Of course, once we get into the music there's no need to cower. But has there ever been with Marilyn Manson? Despite all the conservative hand-wringing and PTA scoldings—which, of course, attracted far more kids than it repelled—the scariest thing about Manson, the band and the man, is that he/it became the hottest thing in rock and roll for a time by offering little more than warmed-over Alice Cooper theatrics and refried industrial grind (mostly drawn from Manson's mentor and collaborator Trent Reznor). Don't get me wrong, it was all great fun, but it could scarcely be considered original. The spookiness was pure camp; the winking humor went shockingly undetected; and the music seemed something of an afterthought to the total package. Even Ken Starr couldn't have made a case out of that.
But Mechanical Animals raises the stakes in an unexpectedly big way—on the music tip, no less. With sage counsel from Smashing Pumpkins' Billy Corgan and Mechanical co-producer Michael Beinhorn, Manson and his songwriting cohorts (bassist-guitarist Twiggy Ramirez, keyboardist M.W. Gacy, and departed guitarist Zum Zum) have built a collection of tunes that are the group's most direct and accessible to date. They're also its most colorful, flaunting tight dynamics and textured arrangements that blend touches of techno, glam, and goth, in addition to more bona fide hooks than we've heard from Manson in the past four years combined. The industrial influence still roils under songs such as "Posthuman" and the title track, but this album's reference points are more often Bauhaus, Depeche Mode, and especially David Bowie—the group even goes the Ziggy Stardust route for the song "I Want to Disappear," when a robotic voice introduces it as Omega and the Mechanical Animals.
Mind you, the perspective here is still plenty bleak; Manson is the kind of guy who looks at a sky full of stars and concludes, "They just glitter like a morgue." He also posits that abuse, either mental or physical, isn't so bad, "because it makes us feel like we are needed." Elsewhere, God is a statistic, suicide solutions abound, and Manson declares himself "resigned" to this world that is "on its way to hell." Fair enough: It's not like we expect him to break into "Walking on Sunshine." But his nihilism was more crucial before, when the music wasn't as engaging. This time, we're stomping around to the funky, gospel-flavored chorus chant of "I Don't Like the Drugs (But the Drugs Like Me)" or flailing along to the air-guitar attack of "Rock Is Dead," "The Dope Show," and the bouncy "New Model No. 15." Even moody songs such as "The Last Day on Earth," "Disassociative," and "Coma White" display a well-crafted prettiness that transcends the Manson "message." Listening to Mechanical Animals is ultimately too much fun to wallow in Manson's by-the-numbers misery or to ponder just how much he thinks the world sucks. And that's a good thing, in case you were wondering.
- Gary Graff (Wall Of Sound)
veryone's favorite satanic majesty is back, and boy is he scary this time around. Of course, we're not talking about the songs on Marilyn Manson's fourth release, Mechanical Animals, rather we're talking about its cover art—a harrowing image of a nude-ish, silver-skinned Manson, scarlet-coifed and sporting prosthetic breasts, a sculpted, androgynous groin, and hands with six fingers. Not a pretty sight. You can almost cut some slack to the stores that didn't want to stock the album and the newspapers that refused to carry ads that replicated the cover art. Almost.