It’s not often, this far into my concert-going life, that a performance sneaks up on me and leaves something changed. I came to Nova Rock last year for Avenged Sevenfold. They had just released a killer new album and have long been at the top of my bucket list. This seemed like the perfect timing.
Alice Cooper was always a bonus in my festival schedule. I expected a solid, maybe even nostalgic set. What I didn’t expect was to be this blindsided. Not by shock rock antics or special effects, but by the sheer vitality and timeless presence of a performer who made everything else that weekend feel like rehearsal.
It had been pouring for hours. The kind of relentless rain that turns your clothes into sponges even underneath a raincoat and your boots into miniature swamps. Most people had retreated. Some were enduring the same torrential torment for Måneskin over on the other stage. The field in front of the stage, normally teeming, was a mess of puddles and scattered silhouettes.
But I stayed. Not stubbornly, just curiously.
Then, the curtain dropped.
Not just metaphorically. An actual curtain, printed like a vintage newspaper, reading “Banned in Austria.” And there he was, Alice Cooper, a silhouette in backlight, ripping the thing apart as the first notes of “Lock Me Up” cracked through the storm. It was pure theatre, and the timing was biblical.
What followed was a masterclass in showmanship. Not just because of the songs, though “Poison” and “No More Mr. Nice Guy” still pack a venomous bite, but because every step, every sneer, every glance to the crowd carried purpose. This wasn’t a man cashing in on past glories. It was a performance. Complete. Alive. And unlike so many modern artists leaning on visuals or click-track perfection, Alice commanded attention through sheer human force.
By the end, I was electrified. Rain had puddled under my raincoat. My boots were full of mud. But I didn’t care. The buses weren’t running; the mud had claimed them too. So I ran, jogged 25 minutes (beats walking 40 minutes was my logic) through the wet Burgenland night back to the railway station. High on adrenaline. Laughing like a teenager.
Over the next few months, I bought whatever Alice Cooper vinyl I could find. A year later, he’s still in regular rotation. Not just because of nostalgia, but because that night reminded me what live music can still do. Surprise you. Disarm you. Make you fall in love again.
In an era of bands staring at the floor or drowning behind LED walls, Alice Cooper tore through the storm with a snarl, a cane, and a reminder. That night, soaked to the bone and grinning like a kid again, I remembered exactly why I ever fell in love with music.
