He sounds like any musician over the phone, like any burnt-to-a-crisp rock star who spent the previous night burning down the shed. He is, by turns, thoughtful and distracted, animated and weary. He crunches on a cup full of ice as he contemplates his answers, which are never inarticulate and are, on occasion, even glib and silly. Over the phone, this man--Antichrist superstar, androgynous destroyer, enemy of the state, Lucifer in Revlon--could be anyone: any guy in a band, any bored millionaire doing a little pre-show P.R., any dude you rode bikes with during your childhood summers. The distance of a phone line that stretches from Denver, where he performed one night earlier despite death threats and calls for boycotts, to Dallas creates the necessary, if small and surprising illusion. Marilyn Manson--when heard but not seen, when stripped of makeup and contact lenses and self-inflicted scars and his traveling flea circus--is just... More >>>