THE slings and arrows of notoriety have not been kind to Marilyn Manson in recent years. Unfairly implicated in the Columbine massacre by alarmist US pundits, the lanky shock-rocker was then dethroned as American pop’s biggest folk devil by Eminem and Limp Bizkit.

But even as his commercial stock fell, Manson’s memorable cameo in Michael Moore’s documentary Bowling for Columbine revealed that the artist formerly known as Brian Warner was actually an unusually intelligent, articulate and humane man. A chart-topping debut for his latest album, The Golden Age of Grotesque, would appear to indicate a positive change of fortune.

Designed for maximum theatrical impact, as ever, Manson’s concert on Wednesday offered an inspired collision of confrontational performance art and malignant catwalk show. Drawing on totalitarian iconography, vintage Hollywood horror movies and German Expressionism, the visually stunning grand finale even managed to conflate Mickey Mouse with Hitler.

Manson made his grand entrance atop a floating metal throne, howling the opening lines of This is the New S**t as he was lowered on to the stage. So muffled was the sound and so clunky the chair mechanism, however, that the effect was unexpectedly comical — think Carry on Screaming meets This is Spinal Tap.

Where once he delighted in shocking by dressing like a pansexual alien freak, this time Manson resembled nothing more eccentric than Richard E. Grant in a rakish Gaultier trouser suit. He also spent the opening suite of powerhouse alienation anthems struggling to overcome the muddy sound system of Alexandra Palace, hitting his stride only four songs in, with the teeth-rattling racket of his former single, Mobscene.

Manson’s stomping cover version of Tainted Love also impressed, as did the title track to The Golden Age of Grotesque, which provided a welcome switch in pace. Nodding to the pungent decadence of prewar Berlin, this off-kilter waltz was both curt and vile.

But the most serious chink in Manson’s armour remains his limited songwriting skills. His presentation may be magnificent, but he still stubbornly insists on working largely within the narrow confines of an industrial rock idiom that lacks either subtlety or wit. Which meant that, although his show contained neo-glam classics such as The Beautiful People and The Dope Show, at least half his set sounded generic and lumpen.

For such an imaginative showman, Manson’s musical blind spot is a major flaw. Just being a competent rock star seems like such a waste.