crave. I don't know why Autograph even bothered with a drummer on Loud And Clear because some kind of machine would've been more than capable at replicating the dull, potatoes 'n' potatoes percussion. This is a problem endemic to much 1980s arena rock; they took the wallop from big the previous decade's big hitters like John Bonham and Cozy Powell but discarded the attendant skill and creativity. Perhaps it was a conscious decision; I remember a documentary where Def Leppard talked about stripping down riffs and fills to their basics to ensure clarity in cavernous venues. I find myself speculating as to whether this was also the thought-process behind Loud And Clear - uncomplicated, no rough edges, choruses that could be sung by the most tin-eared amongst us - but unlike the Leps, they forgot to write anything memorable. Def Leppard? They're not even vying with Loverboy.

So, yeah, that's Autograph's Loud And Clear I suppose. Not the most thrilling review, but I'm not working with much here. This one's destined to gather dust, although now it'll go back on top of the pile and I'm worried that a houseguest will see it and think I like Autograph. On a final note; I mentioned in my intro that I paid for three Autograph albums. Only two showed up. At the time I was vexed, but now I look back and see nothing less than a small act of mercy on the part of the vendor. Once upon a time, Autograph exhorted me to 'turn up the radio', and if that's the alternative to actually listening to Autograph's dreadful music it's an invitation I'd be more than happy to accept, even if the dial was stuck on a talkSPORT Danny Mills marathon.

Long Live Rock 'N' Roll - Rainbow

Provenance: I had a 'best of...' compilation, purchased due to my enjoyment of 'Since You've Been Gone' and 'I Surrender'. However, I gravitated more towards the tracks sung by Ronnie Dio, and so in short order I picked Long Live Rock 'n' Roll up from my local HMV. Boring story, right?

Review: Ah, Rainbow. The band Deep Purple could have been. Seriously though, at least until Dio left / was sacked / just stopped turning up to the studio, by my reckoning Rainbow were one of the best hard rock acts of the mid-70s. Albums such as Ritchie Blackmore's Rainbow and the majestic Rising stood out for their fantastical lyrical themes, blazing virtuosity and a willingness to incorporate classical and Eastern scales into rock music. These releases were to prove hugely influential on heavy metal in general, pointing a direction away from the bluesy trudge of much that had come before.

Long Live Rock 'n' Roll was the third and final instalment in the Dio trilogy. Prior to recording the band had gone through one of its frequent convulsions, with David Stone replacing Tony Carey on keys and future Ozzy Osbourne / Gary Moore bassist Bob Daisley stepping into Jimmy Bain's shoes. (NB: the late Jimmy Bain must be one of the few rockers to have died aboard a ship, doing so on Def Leppard's 'Hyseria on the High Seas' cruise in 2016.) Nonetheless, the core songwriters of Dio and Blackmore remained in situ.

Another key ingredient to Rainbow's sound, in this listener's humble opinion, was the powerhouse drumming of Cozy Powell. There's few better ways to get the party started than hearing Powell slamming a tattoo out on his snare. He's one of a select few drummers whose might was captured in the studio. You can hear the muscle behind his thwacks and thwomps! Powell's skinsmanship is one of my favourite elements of LLR&R, especially his deceptively tricksy fills and the way he uses his crash cymbals almost as exclamation marks. He's all over the title track opener, providing the heft and swagger for a rumbustious celebration of rocking out. It's fucking spectacular.

It's also a real joy to hear Dio in his pomp. Even though he remained an imperious singer up until the end, back here in 1978 that plummy, operatic timbre was fused with a rare litheness. Any old jabroni can sing loud or quiet, but the trick is to imbue it all with character and emotion (as required) whatever the dynamic. So we have Dio going full-tilt on the title track and the prowling 'L.A. Connection', and practically roaring his way through 'Kill The King', but he virtually coos his way through closer 'Rainbow Eyes', demonstrating a hitherto undisclosed tenderness. Dio's overall performance on LLR&R was the best he ever sounded in his long and storied career.

Congratulations if you've come to the realisation that I really, really like LLR&R. In fact, I think I can go so far as to declare it my favourite of all the Rainbow releases. It's not perfect, but that's never stopped me falling in love with albums before. Nevertheless, I'm going to nitpick over a couple of aspects. 'Gates of Babylon' is set up as the big epic in LLR&R and it almost comes off. Despite its grand string arrangements and Middle Eastern flourishes, it collapses under the weight of its own pomposity and Orientalism, ultimately veering closer to 'Arabian Nights' from Disney's Aladdin than, say, Maurice Jarre's overture from Lawrence of Arabia. 

The one other moment that, without fail, comes across as faintly risible occurs in the otherwise invincible 'Kill The King'. It's brief - in fact, the singing of a single word - but it used to crack me and my friends up every time. There's a line that goes 'Power - power!' and the second 'power' is delivered in a way that makes it sound like Dio is both spitting and swallowing at the same time. It's over in a flash, but it's fucking hilarious.

