blog safari: Marilyn Manson concert
the following slideshow contains foul launguage, obscene gestures, partial nudity, puke, ear bleeding music, sacreligious imagery, net abuse, etc. full commentary can be found below the slideshow so you can skip it and still get a review of the evening.
so. the marilyn manson concert. i spent the best light in the parking lot. there were a bunch of evangelist types with bullhorns out there trying to save souls. they thought the clothes and piercings and tattoos were evil. i said to one of the guys "you know, seems like real evil kinda likes to blend in like Ted Bundy or Jeffery Dahmer types. clean cut. "normal". doctors with a wife and 2.3 kids and a secret hole in their basement where they keep ferrets and missing schoolgirls. i mean Jame Gumb was a seamstress for rotties sake! how threatening is that?
after some discussion of the bible it was determined that i too, was destined to the eternal lake of fire by my association with catholicism. i moved on and took pictures during the opening act "Slayer". *grrrherhahaha*
Before Manson came on i wanted to take my cheap digital camera inside the gates for the last photos before dark. i could have brought better equipment to shoot in low light but a good camera would be too big to get past the "pat-down" and "confiscation" part of the experience. as it was, i had to smuggle the camera inside the gates in my underwear along with a small water bottle of cazadorres. it was a real struggle just to walk in without looking like i had a serious health issue.
the stage glowed red from behind the curtains. the smoke machines cranked. a weird taped gibberish began. the figure of Manson was sillhouetted in a pose like in the Exorcist when Regan is kneeling on her bed reaching for the sky with her claws.
the low end drum beat started and it was so overdriven it literally blew back my hair. as the first "song" started in earnest i thought i might be having a heart attack. im not kidding. i considered leaving right then before i became a spectacle myself. it was pretty insane the sound level. i couldnt discern a melody of any kind. everyone was smoking. i was kind of scared.
grrrherhaha not really. well maybe, a little tiny bit.
Manson pranced around the stage which had a giant chair in the center. he would climb onto it now and then and lay with his butt to the audience and his legs in the air spread eagle as he reached through to fondle himself. the crowd roared in approval. i couldn't stop laughing, but when i did i kept sucking up smoke and body odor fumes and worried about the heart attack again. we were only a few rows back from the pit and i was sorta worried that the pogo people's piercings would somehow get hooked up wrong and they would tear, but i really couldn't see that well because there were millions of strobe lights aimed at the crowd that pulsated in a frantic disturbing pattern. i bet this kind of aural and visual abuse is unheard of at Gitmo or wherever our dark nefarious torture labs are.
Every so often Manson would hump the stage or put his hand down his pants and writhe around. it was not real impressive for me. i mean, this guy was flaccid and pale, floppin around like somebody snuck into his black den one night and sewed some tilapia to his upper arms. he might be forty or so. i had adjusted to the sonic boom of sound and had sunk into deep reflection: what a drag to have your art form be this restrictive! what if he doesn't want to do this anymore? what if he is tired of black fingernail polish? how bad do those goat's eyes contacts hurt? why doesn't he have a chin? can't he afford a weight room? i wonder if the cokes are 7 dollars?
suddenly a famous song began and the activity around me ramped up enough to break my thoughtful repose. The dope show! famous song. "we're all stars, in the dope show!" a screen behind Manson showed a montage of pills floating through space interspersed with the word "drugs". another roar of approval. i was truly embarrassed for him to have such a pitiful lack of imagination. but then embarassment gave way to anger. why in the hell am i not a millionaire? what's wrong with me? if Manson, with limited talent and makeup thick enough to scrape up a shingle with an american express card can do it, so could I! as i planned my meteoric descent into low culture prosperity the damn thing came to an end. just like that.
we filed out like dumb animals on a plank to slaughter. i griped about the litter. "how hard can it be to take your can of "freek" to the waste bins...located every 50 feet?" my buddy shrugged. on the ride home she started telling me how great Che Guava was. i slumped over in the futility pose and realized i was really really tired. i got home, ate a bowl of orange sherbert and layed in bed still throbbing but holding salvation in the form of sweet Flannery's words, sporting a smile of appreciation for this dog's life./grrr