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By GREG MAKI
I can tell you the exact day I became a Marilyn Manson fan: Dec. 6, 1994 . I was at the Baltimore Arena with my dad and brother to see Nine Inch Nails at the height of their popularity. But first, I was introduced to “Satan’s favorite band,” Marilyn Manson. I quickly added Manson’s debut album, Portrait of an American Family, to my CD collection. His full-length follow-up, Antichrist Superstar, released two years later, still occupies a high spot on my all-time favorite albums list. I have been a Manson fan for almost 15 years now (roughly half my life) and have seen nearly every tour that has come through the Maryland/D.C. area.
I tell you all of this so that it means something when I say that The High End of Low, Manson’s seventh studio effort, represents the first time he has disappointed me.
My own high expectations are part of the problem. I’m sure I was not alone in my hopes. The reason: the return of bassist Twiggy Ramirez. The albums he co-wrote and recorded with Manson during his first stint with him—Antichrist Superstar, Mechanical Animals (1998) and Holy Wood (In the Shadow of the Valley of Death) (2000)—are arguably the best of Manson’s career. After the more emotional, vulnerable side Manson showed on 2007’s Eat Me, Drink Me, I was hoping for a return to the more aggressive style that characterized his earlier work. Remember, at one time Manson’s music could be considered metal.
I suppose it’s wrong to criticize an album for not being something it was never intended to be. So instead I’ll criticize it for having too many slow, plodding songs, especially in its second half. “I Want to Kill You Like They Do in the Movies” is the chief culprit, lasting nine minutes when four or five would have done the job.
The disc starts with promise, hopeful guitars the ironic accompaniment to lyrics possibly describing a murder-suicide (“I can’t sleep until I devour you”) on the opener, “Devour.” Then “Pretty as a ($)” hits hard with an industrial-tinged sound that recalls classic Manson. “Four Rusted Horses,” with an acoustic guitar laid over an incessant stomp and the great refrain of “Everyone will come, everyone will come to my funeral to make sure that I stay dead,” might be my favorite song on the album. “Arma-goddamn-motherfuckin-geddon,” maybe the most unlikely single ever, should be another strong concert anthem.
The bulk of the album, though, finds Manson crooning like some kind of goth-rock singer-songwriter. They aren’t necessarily bad songs, but taken in succession, they quickly grow tiresome. That’s not what I want to hear from Manson. I’m sure he doesn’t care—which I can respect. But that doesn’t change my opinion of The High End of Low one bit.
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