Nonetheless, it can't be understated as to how important LLR&R was to the development of metal. Despite being a little less adventurous and colourful than its predecessors, it stands as a hard rock monolith. Every one of those shitty bands from Germany or Sweden that play power metal should bend the goddamn knee when they hear 'Kill The King', because it more or less invented the accursed sub-genre. I imagine Yngwie Malmsteen genuflects in front of a triptych containing the artwork for the first three Rainbow albums every day he draws breath, as without Blackmore it simply wouldn't be acceptable to wear crushed velvet and buzz away at the harmonic minor on a Strat. For all that he could be combustible or even downright ridiculous (unsurprising, given he was once a member of Man-Baby Group of the Decade - 1970s), when feeling inspired Blackmore was one of the greats.

The power chord feels like a fundament in the world of rock and heavy metal, but it's used sparingly on LLR&R. Instead, Blackmore uses his command of harmonic minor and phrygian dominant scales to coil his guitar lines into unusual and exciting soundforms that writhe and bend in and out of the bass and drums. His soloing is no less expressive, and one can only admire how he twins dexterity with tunefulness. Blackmore's nimble fingers and agile mind are such that the work on LLR&R made many of his contemporaries seem in comparison to be tethered to terra firma. A shame, then, that for subsequent releases, Blackmore's decision to pursue a more commercial approach (one that was successful, I should add) brought him back down to earth.

Sonic Temple - The Cult

Provenance: I heard 'Fire Woman' on the radio one time and really liked it.

I've always been irked by the very existence of The Cult as it's prevented me from referring to the superior Blue Oyster Cult as anything other than 'B-O-C'. That, and that stupid 'She Sells Sanctuary' song.

Review: Emblazoned on the back of the album, in a typeface barely smaller than that used for the track listing, is notice that Sonic Temple is produced by Bob Rock. More commonly associated with Metallica's breakthrough into the commercial stratosphere, Sonic Temple almost feels like a warm-up to the monster albums Rock would helm (before, latterly, riding the desk for much of Michael Buble's career).

Although Metallica was a massive seller, metal fans are still torn over its merits and demerits. I've heard it dismissed variably as lightweight, mid-paced and aimed squarely at the casual listener, none of which I can particularly disagree with. But, as in the classic job interview scenario, it's exactly those seeming weaknesses that Metallica parlayed into strengths. I still don't rate it much as an album, but I can see clearly why it still pumps out of the car stereos of soccer moms the length and breadth of the Midwest.

But what's all this got to do with Sonic Temple? Well, because to these ears it sounds like a blueprint for Rock's approach with Metallica. A thick sound, big basic riffs, nothing sounding too busy or elaborate, songs all played at a mid-paced tempo. It's as if the lessons about producing an expansive, back-of-the-hall sound from Simple Minds' 'Don't You (Forget About Me)' were coupled with Mutt Lange's insistence that Def Leppard stripped down their riffs to the bones on Hysteria. The result is something that is digestible, radio friendly, chunky and, dare I say it, a touch cynical.

That's not to say Sonic Temple doesn't feature some good music. The opening one-two punch of 'Sun King' and 'Fire Woman' is pretty spectacular. These two songs loom out of the speakers, huge slabs of stadium rock with insanely catchy hooks. 'Fire Woman' in particular is an absolute stomper. This approach is also evident on cuts like 'Sweet Soul Sister' and 'New York City', where any pretence towards sophistication is sacrificed on the altar of simplicity. There's always been a place for big dumb rawk, as AC/DC could attest to, but here the grit and grime has also been cleared away in favour of a polished, layered sheen. And it mostly works. Hell, 'Soul Asylum' even gets away with a single note intro, that sounds like someone attempting to play Led Zeppelin's 'Kashmir' for the first time, and it still works.

However, Sonic Temple is only a qualified success. Let's revisit 'Soul Asylum', because after it actually does develop into a crappy version of 'Kashmir', things get even worse when Ian Astbury, hitherto one of rock's most preposterous popinjays, opens his fucking mouth. "Who - would break - a butterfly - on the wheel?" he emotes, before beginning another verse with "Who - would crush - this woman - underfoot?" Give me a fucking break, dude. I actually like Astbury's voice - it's distinctive, with a bit of yelp and swagger to it, but his delivery can certainly tip over into the histrionic and hammy (which is precisely why he fronted a latter-day version of The Doors, right guys?). But goodness me, some of those 'yeah-yeahs' he uses as punctuation get old fast.

The other big criticism I have is that Sonic Temple is two songs too long. Had the album stopped after 'Soldier Blue', I would've been much more hearty in my acclaim. "It's only two songs, you jabroni" I hear you say and yes, I dig, but in this instance it's more than a minor hitch. Given the absolutely unvarying tempo of the album, that final eight or nine minutes slides the experience over from rather enjoyable to a bit fatiguing. It's not that either 'Wake Up Time For Freedom' or 'Medicine Train' are bad songs per se, (though they both teeter close to the edge of acceptability), but these two constitute the sequencing equivalent of the mid-gig drum solo; you're looking at your watch and waiting for something more interesting to kick into gear, which in this case means putting on another album. Christ, 'Soldier Blue' is perfect to end on; ever since I read Simon Reynolds' (excellent) Shock and Awe I've been listening out for glam's influence on the rock music that came afterwards, and the mighty Glitter Band style drumming on this track is a prime example. Compared to the rest of Sonic Temple it even does something slightly different with the rhythm! Call it a day when you're on top!

