Album review: Marilyn Manson: 'The High End of Low'

MARILYN MANSON: 'The High End of Low' (Interscope)

There's nothing more cringe worthy than aging rock stars trying desperately to cling to their youth; one swift look at John Lydon is proof enough of that. It's this universal truth that allows bands to progress, to develop their sound from something slightly juvenile to something more mature and refined. If Green Day had released 'Dookie Part 2' instead of '21st Century Breakdown', the results would've been laughable. Similarly, if the recently reformed Blink 182 make a record like 'Dude Ranch' for their comeback, full of songs about their cocks and what they like to do to animals, it will simply seem trite and embarrassing. People move on, bands move on, and so too should their music.

Brian Warner understands this fact. Having virtually ditched his self-proclaimed 'God of Fuck' moniker on 2007's 'Eat Me, Drink Me' in favour of a more personal approach, 'The High End of Low' finds him continuing the process, exploring the emotional element of his somewhat warped, yet highly intelligent, psyche. Where once he poured scorn outwards, mocking the hypocritical ideals of the American moral majority, now he turns his rage inwards, castigating his own uselessness ('I Have To Look Up Just To See Hell') and difficulties with the concept of love ('Devour', '15'). There's far less self-assurance here, barely a whiff of the arrogant swagger that characterised earlier successes 'Mechanical Animals' and 'Holy Wood', and credit to him for it; Warner is brave enough to try something new, to risk invoking accusations of 'selling out' from his shock-goth fans, and for that he should be commended.

It's a shame, then, that this approach fails so miserably. Any appeal that Manson's confessional bent may have had is lost in the hopeless self-indulgence of the album's musical palate. This is turgid prog rock of the most unrelenting order, with track after track plodding along at a pace that would embarrass a snail. The mid-section - from 'Black and White' to the God-awful 'Unkillable Monster' - is a horrifying slog, lacking even the remotest semblance of a spark. It's capped off by the diabolical dirgefest of 'I Want To Kill You Like...’, which, at nine minutes, feels like it's going to go on forever. There are some questionable forays into power balladry too; 'Running to the Edge of the World' is practically elevator music and 'Four Rusted Horses' would be akin to the kind of clichéd country twaddle that Kid Rock regularly churns out if it weren't for the fuzzbox distorting Warner's voice. These leave the listener in such a catatonic state that even the few glam-goth stompers fail to excite: 'Arma-Goddamn-Motherfucking-Geddon' just feels like 'White Wedding' gone wrong and 'We're From America', despite having an appealing groove, seems to reek of desperation.

When stripped bare, Marilyn Manson is the wrong kind of ugly. In opening himself up, Warner gives too much away, proving that maturity is not necessarily the ideal ingredient for a successful record. 'The High End of Low' is an exercise in self-indulgence from a man who once abhorred such things, which makes you long for the glory days of old, for the Manson who 'rubbed the human face in its own vomit and forced it to look in the mirror' (to paraphrase J.G. Ballard). Give us some sass man, challenge us, wind us all up. Don't give up the ghost and start staring at your navel. (3/10)