Nearly every recent feature written on Marilyn Manson surrounding his surprisingly decent new album The Pale Emperor undoubtedly will mention attributes about the subject which are annoyingly antiquated. He is the God of fuck (1994). He is the Antichrist Superstar (1996). He was blamed for the Columbine shootings (1999). His concerts have been targeted by religious protesters (most recently in 2009). It’s almost as if journalists can’t find anything fresh to talk about whether it be sensational or interesting on some level. Then again, after seeing the mall goth idol at Boston’s House of Blues Wednesday night, maybe there isn’t much new to discuss — at least in regards to the live setting where there was not only nothing new or mind-blowing, but disturbingly uninspiring.
Forced to cancel two New York dates because of the snowstorm, the proceedings started off well enough as Manson, clad in all black (duh) and stylish topcoat, launched into a Pale Emperor highlight and official first single, “Deep Six.” A string of singles followed: “Disposable Teens” from Holy Wood; “mOBSCENE” from The Golden Age of Grotesque; and “No Reflection” from 2012’s underrated Born Villain, which was dedicated to bassist Twiggy Ramirez, who was curiously outfitted like a low-rent, Dynasty-era Ace Frehley. The trudging new track “Killing Strangers” followed, which is about when the downward spiral began.
A too-soon-in-the-set cover of the Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)” was warmly received, and while it’s not like he can not play the song as it’s one of his biggest hits, the overplayed nature of the track had it sounding a bit tired, even more so as Manson was putting little effort into selling it, a theme that would populate the rest of the show.
“The Dope Show” and “Rock is Dead” met a similar fate, mingled in with some new material — like the superb “Third Day of a Seven Day Binge” — along with some obligatory yet banal banter like Manson talking about how the first time he broke his nose was in Boston (and… he did it by punching himself!). The singer also spent the night talking in a bizarre Southern accent that certainly didn’t come from his native Canton, Ohio, nor his current locale of Los Angeles.
Following a take on Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus,” an inexplicable second cover in six songs, the set hit bottom with “This Is The New Shit,” which had been reduced from a fist-pumping, incendiary industrial roar to a muted and terribly stale number that had Manson doing little more than shaking the microphone spasmodically and laying on his back on the stage with legs splayed instead of attempting to sing it properly. The same tactic was applied to “The Beautiful People” and “Irresponsible Hate Anthem,” leaving otherwise fantastic compositions weak and sterilized by insipidness.
Was he tired of performing the songs? Had he not found his legs at just four dates into the ‘Hell Not Hallelujah’ dubbed tour? While one might think it wouldn’t matter to Manson obsessives, and they were out in droves, having gloriously raided their suburban Hot Topics, over-applied mascara and impressively squeezed often flabby physiques into vinyl and pleather combinations, one would be wrong; before the single-song encore of “Coma White,” disappointed throngs had already hastily beat a path to the exits and formed the line to the coat check while the house lights were still down.
Maybe it was anticipatory with a setlist that has quickly turned cookie cutter, maybe it was to get the last commuter rail train back to the South Shore. Either way, the goth kids looked a little more bummed out than usual.