While other rock stars hunt for a new image with which to reinvent themselves, Marilyn Manson is approaching a decade of playing the ghoul. Scariness should not last that long.

Even the teenagers supposedly inspired by his nasty suggestions would have seen cracks in Manson's act years ago. The Golden Age Of Grotesque hints that those cracks might be his real appeal.

From a distance, Manson's routine is a straight horror show backed by heavy rock loaded with incentives to dance. The words are distorted and buried in the mix.

His stolen ideas encourage you to look closer, in the hope of guessing the robbed party. Most would soon drop that pointless chase; anyone who borrows as much as Manson is unlikely to lie awake at night in fear of being caught. But now it's too late. You're starting to get the joke - that you are the butt.

You first hear him making fun of his critics, beating their punches by belittling Marilyn Manson: 'I'm not an artist, I'm a f****** work of art . . . What's my name? Hold the S because I'm an aint'.

The most audacious gibe is for his fans. Manson opens the album by rebuking the rubes who bought it. 'Do we get it? No/ Do we want it? Yes/ This is the new s***'.

A little more than 61 minutes of circular taunting leaves you wishing the lyrics and the 26-minute bonus film had been left alone while you turned up the stereo to jig around the room.

Those who try anything else will see the folly of loving Marilyn Manson, of hating him and of being him. Which makes the reviewer the ultimate dolt.