Don’t let the designer labels of my closet fool you, I have a deep seated love for Metal music. Growing up, it was the rage and expression that I related to, the fact that it set me apart from all my boring friends who loved pop, the action of live shows; I loved the high I got from the music and to this day still have a huge affinity towards it. Two weeks ago I went to my second Marilyn Manson concert. The opening act felt like a metal drill on my temples, an endless drone of sounds that were meant to be hypnotic, but felt more like a conglomeration of vexed, indecipherable moans. Needless to say, the opening act was forgotten before I could even find out their name.
I don’t know if it is my love for theatrics, but I was really hoping for a goth glam showdown, maybe even a little blood and controversy. I yearned for an old school Manson approach, one that shouted fuck you to the conformists, gave the cheek (yes, the ass cheek) to those sociological fabricated lies we face, and raged so hard that it shook your last beliefs that a God still exists. Unfortunately, that is not what I was confronted with, but rather was left subdued and passive. The concert lacked the spark to ignite a fire and in its place a void that should have been filled with raucous. Manson’s voice certainly did not expand to hit the dark corners of your mind like it used too, those screams that jarred you forward were non-existent, and his costume was less than striking; nothing but a long black overcoat, a corset, and black pants.
I acknowledge the effects that age and drugs can have on performances such as His, where the previous bar set was nothing less than scandal and therefore I must allow omissions to my expectations. I strive to paint a reality of the show, not my disappointment, because in fact, I had a wonderful time. The mundane chords that have come to characterize his last two albums, did not stop me from getting lost in the crowd, jumping around, pushing people into the mosh pit, and sweating my lady balls off. It was while I was rescuing my poor friend from The Mosh that I realized, not one single person had crowd surfed; I immediately took it upon myself to rise to the challenge. A few seconds later, I found suitable Metal Heads to toss me up and off I went. Adrenaline took over as I tumbled over unsuspecting voyeurs, blood rushed to areas that were being grappled in order to move me forward, and my gift: to be pulled from the chaos of the crowd and into safety by Manson himself. I was delighted and in awe that this is how my night would end, I still reel from the experience and admit I look forward to my next.
For Lack of a Better Name 