Alice Cooper, Golf Monster: My Twelve Steps to Becoming a Golf Addict (Anglais) CD – Version coupée, Livre audio
|Neuf à partir de||Occasion à partir de|
Les clients ayant consulté cet article ont également regardé
Descriptions du produit
The Fabulous Furniers
I was born Vincent Damon Furnier, named after one of my uncles and Damon Runyon. From the age of ten, I grew up in a religious home; my grandfather was an evangelist and my parents joined his church too. Before then, though, we lived in East Detroit and worshiped baseball. I was the happiest kid in the world.
The Furniers were Huguenots, part French-Canadian people who came over to the New World with the French Protestants in the seventeenth century. They eventually married into some Sioux Indians and a lot of Irish. As a result, two out of three parts of my ethnic background are very alcohol prone. My seventh cousin was the Marquis de Lafayette, the same Lafayette who secured the support of the French during the American Revolution and fought alongside George Washington at Valley Forge. Look at a portrait of Lafayette and you’ll notice the same high cheekbones and long black hair as me. Some say I look just like him, especially when I’m on stage with my sword. I can feel my bloodlines, since swashbuckling comes naturally to me—that’s the French part of me, I guess.
My grandfather, Thurman Sylvester Furnier, was the president of what was called the Church of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Latter- day Saints—it wasn’t a Mormon church. In fact, their biggest religious rivals were the Mormons. If you called one of his church members a Mormon, that was like stabbing them in the heart.
My mother was born Ella McCartt in Glenmary, Tennessee. You can’t find Glenmary on a map. It was a whistle-stop. Her mother died when she was very young. She has childhood memories of putting clear liquid into Ball jars for her dad, who was a moonshiner in Glenmary. She had six brothers and sisters, and all of them helped out with the “family business”—and meanwhile the old man kept about forty or fifty thousand dollars in cash buried in the yard. This was in 1946, and at that time, fifty grand was equivalent to about half a million dollars. My grandfather didn’t trust banks.
At age sixteen, around the end of World War II, my mother ran away from home and found her way up to Detroit to work in the factories. That’s where she met my dad, whom people called Mick, though his real name was Ether Maroni Furnier (another Mormon-sounding name). He had just been discharged from the Navy. They were soon married.
I was born in Detroit on February 4, 1948. My first memory of growing up in working-class East Detroit is sitting in a smoke-filled living room with my dad and his brothers, watching Friday-night boxing. There was lots of Carling’s Black Label beer and Lucky Strike cigarettes; I would drink Vernor’s ginger ale. There was always so much smoke in the room, I’m surprised I didn’t contract lung cancer. All the girls stayed in the other room while I sat with the men, my uncles and their buddies, watching the fights on a tiny black-and- white TV set.
Growing up in Detroit was great. I loved my life because my dad and my uncles were so cool. I was the only boy in our family. There was me (Vince) and my sister Nickie, then thirteen cousins, mostly girls. I was the only male left to carry on the Furnier name. So, of course, I ended up legally changing my name to Alice Cooper.
My uncles were Damon Runyon–type characters—tough guys with colorful speech and fascinating stories. Uncle Jocko ran a crooked pool hall in East Detroit. He was my dad’s oldest brother, a spry lightweight prizefighter with a broken nose and not an ounce of fat on him. We all called him Jocko, but his real name was Vincent Collier Furnier. I was named after him. If you wanted to buy anything hot, you went to Jocko’s pool hall. Or if Fast Eddie Felson came in to play Minnesota Fats, that happened at Jocko’s too. It was a famous Detroit dump. During a hot game, the doors would close and lock for hours, sometimes days. My uncle would bring in food and drinks and host the game in exchange for a small cut of the winnings.
Jocko was a swell guy. He used to come over and poke me in the ribs, saying, “Watch that right hook!”
