Marilyn Manson

A classical piece was blared out for dramatic effect. As the music peaked with shrilling violins and deep humming bass, a jumbo jet flew over the stage to add to the drama. Donington is strategically located adjacent to the East Midlands Airport meaning every quarter of an hour, bands performing were drowned out by the ear shattering gush of jet engines. While an awesome spectacle, it is terrifying when asleep at 4am, a jet screams above so loud, that it sounds like Al-Qaeda are on their way down.

One by one the band dribbled onstage, pasty white with bright red lipstick wearing varied gothic 1930s regalia. Two masked leggy dancers in Nazi SS uniforms, clocking their heels and kicking their teasingly exposed legs marched onstage. Finally Manson, his hair shorn to look like the bastard transvestite brother of Trent Reznor, trumped up between his two female escorts.

And so with an overblown entrance rivalled only by Prince Naseem, the band plundered into Disposable Teens, sending thousands into spasmodic euphoria. Within a minute I was at the bottom of a pile of bodies, my ankle barely surviving thanks to some considerate nearby individuals and my faithful brother.

Oblivious to the mess at the front, Manson and co thrashed about in typical gyrating camp fashion. Indeed if there's one thing Mazza is best at, it's posturing - kinking his knees together with that dog-mouthed grin while he elongates a limb to point the microphone out to the revellers or "motherf**kers" as he kindly addresses us.

No respite is allowed as Irresponsible Hate Anthem careers out of the PA. Hats off to Manson. While the set isn't as elaborate as previous outings, the mix of tempestuous, scantily-clad dancers, and balls-to-the-floor, guitar-swinging thrash-omania is great entertainment.

Sadly this is the problem with the Manson family, who hopelessly dwindle from outrageous shock rock to disappointing pantomime. Yes the songs are there: Rock Is Dead, The Dope Show, Great Big White World. Yet the show drags. Manson gradually loses more and more clothes. He picks up more and more bottles of water, downing them and spitting it back out. The girls hoist their skirts up so bright red knickers are firmly in view, simulating all manner of lewd sex positions that the male contingent joyfully appreciate.

The so-called god of f**k barely interacts with his fans, except to ask if any of us "motherf**kers" believe in God. What! He's still humping the God line?! That is sooooooooo 1996! A faceless pubescent roach nearby squeals, "You are God!!!" I was tempted to go rest my sore ankle, but new songs beckoned so I soldiered on.

This Is The New S**t, a guzzly piece of proto glam rawk, came across pretty well, with large sectors of those en masse knowing the words. Mobscene got as OTT as one could hope for, with the Manson escorts reappearing nude, their breasts and genitalia covered with rubber imitations. Another sex show ensued while Manson bleated on... To be honest my attention was elsewhere (you had to see some of the positions the girls were getting in to appreciate the moment).

As dusk drew in Manson looked exhausted. The Beautiful People wrapped things up, giving the masses one last reason to erupt before the atavistic endeavours of Iron Maiden.

Spectacular for all the wrong reasons in its sheer mediocrity and predictability, one hopes Brian will revise for next time... You can only resit so many times before it becomes pointless.

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