WINNIPEG - If only all of modern music's elder statesmen rocked as hard as Alice Cooper.

The original shock-rocker, Cooper has been trading in the same tricks for more than three decades now, coming full circle in recent years with a return to the Detroit garage rock that first made him famous.

But Cooper's macabre, theatrics-laden stage show will always be his trademark, and you know what they say: If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

Well, the Alice Cooper show is far from broken, and last night's pit stop at the Centennial Concert Hall proved the leather-clad icon still has a thing or two to teach those who have built whole careers for themselves by piggy-backing off his schtick.

Sure, the straightjackets and funhouse movie props may seem tame by today's standards but at 58, Cooper (his friends call him Vincent Furnier) still puts on one hell of a show.

Predictably attired in black bondage gear, Cooper's bandmates took to the stage accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like the opening organ strains from Phantom Of the Opera. Seconds later, a bloodcurdling scream cut through the air, and Cooper himself emerged from behind the drum kit.

What ensued was pure rock 'n' roll spectacle: Cooper, clad in a leather jacket with tails, brandishing a silver-topped cane while tearing through No More Mr. Nice Guy, tossing beads at the audience for Dirty Drivers, hoisting a sword and hurling cash at the crowd during Billion Dollar Babies and generally carrying on like a man half his age.

Perhaps wisely, he stuck mostly to the classics, firing off the above-mentioned gems as well as Be My Lover and Lost In America in the first 25 minutes alone.

The lighters (that's right -- lighters, not cell phones) came out for the power-ballad I Never Cry but seconds after the song was over, Cooper kicked his stool away and joined his bandmates at centre stage for fiery renditions of Woman Of Mass Destruction and 18.

An early press time prevented us from catching the Welcome to My Nightmare setpiece, which in past shows has included stabs at Only Women Bleed and The Ballad Of Dwight Fry. But if the frenzied response of the 1,400 or so in attendance was any indication, it was going to be sweet dreams all around come curtain.

By contrast, opening act Crash Kelly supplied a pretty listless set of long-haired sleaze-rock, made all the more confusing by the juxtaposition of heavy metal riffs with nasal, emo-appropriate vocals.

The band was clearly thrilled to be there (and who wouldn't be, opening for Alice Cooper?) but failed to elicit more than a polite response from the crowd, even after the bass player returned from offstage wearing a Winnipeg Jets jersey.