My uncle Lefty, whose real name was Lonson Thurman Furnier, was a whole different deal. He was what you would refer to as a playboy. I never saw Uncle Lefty without a tuxedo, his shirt half-buttoned. He had left Detroit and moved west to Los Angeles, and he worked for Jet Propulsion Labs there. He was the guy who wined and dined the company’s biggest accounts, which is why he was always dressed to the nines. He was part James Bond, part wheeler-dealer—a total Rat Pack– type guy. He would have fit in well with Sinatra and Martin. In fact, he actually hung out with Lana Turner and Ava Gardner, some of the same girls the Rat Pack dated (without my aunt knowing about it, of course).
The great industrial car town of Detroit has always been your classic sports city. The Red Wings were unbeatable. The Pistons were great. Even the Detroit Lions were a really good team at one time. But the Tigers were a religion in our household. They had Ty Cobb, the greatest player of all time, on their team, plus Al Kaline, Mickey Cochrane, Hank Greenberg, and Denny McLain. These were legendary players playing on mythical teams. It was all my dad and I talked about: “What did the Tigers do last night?” I was transfixed with Ernie Harwell’s colorful play-by-play commentary on the radio.
I lived for baseball. When the sun came up, I grabbed my glove and I was ready to play until the sun went down, when you couldn’t see the ball anymore and it was time to rush home for dinner.
East Detroit was a real American melting pot. Each street had their crew—not so much gangs, but characters who banded together as teams. One street over might be all-Italian, while the street after that could be all-black. And next to the blacks were the Irish. Lincoln Street, where I grew up, was principally Polish. People’s names ended in “ski.” Kowalski, Jankowski, Adamski . . . Furnier. We were practically the only non-Polish family on Lincoln. So we were the Polish team. Mornings during baseball season, someone would invariably ask, “Who are we playing today?”
“We’re playing the Irish.”
So we’d walk over to Corktown, the old Irish district. The Irish were cool enough guys. The next day, we’d play the Italians. Hopefully, Bruno wasn’t pitching, because that guy threw hard. We all knew each other, and there weren’t any ethnic or racial problems. Every day a different team, every day a different ethnic nationality. Sandlot rules. No grass. A brand-new baseball was just unheard of. Our baseball had a great big flap coming out of it until it was eventually taped up. Then we batted around a ball wrapped tight in black electrician’s tape. We did whatever we could do, just to play.
I went on to become a pretty good baseball player. One of my best skills was hand-to-eye coordination. I could put the bat on the ball inside or outside the strike zone. If somebody threw a pitch two feet out of the strike zone, low and outside, I could put my bat out and hit it. And I had good rhythm.
My room was a shrine to the Detroit Tigers. No posters, just pictures. A dozen shoe boxes stuffed with baseball cards, cards from packages bought for a nickel apiece, that came with flat squares of bubble gum that congealed into one giant gum brick. I’m sure I had a Mickey Mantle rookie card stashed in there somewhere, along with other cards that could have been worth hundreds or thousands of dollars today if my mother hadn’t thrown them out after I left home. That’s where my allowance went. We traded our cards and flipped doubles. Played tops. When I wasn’t playing baseball or trading cards, I was lying on my bed in my room memorizing batting averages and ERAs. Music wasn’t such a big deal to me. Elvis was out there, and yeah he was cool, but I was addicted to baseball.
On my seventh birthday, my dad got us tickets to a Tigers game at Briggs Stadium. It would be the first time I had seen my heroes play in person. With the game still two months away, I couldn’t sleep. I was a basket case. I was going to see Al Kaline, Harvey Kuenn, Charlie Maxwell, Rocky Colavito, and Jim Bunning.
I remember it distinctly. It was the Tigers vs. the Cleveland Indians, a doubleheader. I remember walking up the ramp of Briggs Stadium and the smell of freshly mowed grass and hot dogs. I remember hearing the cracking sound of batting practice, the sock of a baseball soaring into the outfield. I sat there dumbfounded throughout both games, not moving. I didn’t want a Coke. I didn’t want a hot dog. I didn’t ask for anything. I was afraid if I moved, it was all going to be over. Jim Bunning vs. Herb Score. Charlie Maxwell hit four home runs in two games. We won 7–0 and 8–2 and swept the doubleheader. I went home that night exhausted but in heaven. It was the best day I could ever have imagined. If someone had offered me a choice, Disneyland or a Tigers doubleheader, it would have been a no-brainer: Tigers all the way. To this day, when ESPN flashes MLB scores, I still check to see whether the Tigers won or lost. The Tigers run deep in my psyche.
