The great joke about Marilyn Manson (the band) was that they comprised some of the most talented, if wasted, musicians of the late ‘90s mainstream rock scene. Forget all of the pissing around in stilts and surgical gear: Ginger’s drums on Beautiful People, John 5's virtuoso skills on guitar, Twiggy’s slinky bassline on Dope Show, it was that shit that made kids go out and paint their fingernails with marker pen. Twiggy was fired for wanting to grow a beard; John wasn't "allowed" to showcase any legitimate musicianship and was fired for being straight-edge; Ginger’s been replaced, ignominy of ignominies, by a drum machine; and the new members can’t even be bothered to give themselves funny names. I mean, if you’re too fucking lazy to sit down for five minutes before going “I dunno... how about Shakira Mugabe?”, you don’t deserve to be in this band.
But, then again, you’re dealing with working for a histronic manchild here who’d rather spend his evenings staring at the bottom of an empty gin bottle than Dita Von Teese’s pubis. All bets are off.
