Marilyn Manson Shares His Side of the Story Through His Music

Manson returns after a long period of being on tour and dealing with accusations, with two songs this month. In the new tracks, Manson seems to fight back against the ongoing public belief that he is guilty. It is easy to pin someone who stands out from the herd and hunt them. He is innocent until proven guilty, and the crime is yet to be proven in court, where it matters most. His fans, including me, are not quick to judge the book, waiting patiently for the truth to come out. Until then, we have new music—not that we are over the old, but I am ready for the new wave. Soon, more details about the album will be disclosed, but with the tempo at which he is moving, we are not going to wait much longer to be able to hear his new project. With this incredible start, Manson provides personal and powerful lyrics, finally sharing his point of view. Of course, we knew that he insists on his innocence on all charges, but now through his art, we hear how it feels to be accused of such a crime. 

His fight reminded me of one situation from my childhood, where I had a neighbor visiting me. I don’t remember how and why, because we never had any connection. He was much bigger than me; in child years, he was old, but I believe still a teenager, maybe even more grown. Me, on the other hand, I cannot recall my correct age, but my memory says ten, eleven—a minor for sure. This neighbor lived a couple of houses from mine, right next to my first school in my hometown. This part of the street knows each other, and I guess we were going to play or something. Around that age, my sexual desires, which were just outbursts of energy, started to get bigger, and I remember while he was sitting on the bed, back on the wall, I sat on his crotch. I remember the nice sensation that I felt between my legs. He tried to say something to stop this ongoing situation, but somehow the minor overpowered him and began to rub his genitals on his. He was wearing silver sweatpants or shorts, I can’t recall correctly, but what I remember is the feeling and the evolution of that sequence. It was in the afternoon, and my father comes from work around four-thirty. I usually hear the metal door from the street crack and alert me when it gets opened, signaling that someone is entering the house yard, and while I was sitting on this guy, I had a view directly in that direction. Given that I was distracted enough by this incredible experience, I totally missed my father entering the yard, then the house, then the other two doors leading to the room of my grandparents, where we were playing. I think my father saw us from the window because he took the distance in mere seconds. Of course, full of fear of what he was going to do to me, I said that we were just playing and nothing more. I don’t believe my father believed me; I am not a good liar, which is why I strive for honesty. Once I left the homophobic town, society, culture, and country that played a huge part in transforming me into a liar, an actor, one of my codes of honor became 'honesty is the best policy.' After living in Bulgaria for such a long time, I played the role that they wanted me to play. My family, friends, and everyone else who knew me thought that being gay was something wrong. Because to be a Homo, a feminine boy in a small city was the worst thing that could happen to this society and anyone, I had to adapt and flex my reality in order to escape the heat. I learned behaviors that helped me survive as a kid in this crazy environment, but after I finally became more comfortable in my skin, I had to leave those behaviors behind; they were no longer helping me and were, in fact, destroying me. The fight against those behaviors is a huge and never-ending process. One of my tools in combating my destructive side is honesty, something I am incredibly proud of lately. It is a badge of honor that I carry. After I lied to my father that we were just playing, my memory fades into nothing until later I found out that the guy told his sister about this interaction and she told half of the town that I was humping her brother. Let’s recap and go back a little further: I was a minor, so my understanding of how the body works was not fully developed. I remember in kindergarten, there were these beds separated in the middle by wood. Probably I saw something and I suppressed it, because I jumped on my neighbor across the wood and humped her until the teacher ladies came to stop me. I think I was in some kind of trance existence, not knowing the reason I did it, or why it’s not appropriate. I must have seen someone else doing it, because how the hell would a kid in kindergarten, learning how to use spoons and forks, know to hump in a moment of arousal? This was the first time humping got me in trouble. I remember the shame. Now, when I think about this girl, I am mortified. I hope she doesn’t remember this situation as vividly as me—who needs another trauma to fight for? But the point is, as a kid you don’t have control over these impulses, no matter how they appear to be. We come into this world as white sheets and the world paints on us until we become so colored it hurts. These days, I come back to the memory with this guy, my neighbor, who let me sit on his crotch and allowed me to play on it. He was grown enough to know better. There are liars in this world who are so powerful, they are able to lie to themselves; either he is one of them when he told his sister that it’s my fault and I was crazy, or he was just hiding something. I should check and see how he is. Back to that dumb idiot, his sister, who thought that a small child should be shamed publicly across the town about something I didn’t have control over. I was becoming sexually interested and I became aware that I am attracted to guys, but it was never in the way that I now look at guys. It was the beginning, pure stage of attraction, where you don’t even have the words to explain it, neither the power to control it. But this idiot—and that word comes as kindness to her, because the words I want to use to describe her will be simply left to the readers’ imagination—either was one of those liars that never admitted to herself the reality of that situation, clearly sexual moment, or she didn’t have the details, or she simply tried to hide a feeling she has that he was at the right age to know better. So I connected to being accused of something, even though the details around Manson’s case and my story are completely different, deep inside the feeling of betrayal smells the same. He found a way to fight back against the narrative against him through his music, and I thought to myself, I should do the same through another form of art that I am good at—good enough. I wonder if I should approach this guy, although I firmly believe that he will deny everything. Or should I tell my father and ask him what he thought when he saw me in that position? In all honesty, I cannot confirm my suspicions—maybe it was just a moment that led to nothing at all, I hope. Or maybe I really convinced him to sit there and play. Either way, I am not here to accuse him of anything, but rather to finally tell my side of the story and mainly speak about his dumb sister, who thought shaming me around town was the right thing to do. I wonder if she has kids and how she would react if something similar happened to them. We all make mistakes; I have done some things worth exploring, but until then, we ponder the question: when is Manson’s new album going to come out? 

Holding a mirror on the cover of one of the songs, 'As Sick As The Secrets Within,' Manson points out how little we truly know about others and how quickly we jump to conclusions, judge, and punish without context or proof. Projection, connectivity, and understanding seem to be the main themes in the upcoming project, which appears to focus on taking control of the narrative.

In the chorus of Marilyn Manson's song, "Raise the red flag," he sings:

It's time to beat up the bullies
And wash the bullseye off my back
My red flag is your white one soaked in blood
My red flag is your white one soaked in blood

Iliya Badev