In our family, there were three basic rules:
1. You had to be a Democrat.
2. You had to pull for the Tigers and the Michigan Wolverines.
3. You had to be American League.
The All-American Detroit family. If you strayed outside any of those rules, it was “What’s wrong with that kid of yours?” While Catholicism was very common and a lot of my friends were Catholic, we didn’t fuss over who was Catholic or who was Protestant. Nobody cared. The black and white thing didn’t exist in my home, nor did we see any difference between the Italians and the Irish. Honestly, if a black guy played basebal...
Revue de presse
“What a blast from the past, and such insight to the future! Alice Cooper, Golf Monster shares Alice's personal life mission, interwoven with great stories and characters from the 60's through the present in Rock and Roll. Not to mention some wonderful golf tips and experiences, humorously presented. Thank you Alice, for a nice ride!”
—Michael Douglas, actor and creator of the Michael Douglas & Friends Charity Golf Tournament
“Few things are more surreal than playing golf with a guy named Alice. But by the time you reach the second tee, you realize that No More Mr. Nice Guy is one of the wittiest and engaging playing partners you've ever had. Plus, the guy can play! For those who aren't likely to experience the pleasure of a quiet, leisurely round with the man who spends his nights singing "School's been blown to pieces," this book provides the next best thing.”
—Steve Eubanks, author of Golf Freek
“Debauchery, demons and divots! This is the only book I've ever read that should come in 3-D; the crazy stories come right at you from Sinatra to KISS to the Moscow Golf Club.”
—Gary McCord, author of Golf for Dummies
From the Hardcover edition.
Aucun appareil Kindle n'est requis. Téléchargez l'une des applis Kindle gratuites et commencez à lire les livres Kindle sur votre smartphone, tablette ou ordinateur.
Pour obtenir l'appli gratuite, saisissez votre adresse e-mail ou numéro de téléphone mobile.
Détails sur le produit
En savoir plus sur les auteursDécouvrez des livres, informez-vous sur les écrivains, lisez des blogs d'auteurs et bien plus encore.
Commentaires en ligne
Meilleurs commentaires des clients
Commentaires client les plus utiles sur Amazon.com (beta)
Cooper wrote Golf Monster collaborating with Keith and Kent Zimmerman, who also co-authored Sex Pistol Johnny Rotten's memoir. Alice Cooper, Golf Monster is a tell-all memoir that alternates between Cooper's life story and his own "twelve step program" for becoming a golf addict. Alice's sense of humor has been his trademark as a songwriter, and that humor is present throughout this book.
Golf Monster follows Cooper's life (born Vincent Damon Furnier in 1948) from his childhood in Detroit to his teenage years in Phoenix when he formed his first band, the Earwigs, through his forty-plus year musical career and his battle with the alcohol addiction that nearly destroyed his marriage and ended his life. Alice's close friendship with longtime manager Shep Gordon is also covered in this book.
Pop culture buffs will love this book, which is filled with anecdotes of Cooper's exploits with his many celebrity friends and acquaintances, from Frank Sinatra to Groucho Marx, Fred Astaire to Jack Benny, Salvador Dali to Peter Sellers. Many of Alice's colleagues from the rock music industry are here, including Paul McCartney, John Lennon, The Who, Elvis, Frank Zappa, Jim Morrison and Pink Floyd. Alice Cooper, Golf Monster is filled with lots of fascinating tales for readers to enjoy.
Alice writes about his relationship with his father, Ether Moroni Furnier, and the impact his dad has had upon his life. Although the elder Furnier was a minister, he always came out to the VIP Club on Friday nights to watch his son and his band play during their early days in Phoenix. Alice adds that while his father didn't condone his rocker lifestyle, he never had a problem with the music.
