MM Reheats German Cabaret
Originally published 2006 - Static Multimedia - Music
Aragon Ballroom
Chicago, IL
The hypocrisy of the world is disparaging. The dark insincerity that creeps along the shady corridors of government, slithers around the boardrooms of big business, and oozes onto the showground's of commercial entertainment is a numbing specter. It has no conscience. It doesn't care. It doesn't have the heart. Through the handshakes, slogans, deals, and box office receipts, we pretend that freedom is a word that lifts us high above the ringing of the cash registers. Marilyn Manson understands. As an artist, Manson likes to push musical mirrors into the faces of those that embrace the hollow specter. He does this with the same darkness and despair it hands us. It is living in his twisted vaudeville known as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.
In this trenchant stage extravaganza, Manson reheats the German cabaret, boils it, cooks it with pounding rhythms, scorching organ grinds, hot and sticky guitar riffs, amidst a hideous burlesque. There are women deformed and beautiful, dancing anti-sexual stripteases that still succeed to turn you on. There are haunting images of technology mating with human beings to produce robots with human intestines and a cheeky Mickey Mouse. All of it induces what he's after: it stirs the audience to release. It gives them permission to scream, dance, and spit poison at the lies we live with day to day. It exhausts the barren specter trampling it to the floor - at least for 90 minutes.
The lyrics are sometimes unsophisticated, but I liked that. In the rock music arena, Marilyn Manson hit the juggler in the mid-'90s with his post-alternative Antichrist Superstar. Theatrical industrial metal is his sound, his forte, and lyrically accentuating the blast. Besides, I know Manson's bright, I've heard him talk, I don't need to challenge his ability to articulate his annoyances anymore. Just stand in front of him and his bandmates while they pour buckets of steamy rock n' roll over your head. I dare you not to raise your fist and give the finger when he calls.
The Aragon Ballroom in Chicago is not the best place to hear music. Eroding high ceilings and shedding gothic balconies swallow sound, and the tiny stage is really too small for the likes of Manson's barmy merriment. He's not really suited for the small venue. Yet, the crowd knew how to stuff themselves appropriately in all the right nooks and crannies. As soon as MM hit the stage, they were his living, breathing panorama bizarre. Sweaty drinking fools thrashed alongside pierced and pretty tattooed white suburbanites emotionally choreographed to rock and pulsated when he told them to. This was not a throwaway. This was a razor sharp, affecting gig that exhausted all the demons until the dark church closed its doors.
Manson still serves hefty scraps of industrial metal, searing screams, suspicious glam-bam shite ala Holy Wood that's Manson's signature, and yet something innovative emerges: humor swirls within the straightforward nihilistic wedge, allowing Manson to unwind, relax, and enjoy the show. "This Is the New Shit" rest assured, his Vodevil and by the time he treated all the weary kids to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," are you ready for the f*#king old shit," he asks his exhausted parishioners. A second wind emerged, scorned, treacherous, while the specter hits the floor, gets ready for another ass-whoppin', in this, his elegantly bitter lampoon, known to many as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.
The hypocrisy of the world is disparaging. The dark insincerity that creeps along the shady corridors of government, slithers around the boardrooms of big business, and oozes onto the showground's of commercial entertainment is a numbing specter. It has no conscience. It doesn't care. It doesn't have the heart. Through the handshakes, slogans, deals, and box office receipts, we pretend that freedom is a word that lifts us high above the ringing of the cash registers. Marilyn Manson understands. As an artist, Manson likes to push musical mirrors into the faces of those that embrace the hollow specter. He does this with the same darkness and despair it hands us. It is living in his twisted vaudeville known as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.
In this trenchant stage extravaganza, Manson reheats the German cabaret, boils it, cooks it with pounding rhythms, scorching organ grinds, hot and sticky guitar riffs, amidst a hideous burlesque. There are women deformed and beautiful, dancing anti-sexual stripteases that still succeed to turn you on. There are haunting images of technology mating with human beings to produce robots with human intestines and a cheeky Mickey Mouse. All of it induces what he's after: it stirs the audience to release. It gives them permission to scream, dance, and spit poison at the lies we live with day to day. It exhausts the barren specter trampling it to the floor - at least for 90 minutes.
The lyrics are sometimes unsophisticated, but I liked that. In the rock music arena, Marilyn Manson hit the juggler in the mid-'90s with his post-alternative Antichrist Superstar. Theatrical industrial metal is his sound, his forte, and lyrically accentuating the blast. Besides, I know Manson's bright, I've heard him talk, I don't need to challenge his ability to articulate his annoyances anymore. Just stand in front of him and his bandmates while they pour buckets of steamy rock n' roll over your head. I dare you not to raise your fist and give the finger when he calls.
The Aragon Ballroom in Chicago is not the best place to hear music. Eroding high ceilings and shedding gothic balconies swallow sound, and the tiny stage is really too small for the likes of Manson's barmy merriment. He's not really suited for the small venue. Yet, the crowd knew how to stuff themselves appropriately in all the right nooks and crannies. As soon as MM hit the stage, they were his living, breathing panorama bizarre. Sweaty drinking fools thrashed alongside pierced and pretty tattooed white suburbanites emotionally choreographed to rock and pulsated when he told them to. This was not a throwaway. This was a razor sharp, affecting gig that exhausted all the demons until the dark church closed its doors.
Manson still serves hefty scraps of industrial metal, searing screams, suspicious glam-bam shite ala Holy Wood that's Manson's signature, and yet something innovative emerges: humor swirls within the straightforward nihilistic wedge, allowing Manson to unwind, relax, and enjoy the show. "This Is the New Shit" rest assured, his Vodevil and by the time he treated all the weary kids to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," are you ready for the f*#king old shit," he asks his exhausted parishioners. A second wind emerged, scorned, treacherous, while the specter hits the floor, gets ready for another ass-whoppin', in this, his elegantly bitter lampoon, known to many as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.
Comments
Post a Comment