Compare and contrast. Two days and half a continent later, after the cancellation of Friday's show and another fruitless journey to see Marilyn Manson on foreign shores (when will I ever learn?), I wasn't expecting too much. Hell, the band actually playing was going to be a marked result. Cold and tired and in a state of semi-hysteria after a day's traveling from Belgium that would have made even the bravest heart tremble, we joined the straggling crowds outside Le Zenith just as 3 Colours Red left the stage. I had two reservations already. The venue was - unexpectedly - a small stadium, where I had been anticipating the intimacy of a theater, and I was slightly dubious about seeing the same show all over again. The last thing I wanted Marilyn Manson, for fuck's sake, to be was predictable... Oh, ye of little faith. If London left me numb, then Paris left me knocked out and comatose. And grinning like one happily possessed... Seeming fully refreshed and rejuvenated after the previous night's cancellation, the band benefited form a larger venue and stage, form the energy of the seething crowd, somehow far more ready to party than the London audience had been. From the moment they came on, they gave an altogether better show, one I'd easily compare favorably to the larger-than-life hey-days of Cooper, Bowie, Kiss... This show was gorgeous, glamorous rock-as-theater at its best, with none of the conviction and urgency of Manson's lyrics or message (and that's always been the draw for me) lost in the larger scale of it all. Rather, the theatrics only worked better in this huge, sweaty venue, the self-mocking elements of the raunchier MA material suddenly shining through in strutting, shimmering cockatrice. 'Look at me now!' he cried, just as the band slammed into I Want To Disappear, 'Grew up to be a whore..!' Well, just what Mrs. Warner's boy Brian has grown up to be is a matter of considerable debate, but the fans of Paris seemed to like it. And, as Marilyn's ego thrives on adoration (hell, whose doesn't?), we got a wonderful, preening, pandering performance, which saw the band giving everything, and our Antichrist, our Omega, who it's always damn near impossible to take your eyes off, captivating the crowd utterly. The snow fell to a mass of lighters held aloft (!) during The Speed Of Pain, which was surely the finest point of the show... but the whole set was a mass of enduring images. The crowd were ready to sing and shout along, to be used and abused, and Manson crawled and strutted and spasmed at his best, glorying in his alter-egos both old and new. We saw him doing highly improbable things with a microphone stand (and poor Twiggy nearly decapitated by the same), making make-believe whoopee with the lovely backing singers (who have proved to me at least to be an asset to the show), acting up and acting out with impunity. They stormed through the now-familiar set list, older songs blending perfectly with newer material, and equally delighting a more than enthusiastic crowd. Nothing seemed out of place, not one costume or gesture of song. When he sung 'I wanna grow up/I wanna be/A big rock and roll star...' he still looked, just for a moment, like the skinny, picked-on kid in the schoolyard that so many of us have been, out for vengeance... someday... despite the sequins; and we believe that we were all stars in the dope show, if only for one night... And it didn't matter that, tonight, the drugs were made right here in Paris, and that he told the same story about talking to God all over again - his voice sounds like melting honey when he says his own name, and besides, he looks damn fine on his knees. That was all just part of the fun. And it still felt good, to be one of the beautiful people as the show came to an end to a roaring crowd, and even better when only moment later the flag became bright and glorious as the band came back on for a final goodbye and Manson implored his children to lead in Irresponsible Hate Anthem with the rallying cry, 'We hate love/We love hate' (and I can still hear that in my head...). And then it was over, not with a whimper but with a bang and crash of Ginger's drums; as Marilyn had informed us, this was the last night of the European tour; and it couldn't have gotten any better. I walked out into the streets of a city an ocean away from home shivering and sweating and battered and bruised and exhibiting all the signs of a serious cocaine high without even being slightly drunk. Well, that's what adrenaline does for you, I guess. Anyone going to see these shows expecting the Dead To The World tour all over again would have been disappointed, although the darker moments of this stage presentation were very dark indeed. anyone going with an open and a desire to see a high-octane, high power rock 'n' roll show that would have put Ziggy and the Spiders to shame would have been just as thrilled as I was. It was wild and glamorous and exciting, and I'm sorry for anyone who missed it. This tour, despite its problems, has seen the solidification of Marilyn Manson's latest incarnation. He has proved to many doubters that he can bring Mechanical Animals to the stage with just the same vitality as Antichrist Superstar. It's all an ongoing game of invention and reinvention, of constantly challenging our perceptions and expectations while making us think: and if he seems a little distant now, well, maybe that's the point. Mechanical Animals is, in many ways, about the drug-sick alienation which fame brings, about the vainglorious and ultimately destructive glitter of Hollywood, and this show was a perfect representation of that. Back home, two days later, I can still close my eyes and see him, larger than life and twice as terrifying, singing 'This isn't me... I'm not mechanical...', dressed up like some beautiful, terrible freak, and I still feel my heart twist like I am god. And that, as I tried to explain to the poor benighted French journalist who took it upon herself to interview me at the show, is why I like Marilyn Manson so damn much.

Reload and Repent