CLICK HERE to see a full gallery of the London show and Manson's show the following day in Manchester.
For all the controversy that seems to unerringly surround Mr Brian Warner, be it through his own undoing by venting his spleen about other artists (no mentions My Chemical Romance) or the hapless authorities pathetically trying to pin blame for social wrongs on him, it’s easy to forget that in the live arena he’s almost unparalleled. After the frankly shite Turbonegro wimper towards the end of their set with the brain dead ‘I Got Erection’ (the crowd duly don’t respond to any of their taunts), the turn of Marilyn Manson to bring his freak show of theatrics and depraved antics can’t come soon enough. And he far from disappoints.
Arriving onstage as a silhouette shrouded by a huge screen, walls of dry ice and red light, the tension and pent up aggression in the air is palpable. Toying with his trademark dagger microphone, the veil is dropped to unveil Manson resplendent in his unfeasibly tight PVC trousers, pink striped face and matching pink gloves (well, naturally). The man doesn’t so much own the stage as he contorts, writhes and struts; to use a tired cliché, he fucking owns it. The black clad masses who were understandably quiet during Turbonegro’s damp squib of a set suddenly rush forward arms outstretched desperate to get near their malevolent idol. Sitting in a prime seat, Gigwise is free to fully witness the patterns of mosh circles erupting in the crowd. Nice.
Song after song is dispatched with ominous menace and guile, while lashings of “FUCKING LONDON!” yells from Manson intersperse the songs. But it’s only when he despatches ‘Mobscene’ - dedicated to the “seriously fucking depraved” Oscar Wilde - that the venue truly erupts. Juxtaposing these deranged moments, segues of Alice in Wonderland sounds snippets are worked in to dizzying effect, only for the samples to make sense later when Manson appears onstage on a giant chair which he gyrates and straddles in an almost perverted sexual fantasy kind of manner. His mighty interpretation of The Eurythmics’ ‘Sweet Dreams’ (sadly ‘Tainted Love’ and ‘Personal Jesus’ are omitted) pummels violently, with Manson delivering and twisting the words with his guttural drawl. Soon, almost inciting a riot, Manson beckons “I know this is a fighting crowd! Fight! Fight! Fight!” before launching into ‘The Fight Song.’ He’s not wrong.
Crucially, whereas other bands often use theatrics to overshadow musical ineptitude and poor songs, Manson’s histrionics complement and augment the brilliant music. Whereas he is the showman, Manson’s tight band are very much the heartbeat of his performance, providing the brooding, captivating soundtrack with dexterity – Mohicaned guitarist Tom Skold could very much be a frontman in his own right as he prowls stage right. All this said, it’s the spellbinding theatrics that are bouncing around your head at the end of the night – be it the waitress that Manson beheads before she walks off (how they do it we’ll never know), the raising pillar which shoots Manson almost to the roof of the arena, or the rockets of dry ice and ticker tape.
After more set zeniths in the shape of ‘The Dope Show’ and ‘The Beautiful People’, the most controversial moment is saved until the very end. Suited up in his umpteenth costume change (honestly he could give a girl band a run for their money), he returns for the encore as some kind of satanic preacher standing on an ‘Antichrist Superstar’ pulpit clutching the bible, which he promptly burns. Even for us non Christian types who have witnessed the spectacle on YouTube, it’s shocking, thought-provoking and hard-hitting - which is exactly what this Marilyn Manson bloke is all about. A spectacle of the highest quality.
