Ear-bleeding psychedelia, math-pop and a Libertine descend on east London
Gary Numan : Pure
No fucker cares anymore...
Adopting a ridiculous crucifix pose on the sleeve and singing lines like "I'll rip the skin from God's face/I'll steal the light from Heaven's gate", ('Rip') is unlikely to do the same for Gary, mind. This is, simply, because no fucker - excepting the infamous Numanoids, who would still pledge allegiance to their hero if he came round their house and shat on their carpet - cares anymore.
'Pure', for all its flagrant MM/NIN aping, ends up a mere testament to Numan's bloated vanity; impeccably produced, yet wincingly self-important and wholly charmless. You could see it as a reflection of the debt owed him by metal's new breed (eg, Fear Factory, who covered 'Cars' after a fashion), but that doesn't make it any more relevant.
Despite what certain Republican nutbags might insist, Marilyn Manson is not guilty of causing American teens to shoot up classrooms, sacrifice hens or copulate with family pets. He can, however, be held responsible for this record, and he should pay.
Masterminded by frontman Bradford Cox, the freaky Atlanta band’s seventh album is bruised and brilliant
Emily Blunt stars in a tightly wound and constantly surprising thriller
The ex-Smith proves his greatness on a spiky live album
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