Music
Willkommen, bienvenue, welcome to Marilyn Manson's fifth studio album. As albums go it's hard to imagine one more important for all involved. "Proper" rock music is crying out for a saviour in these days where any band wearing ripped jeans and those stupid little badges are guaranteed the cover of the NME, and as for Manson himself, 2001's Holy Wood is unlikely to be judged kindly by history, were this effort to be regarded as a failure as well, serious questions would have to be asked of the self-styled "God of Fuck".
Thankfully The Golden Age of Grotesque succeeds on two levels, both as a collection of pop songs and a piece of art drawing inspiration, as it does, from the spirit of Berlin between the wars (go and watch 'Caberet' if you don't understand). While Manson claims that Antichrist Superstar, Mechanical Animals and Holy Wood comprised a three-part opus, a journey of self-discovery and self-destruction, Golden Age is a complete departure thematically, even if some of the raw-yet-somehow-polished musical elements of Holy Wood are still in evidence.
Opener 'The New Shit' is a brilliant satire of the state of rock music in the twenty-first century ("Rebel, rebel, party, party / sex, sex, sex and don't forget the violence / blah blah blah with your lovey-dovey sad and lonely / Stick your stupid slogan in / Everybody sing along / Are you motherfuckers ready for the new shit?"). From there the album progresses well, first single 'mOBSCENE' with its fucked-up cheerleader chanting has a curious sing-along quality one might not quite associate with Manson, 'Slutgarden' is a sleazy and provocative, dark little number, 'Spade' is vitriolic while somehow remaining utterly soulless and 'The Bright Young Things' with it's irony-laden hookline ("I drive a big car / Cause I'm a big star / I make big rock 'n' roll hits") shows that Manson's trademark intelligence and incisiveness remain undiminished. However, while these songs would all be stand-out tracks on ninety-nine percent of rock records it is Golden Age's title track upon which the album pivots. A glorious, black-as-midnight, dirty, pornographic disgrace of a piece of music, 'The Golden Age of Grotesque' is firmly rooted in the burlesque houses of Berlin, so much so you can palpably taste the decadence.
Golden Age is a five-star rock album if ever there was one. Prepare to form a lynch mob and burn The Strokes at the stake, the Antichrist Superstar is alive and well.
Once upon a time, there was a band. And the band was of the strange and interesting genre known as 'emo'. As with most emo bands, they packed it in early (it's not true emo unless the fans can be sad about there never being any more records by that group), and the members ran elsewhere, presumably to cry about the band breaking up.
I'm extremely glad they did, cause the particular phoenix are Canyon. Between them, these boys have more hair than the un-hoovered floor of a barber's shop and bloody hell, can they play. Think Travis but harder, Sterophonics with depression or Radiohead with an accordion. This album simply rocks, mixing country-style steel guitar with wailing solos that Muse would be proud of and the haunting, hollow strains of heart-melting Hammond. Put it on if you've just been dumped, put it on if you're about to go out on the pull, put it on if you're suddenly amazingly happy about nothing in particular, or just put it on for the sake of it; this album should definitely be in your record collection.
Unless, of course, you're emo; in which case you can cry about not having it.
It's amazing how alcohol can act as an amnesia-inducing agent. One minute, you're dancing away, bottle in hand, the next, you're waking up naked in a bed somewhere in a room full of Hildabeasts wondering what the hell happened. The disturbing bit is that this memory loss is selective; you'll be able to remember the moment you threw up all over your best mate's new bird, but you won't be able to remember that rower's phone number, or on which part of your anatomy he wrote it.
It appears that Sterophonics also have issues with memory, as their new single, 'Madame Helga', largely centres on the band trying to find out what the hell happened to someone last night, with the triumphant line "Today I'm alive!" in the chorus.
The best way to describe this rock-fest of a track is a mix between the Tina Turner classic 'Proud Mary' and the most addictive song you've ever heard. The vocals are growlier than Bungle with laryngitis, and probably extremely sing-alongable, if you can figure out the lyrics. Oh, and I would like to have the drummer's babies, please.
The only downside is that you're soon going to be hearing it all over the place. Solution: Use this track as your cue to get very, very pissed, then each time will be like the first. Only watch out for those Hildabeasts...
Fear not children: the Blue's are back. The Basement, four unlikely lads from Omagh, have already been accepted into that inner Liverpuddlian sanctuary presided over by crowd pleasers The Coral, and including such newcomers as The Bandits. Currently being hailed as the British White Stripes, their debut single 'Medicine Day' failed to enter the charts on its release in February this year despite the extensive publicity it received in the associated music press. Consequently the success of 'Slain The Truth' could be essential.
Described by one reviewer as 'catchy, frothy folk tinged skiffle pop', it is clear that The Basement like mid-60s Dylan a tremendous amount. No doubting their taste then. However, the single's mixture of blues and folk, tenderized by a steady rhythm and humming guitars also harks back to sun era Elvis and the plugged in blues of Springsteen.
Sounds good right? Unfortunately it's about as charismatic as someone laying a gas main. After half an hour of fervid retakes on 'Subterranean Homesick Blues' that render Dylan's vision of 'wild mercury sound' utterly mundane, even the most resilient Bobcat among you will be begging for a Spice Girls CD. The single, reminiscent of Dylan's celebratory 'Rainy Day Women #12 & #35,' urging 'everyone must get stoned,' sent a shocked American administration pointing accused fingers. They didn't get the joke, and apparently nor do I.
It's the blues, dad, and it isn't going away for a while yet. In The Basement's case, however, we can but hope.
22nd May 2003