Author Tony Fletcher's excellent new memoir draws from that well in this charming page-turner about his experience in London from 1972 through 1980. So charming is his narrative that I forgot I was reading about his life during his most formative teenage years.
The teacher's story about having a bad day and coming to yoga to let it all go, hits me hard. I'm leaned over in a sideways pretzel position about to pop, and I feel sad. I don't know if it's my dirty shirt, my shaking legs, or the government shutdown, but I start to cry too.
When Spanish painter and photographer Martin Frias asks me who my favorite rock band is, I say, "The Beatles." I can tell by the mischievous glint in his eye that this answer is far from correct. "That's not rock 'n' roll," he laughs, rolling his "r's" in a thick Catalan accent. "That's pop music."
"There isn't a single person my age that I can't look at and say, 'Did you parents tell you to be back before dark?' That was the common parental oversight then. But, between then and now, we seem to have bred a society of predators."
If he really believed it all at the time he was drinking a bottle of whiskey a day, and sleeping with every groupie who threw herself at him, he must surely have thought he was in trouble? "Oh, absolutely," says Cooper again.
Alice Cooper is an American treasure and he knows it. Once the viscous, drunken villain of rock and roll and a threat to the very decency of our moral foundation, he has transformed into the clean and sober fist-pumping defiant champion of our hearts.