Marilyn Manson
Mechanical Animals
(Nothing/Interscope)
With Antichrist Superstar, America changed the way we interacted with evil. We gave it a name, a face, and a vehicle to win the hearts of our disenfranchised youth. Marilyn Manson, pasty, scarred, and custom-made for flogging, was suppressed as only America knows how to suppress-he was made a cover boy for commercialism, a target for fundamentalism, and a martyr for the First Amendment. With Mechanical Animals, he returns with a new take on his infamous Superstar scenario, looking a bit more dapper, acting a lot more refined, and leading us all to wonder, "Just what in hell is Marilyn Manson up to?" Well, the answer is two-fold. If his aim is to make us think, his pulpit is ready and waiting, because the writer-turned-rocker's third full-length release proves, if nothing else, that Manson has a message America needs to hear. Conversely, if he's here to rock with the minions at hell's gate, he may ultimately fall short with Animals, an album that sounds all too mechanically orchestrated alongside his Antichrist epic and fleet-fingered, animalistic debut, Portrait of An American Family. The tone is set early with "Great Big White World," a rolling, mid-tempo trance that speaks to a larger community than Superstar's children of the Korn and the next generation of Siouxsie's Banshees. ``It's a great white world, and we are stripped of our colors", Manson muses, elevating his statement to a universal level: If variety is the spice of life, why is America content to dine on bologna sandwiches with the crusts cut off? The answer is scattered throughout Animals, from the pop-seasoned lead single, "Dope Show," into the equally radio-friendly title track, universally appealing in its sympathetic tone and inoffensive face. Aiming for the American mainstream with the Bowie-esque "Disassociative"-a potential prom theme for his younger flock of fans, a ballad for the black eye-liner and blood-red lipstick corps-and "Speed of Pain," playing like a turn-of-the-millennium sequel to "Space Oddity." It's clear that Manson's out to prove he can orchestrate at a level far more evolved than his critics give him credit. Problem is, the Manson we know and love pumps his fists through the air like an angry politician leading the masses, and his clout is all the more moving when it's slamming with all the ire of his most irreverent marches, like on "Rock is Dead," whichbounces harder and faster than "Beautiful People" in its assertion that ``Rock has never been dead, shock is all in your head... Fuck all your protests and put them to bed..." Meanwhile, back on the Bowie front, "I Don't Like the Drugs (But the Drugs Like Me)" struts like "Fame," showcasing 21st century glam with a flair for funk and a passion for Prince. The hyper-charged "New Model No. 15" sinks deep with  hooks custom-made for a Rocket From the Crypt horn section. Musically speaking, the album is not nearly as cohesive as his breakthrough opus, swaying from midtempo to bristling, and breaking from damn near comatose to careening; what strings the songs together thematically is shattered by a cacophony of scattered sounds and imagery. But give credit where credit is due. Manson turned a lot of people off with the fire and brimstone of his last album, and on Animals, he's going to appeal to the still-curious onlookers.
Paul Gargano