The Dope Show

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I didn’t get cake and sodomy, but I did get to chill with the beautiful people.

As I get older, the numbers go up but the youthful spirit maintains. While I’m not ready for bucket lists, there are a few things I want to do before I die. One of those things was to attend a Marilyn Manson show, and last night I succeeded.

Boy howdy.

I was originally introduced to Marilyn Manson by KUFO. I won movie passes to a Jackie Chan movie and a cassette (!) of Antichrist Superstar. I took the tape to the used music store and asked to trade it for a Doors album. The clerk said, “Yeah, this stuff would probably make your head explode.” Chastised for my ignorance, my interest was piqued. Later, when I was filling out one of those ‘12 for a penny’ CD club orders, I ticked off three Marilyn Manson albums. Portrait of an American Family became a favorite, and I began following his releases.

I was raised on Alice Cooper, and initially thought Manson was a ripoff. When Alice Cooper announced he was a born again Christian, his demonic persona took a holy hit. Who will we look to as our evil overlord? My mother, a deeply religious woman, hated Alice Cooper. (“Why do you keep calling her ‘him?’”) Of course, I had to investigate, and saw through the attention-grabbing theatrics. Manson has taken these kinds of antics, added liberal doses of cocaine and absinthe and escalated the debauchery to new lows.

Thank god.

I had tried to see Manson shows before. La Luna cancelled a show after it was revealed that the venue would need insurance premiums of $41,500 for the Antichrist Superstar tour to visit. The next opportunity was an arena tour with Hole, the show where Courtney Love walked off stage after five songs. I had to work, and none of my GFs wanted to go. Finally, last night I got my opportunity. A reserved seat in the balcony was the deciding reason; I have a concert tape of one of his shows, and there’s no way I’m getting near the stage.

I hadn’t been to the Roseland since its big remodel. 1998? I saw a Damned show, and an Alan Parsons show. (Yes, Alan Parsons.The band was heavenly, the crowd were overprivileged assholes.) Before that, it was a regular spot. I’d lived three blocks from the venue when it was the Starry Night, and when I wasn’t inside I’d be hanging out on the sidewalk with a quart of beer up my sleeve, taking in the sonic bleedover. Step away from the big doors when you hear the thumping; someone’s coming out! A bang, a crash, and a “Stay the hell out!” Misbehavior was dealt with harshly.

I did some reading up on the Roseland, and saw that people had issues with the security so I planned ahead, carrying nothing but ID and a cell phone. Metal detectors were no problem, and the pat-down was perfunctory. I wasn’t trying to sneak anything in, maybe that’s why I didn’t have a problem. (I wasn’t sneaking anything into Tool, either, but the gal spent about five minutes on me. I almost proposed marriage.) Considering the crowd that attends these shows, a thorough frisking isn’t out of line.

This was my first trip through the corner entrance, and I like the new setup. (It’s been new for several years now, I guess.) I made my way through the ID checking station, and took my spot in the balcony. Second row, second seat, looking straight at the stage. A/C vent right above me? Oh yes, this will do nicely.

The crowd? I expected Juggalo-like knuckleheads. The reality? I wasn’t the oldest person there, by a long shot. There were lots of couples on dates. Nearby were what looked like a mother-daughter combo. Mom looked about 40. I wondered if she’d seen MM back in the day. I’ve seen video of what happened backstage in the ’90s at MM shows. If that were the case… “Hi, mind if I buy your mom a drink?…” I resisted the urge.

My seatmates were of the finest kind. On one side I had a New Yawker who’d bought his ticket off a scalper. The other side was a small group of folks my age. They were drinking heavily, and I saw the guy pop a handful of pills right before they sparked up a doobie. The New Yawker had his iPhone out. Can I really be in danger if a third of the crowd is carrying iPhones?

Downstairs was another story. As the smoke filled the stage, the lights dropped and the house exploded. Mister Manson’s appearance caused an immediate frenzy, a frenzy that wouldn’t stop for an hour and a half. He seems a lot taller that I’d pictured from TV and videos, an imposing figure.

The setlist focused on newer material, most of which I was unfamiliar with. Particular favorites were a song called WOW, and another bass-heavy tune that Manson felt obliged to “apologize for stealing six minutes and nineteen seconds of your life.” No need. It was a haunting melody, and has inspired me to fetch the new album.

I’d wondered which Manson would show up. He has a reputation as a balls-out rocker, (literally at times) but in recent years he’s mixed it up. Would we get the Willy Wonka Manson? Nope. His black-clad outfit remained constant throughout, and it never turned into a fashion show.

Controversy? He wasn’t going to shock anyone in attendance, clearly preaching to the choir. During one song, he posed as a preacher, but looked more like an evil scarecrow. (His bible self-immolated, which the crowd loved.) When he tossed an American flag into the audience, it disappeared immediately. He probably went through two cases of beer during the performance, taking a sip, spitting it onto the moshpit and tossing the bottle into the crowd. Another crowd souvenir favorite? The black towels he was using to mop off with. (I wanted one of those.) He had a young girl on stage to continually fetch these things for him.

Every show I’ve been to at the Roseland/Starry Night has had one idiot try to jump from the balcony to the speaker stacks onstage. The idiocy reached new levels last night, as a drunken doofus jumped from the balcony into the crowd below. We all looked down to see what happened to him. It appeared no one on the floor was hurt. Filing out of the show, I thought I saw the jumper limping and leaning against a wall, crying. You, sir, are an idiot and an asshole, and I hope you got stomped a little while you were down there on the floor. To borrow one of Mister Manson’s lyrics, “I wasn’t born with enough middle fingers.”

Favorite songs? The girls really lit up when Dope Show played. (Literally.) God is in the TV got the crowd stomping, but the biggest reactions came when he closed out with the Eurythmics cover of Sweet Dreams, followed by Beautiful People.

After the lights came up, I surveyed the damage. A lot of sweaty, wasted people downstairs. A lot of drunk and happy older folks upstairs. Getting out of the balcony after a show at the Roseland is like drinking a forty with an eyedropper: It’s possible, but damn, it takes a while to gitter done.

The sidewalk crowd was a happy bunch, albeit an interesting looking bunch. I waltzed through a cloud of nicotine toward the transit mall, grateful that the crowd had spent its pent-up energies at the show, and not with bareknuckle brawling afterward.

Beautiful people? It’s in the eye of the beholder.