Wednesday 05/12/07 Marilyn Manson @ Wembley Arena, London

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.