A memoir is a particular kind of promise: a life handed over in the teller’s own order, with the pauses left in. The place Alice Cooper occupies in our catalogue rests on exactly that promise, filed where entertainment meets biography.
It is a pairing of shelves that tends to produce the most companionable listening. Books from that corner are rarely tidy chronicles. They circle, they double back, they stop to tell you about a room or a rehearsal or a bad decision, and the pleasure lies in the voice doing the telling rather than in any orderly march through the years. Judging by where this title sits, that is the register to expect.