Cooper also writes about his conversion to Christianity, and he manages to do so in a manner that is quite interesting without being preachy. While he has talked openly about his faith over the years, he has also managed to avoid the trappings of "celebrity Christianity." Alice describes his walk with Christ as "an on-going, every-single-day kind of existence." Cooper recounts a conversation with his pastor during a time when Alice was struggling to reconcile his old image with his new faith. The minister told Cooper that while he lives in the world of "sex, drugs and rock n' roll," he was also a man who doesn't cheat on his wife, do drugs, or go to strip bars with the boys. The members of Alice's band, and his road crew see him reading his Bible and praying every night on his tour bus, and that quiet example speaks louder than any amount of preaching he could have done from the stage.
The book's title makes reference to Alice's new addiction, and the fact that he has replaced an unhealthy addiction (alcohol) with a healthy one (golf). Between the chapters of Cooper's life story are additional chapters laying out Alice's twelve steps to becoming a golf addict, for those who seriously want to dedicate themselves to the game. Cooper freely admits to having an addictive personality, and in addition to alcohol and golf, some of his other addictions have included horror movies, televisions (at one point, he had twenty-seven sets in his home), TV trivia, watches, shopping, and bad kung fu movies (he watches one before each show as part of his pre-concert ritual). The book's appendix is titled "Alice's Golf Clinic," in which Cooper offers golf tips for improving one's game.
Alice Cooper, Golf Monster is a thoroughly enjoyable read. This is the story of a man who has been to the pinnacle of his profession, conquered addiction and found redemption. I've been an Alice Cooper fan for many years, and I gladly recommend this book not only to other Alice fans, but also for golf enthusiasts.
In the history of rock, few figures are as misunderstood as Alice Cooper. Often the victim of baseless rumors during the 70's, he still became one of music's most successful acts. "Golf Monster" chronicles the music, booze, golf in a way that is certain to make readers smile. I never really thought Alice had so many friends in the entertainmnet business! My only real complaint is that I would have liked a longer book with more discussion of the music and tours. Some of my favorite albums were hardly discussed.
I also really enjoyed reading about the "new" Alice Cooper. He is more than enough proof that Christians do not need to be boring. And even in his act, he does not compromise his faith in his on-stage "character". As Alice says, if you believe he errors in his faith, show him. Fans of Alice are certain to love this book, even if they don't like golf.
And more curious, in what is either a brilliant or lose-rock-n-roll-credibility move, Alice has decided to throw golf and religion in to the mix.
So, reader, read at your own peril. This is Alice's "story" as he sees fit to tell in the year 2007. It is rumoured that original Alice Cooper bassist Dennis Dunnaway (a nice guy if ever there were one) is going to present his memoirs. Maybe that will set the record straight. Maybe...
I have a similar like for "Alice Cooper, Golf Monster."
I don't golf. I would tend to agree with Mark Twain when he said, "Golf is a good walk spoiled." But even though ACGM is filled with lots and lots of talk about golf, and a good swing, it manages to remain interesting. Yes, it's about golf, but it's still about Alice. There are stories about Elvis, Donavan, Groucho Marx, Zappa, and dozens of others.
I've always liked the music of Alice Cooper. When I learned, years ago, of his Christianity, I felt like a brother had come home. No, I've never met the man, but somehow, I feel a connection. Silly, maybe, but I do. (I've seen him once in concert, and can't wait for him to return to Fort Wayne, IN.)
So, reading this book was, to me, like listening to an old friend. The stories, the insights, the drama, and the humor; they're all there. Occasionally, I find his theology a little too religious for my tastes, but I'm big on "agree to disagree."
If you enjoy golf, or rock-n-roll, you find this a very interesting read. If you hate golf, or rock-n-roll, you will still find this an interesting read. Addiction. Redemption. The return of the prodigal. Timeless themes as seen through the mascara-laden eyes of rock legend.
PS. My wife also liked it.