Listening to this album for this blog has been fun, yet I genuinely had to blow dust off the CD box. I think I know why. Although I'm the mad king howling on the moor about the devilry of shuffle play, this is the perfect album to be mixed in to playlist. A lone track here and there, especially if it's 'Fire Woman', sound stunning. Two or three together are cool, you can drive to the supermarket to that kind of jive. The entirety of Sonic Temple in one sitting is, alas, a bit too much. It commits a cardinal sin of popular music, which is through precision-engineering and a dearth of variety, it becomes a wee bit boring. Oh, and that hokey blues intro to 'Medicine Train' is so bad as to be funny, worse than the bluegrassy bit that kicks off Warrant's 'Uncle Tom's Cabin', and that's saying something.

Hot In The Shade - Kiss

Provenance: Another piece of shit I paid a quid or two for.

Review: This is rancid even by Kiss' standards. No mucking around this week with some convoluted preamble about how Bruce Kulick got me dumped or whatever, I'm going straight in on this abomination. I realise now that at the time I should've taken one look at that dorky sphinx and spent my money on a can of Pepsi.

I've been suckered by Kiss before now. I got their Double Platinum greatest hits collection as a teenager, which is bulging with catchy, if clunky, nuggets of escapist rock 'n' roll. A band that can come up with glorious trainwrecks like 'Detroit Rock City' and 'Black Diamond' had to be worth a deeper dive, right?

Eh, perhaps not. Certainly not, on the basis of Hot In The Shade (ooh, look, when you make an acronym of the title it spells 'hits' - clever boys! It's also an anagram of 'shit').

Now, even thought Hot In The Shade is an absolute goat rodeo for the most part, there are a couple of songs that aren't as unlistenable as the rest. The opener - 'Rise To It' - is serviceable single-entendre stadium fodder (the gag is that Paul Stanley can maintain an erection) and 'Hide Your Heart' is a hysterical slice of melodrama with a lyric that would embarrass a pre-verbal child, but gets by on conviction and a chorus. That's it. And those are tracks number one and three on a fifteen song slalom down Mt. Shitass. It's January, I've got the heating on low but this album has got me sweating like I'm allergic to it.

Speed up the opening riff to 'Black Diamond', tack on a terrible chorus and complain about paying taxes and you've got the essence of 'Betrayed'. I suppose it would be passable if you've never heard rock music before, or indeed, any music, ever. Try to imagine a song considered too dumb for ZZ Top's Recycler but have Gene Simmons sing it instead, and voila! You've conjured up 'Prisoner of Love'. Can it get worse? Yes. If you've ever wondered what Kiss what sound like if they did a cover of Def Leppard's 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', but somehow made that wretched ditty even more pathetic, then look no further than 'Read My Body'.

It goes on. Hitherto I've been running down the tracks in order, but really once you're past the relative highlight of 'Hide Your Heart' you can pick a song at random and I guarantee you that it'll be so bad that you will feel your IQ dropping in real time. 'Boomerang'? 'Cadillac Dreams'? 'Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell'? 'The Street Giveth and the Street Taketh Away' (yes, really)? This is the kind of music that drives people otherwise disposed towards guitar or drums to rediscover the lost art of mime.

It's not as if Kiss ever did anything revolutionary in their career - musically speaking, that is. 'I Was Made For Loving You' was a bit of a curio as a disco-rock fusion that actually works, but the real genius of Kiss lay in their onstage presentation and the way this was subsequently monetised. Chalk that up to the naked avarice of Gene Simmons and the sheer bloody-mindedness of Paul Stanley, the combination of which ensures Kiss chug on profitably to this day. Yet even though their paleo-rock of the 1970s was derivative and silly, it was distinctive. Probably the biggest crime of Hot In The Shade is that Kiss stopped playing Kiss songs and instead churned out bad parodies of songs whose formulae had proved successful for other bands. I've already mentioned Def Leppard and ZZ Top, but 'Love's A Slap In The Face' could be a Ratt outtake and 'Forever' is, ahem, "inspired" by Cheap Trick's 'The Flame'.

Alright, I've had enough. If I'm going to be charitable, I didn't cringe too much at 'Little Caesar' and whilst 'Silver Spoon' is mostly bobbins I cracked a smile at the "whoa-oh-a-whoah" chorus. If earlier in the decade (Hot In The Shade came out in 1989) Kiss revived flagging interest in their career by unmasking, this is the album that should've seen them committed to a witness protection scheme.  Hot In The Shade saw Kiss trying to play catch-up with the hairspray crowd - a mob that they could legitimately claim to have inspired - and failing miserably, depressingly. Alice Cooper pulled off this ruse (and pretty much everything else, come to think of it) much better. Utterly charmless.