Search results for: alice cooper

Every man has made at least one. The romantic mix CD is a sure-fire way to woo a woman's heart or, if your goals are more base, get laid. With Valentine's Day around the corner, here's a list of songs you should never, ever include on a mix when trying...

Jerry Riopelle is an old-school cat, which means that the singer/songwriter's been making records longer than almost anybody else in the Valley. As a staff writer and producer for Phil Spector's Philles Records in Los Angeles, Riopelle wrote his first top 20 hit ("Home of the Brave," recorded by Bonnie...

Normally, I’m not a big fan of Christmas albums. I get stacks of them every year, and less than half of them actually make it into my CD player (really, I don’t need to hear Josh Groban’s take on “Little Drummer Boy” or James Taylor doing the umpteenth-thousandth cover of “Jingle Bells”). But this year, I received A Taste of Christmas Pudding, an annual holiday compilation that features Phoenix artists doing their renditions of Christmas classics. There are two things that make this album stand apart from the seasonal stacks of wax for me. One is the sheer diversity of musical styles on the compilation. We open with a heavy metal cover of the creepiest Christmas song ever, “Carol of the Bells” by Karnage, before gliding into the soulful acoustic sounds of Haven James doing “Please Come Home for Christmas.” Ultimately, the 12-track CD wraps up with a raucous rendition of “Feliz Navida” by Kraised, with some garage-country (“Blue Christmas” by Juicy Newt), some funk (“Funky Desert Land” by Isle of Essence), and some frat boy rap-rock (“The Night Before Christmas” by Zoom & the Sporty Forties) in-between.

Ever wonder what's haunting the heads of musicians? We do, so in celebration of Halloween, we figured we'd try to scare up some tales of the supernatural from a few of our favorite artists. And though we couldn't conjure any tales about the ghosts of Jim Morrison or Kurt Cobain,...

If you tuned into MTV's Video Music Awards this year, you may have noticed one big thing: they sucked. Between Britney Spears' underwhelming performance (note to Brit: your career is over; you might as well pose for Playboy while your body is still somewhat nubile), Kanye West's temper tantrum about not winning, and Kid Rock kicking Tommy Lee's ass, the VMA's were nothing but a sub-par Circus of the Stars, minus the cheesy '80s leotards.

Halls of fame are all well and good, but face it: they never ever get it right. There’s always about twelve dozen perfectly great artists that get completely overlooked, or worse, ignored in favor of total mediocrity, and who gets to argue about it? No one, because halls of fame are HALLS OF FAME. Immortal—unassailable—in the postmodern deterioration of all that is good, holy, reliable, and worth clinging to for dear life, halls of fame comfortably bludgeon the gullible masses into seeing The Canon and/or give something for tourists to do when they go to Cleveland. Wouldn’t we be better off just admitting that Cleveland just can’t be gussied up?

There's a certain, what I call, celebration of summer in our culture. I don't care who you are. If you live in New York City in a tenement or in Arizona on a ranch, there's something about the freedom of summertime [that harks back to our childhoods]. You wake up...

By Brendan Joel Kelley Burning Brides I'm still nursing a hangover from last night's adventures out: Violet Wild acoustic at Last Exit, then watching Jason Devore of Authority Zero play at the Yucca's open mic night. Nonetheless, this hangover will probably pale in comparison to what I'll suffer after Friday's...