Devil’s Food / Black Widow

Hey Zoo Freaks, it’s your moon-kissed Zoo Crew floating in from the velvet dark of THE ZOO, where the candles drip wax like tears and the night air hums with secrets. We’re slipping into Alice Cooper’s “Devil’s Food / Black Widow” from the landmark dreamscape Welcome to My Nightmare, and oh man, this is the moment the lights go dim and the spiders start to crawl. Vincent Price himself—yes, the king of chill—steps into the studio like a velvet-clad reaper, intoning lines about the black widow’s silk and the “carnal cords of death” with that honeyed menace only he could weave. Alice told Rolling Stone in ’75 they wrote it as a radio play within the nightmare: “Vincent was a dream come true—he ad-libbed half of it, laughing between takes like a mad scientist.” The segue from “Devil’s Food” into “Black Widow” is pure theater—drums like a heartbeat in a coffin, guitars slithering like venom, and Price’s voice fading into the abyss as the band erupts. Fans still post grainy VHS rips from the ’75 tour on X, where Alice emerges from a giant web, Price’s monologue booming over the PA while dancers in spider costumes descend on wires. One viral clip shows a kid in the front row screaming “It’s real!” as fake blood drips from the ceiling. And get this: the original vinyl pressing had a hidden groove after the blackout—if you let the needle ride, Price whispers, “Sleep well, little one… the widow waits.” Pure gothic goosebumps, Zoo Freaks—like a séance set to rock ‘n’ roll.

Now let’s drift back to the desert cradle where the preacher’s son first learned to juggle fire and faith, ‘cause Vincent Damon Furnier didn’t just wake up in eyeliner and fangs—he was forged in the furnace of Phoenix heat and holy hymns. Born ’48 in Detroit to a lay-preacher dad, the family rolled west when he was a kid, landing in Arizona where young Vinnie ran track, drew comics, and dreamed in Technicolor nightmares. By ’64 he’d roped his cross-country teammates into The Earwigs—lip-syncing Beatles tunes with mops for hair at the Cortez High talent show. One gag gig turned into real amps; by ’66 they were The Spiders, cutting “Don’t Blow Your Mind,” a fuzzy single that actually spun on local radio. Name changes slithered in—The Nazz (until Todd Rundgren), then, legend says, a ’68 Ouija board séance spat out “Alice Cooper,” a prim name for their mascara-smeared chaos. Frank Zappa signed the freak flag to Straight Records for three gloriously unhinged albums, but it was the move back to Detroit in ’70 that lit the fuse—hanging fake babies, chopping heads, pure shock vaudeville. Bob Ezrin sanded the edges for Love It to Death, “I’m Eighteen” exploded, and by ’73 Billion Dollar Babies was the biggest tour in America. Vincent legally became Alice in ’74, launched solo with Welcome to My Nightmare—a full-blown rock opera with Price, ballet, and a cyclops on stage. Through bottle battles and born-again rebirths, he rose sober, golf-obsessed, still swinging that snake at 77. From track spikes to spider silk, the preacher’s kid built a nightmare empire on heart, hustle, and a whole lotta hallelujah.

If the widow’s web is calling, Zoo Freaks, creep over to the official Alice Cooper site for tour scrolls, nightmare merch, and that fresh Revenge brew. Gather the ghouls on Facebook—four million strong, swapping web reels and midnight confessions. Peek the pandemonium on Instagram for spider glam and golf-cart grins, or howl into the void on X where Alice drops deadpan dispatches. For the die-hards, the Sick Things Fan Site is a crypt of collector curios, while REAL Alice Cooper Fans trade rare relics and rally cries. Dive deeper at WelcomeToMyNightmare.co.uk, a fan shrine stacked with Dennis Dunaway diaries and cold-coffin tales. Crank the cauldron, raise the chalice, and let’s wake the widow till the dawn breaks, my midnight marauders.