By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Sometime in the mid '90s, Detailsran a feature on Shirley Manson, big pictures plus some frothy print, Shirley's supposed "Ten Commandments of Love." In it, she commanded her fans not to wear briefs (or was it boxers?) and said she once walked out of a one-night stand because she pulled down the guy's pants and saw the wrong underwear. The tone was the usual cheeky Detailsthing (possibly lifted from a file marked "Interviews") butthe pictures! She looked like a Nabokovian fantasy, with her child's body and exquisite hyper-sexual face, all smudged, occluded eyes and a beautiful open wound of a mouth. Except there was something more intense about her; in one shot she nearly cowered against one end of the frame, looking up at an apparently looming figure just outside it with the flirty love-eyes Louise Brooks gives Jack the Ripper in Pandora's Box,like she was asking to be erased: Beauty and Murder Lite. The intensity put together with the silliness and the sweet crudeness (she talked about cunnilingus and honoring your mom and dad) added up to a wonderful character who was both fantastic and totally real. (I say "character" because I'm not sure what any of it had to do with the actual woman.) With her finger-paint makeup and matter-of-fact trash talk, half sugar, half dirt, she somehow came off as an ordinary girllike this dramatic face, this music, this bright-colored world could be about anybody. At the time, I heard somebody put Shirley down by saying, "Oh, she's just like a secretary," and I thought, if that's true then she really is great. Pop music could use some secretaries right about now.
To explain: A few years ago I saw Patti Smith do an "extra" show, her second of the night. She was very late coming on, and the venue filled the time by running ancient films of '60s girl groups like the Shirelles, the Shangri-Las, and the Ronettes. This was a mistake. Because the more you looked at those old groups, the more it seemed that for all the bright packaging of the era (the identical dresses and 'dos, the makeup, the nails, the stagy smiles, the uniform dance moves), the Shangri-Las had something more raw and more female than who we'd come to see (and I'm speaking as someone who loves Patti Smith). They had it in their naive mix of feeling and artifice. If somebody wants to be raw now (and I'm not talking about Smith here), they put their foot up on the amplifier and start bellowingthe Shangri-Las made the feeling strong by holding it in check with conventions of dress and style, generic containers for pure female electricity. They were glittering performers, but they were ordinary too, and they had a physically based, slightly skanky glory that can't be faked. Shirley Manson doesn't quite have this because nobody does now. But she comes closer than any other star I can think of, plus she also has something elsean artful intelligence and wit.
The first Garbage album made this clear times a thousand. The songs are on one hand the seemingly simple stuff of sex and love gone bad, personal dramas any high school girl could imagine starring in. At the same time, they are subtle, playful, and full of contradictory energy. The songs understand that sex and love are never simple, in high school or any place else. "Queer," with its taunting, nyah-nyah musical phrasing, plus Manson's bratty, sensual drawl, could be a cruel little girl tormenting the class loser, but the cruelty is undercut by the at first indifferent, then increasingly insistent, "You can touch me"the voice of a tormentor who needs the desire of the tormented, maybe desperately. Then there's "Only Happy When It Rains," an ultra-cute mix of comedy and misery that appeared at a moment in time when depression became a personal style. There's the sparkling artificethe little refrains, like bits of sitcom theme music popping up everywhere to underscore the song's adorable pain. There's the way Manson hits certain words ("You'll wanna hear about my newobsession") that subtly torques her meaning, giving it movement and play. The song is given warmth too by a certain tenderness toward misery that shows up in the chorus of loving male voices counterpointing Manson's plaintive refrain at the end with "Pour your misery down," a '90s version of the hornier "Let your love come down" of yore. The song is a spangled pleasure about a woman who can only experience herself in pain, and the contradiction gives the thing its perverse, charismatic charge.
The best songs on the record have this oppositional charge, made sharper and sometimes nastier by the expert controlthe artificeof the surface. The control aspect was probably what made Garbage seem cold to many people, but this music is not hot or cold; it's an unpredictable mix of temperatures. "As Heaven Is Wide" juxtaposes slick, dark techno and rageful lyrics with impish beeps and bounciness; I can't hear the last few phrases without picturing a cartoon witch flying through the sky on a broom, riding it with the goofy humpty-hump motion of the sound. The new album, Beautiful Garbage, for the most part, doesn't work this way. When the lyrics are sad, so is the music ("Cup of Coffee"). Ditto when the lyrics are angry ("Shut Your Mouth") or insouciant ("Androgyny") or hurt ("Silence Is Golden"). Some critics have called the album more human than their previous work, i.e., less cold, which I take to mean more emotionally congruent, less tarted up, easier to relate to. That's truethere's not as much mixing of tones on this album, not as much oppositional energy. Although it deliberately evokes the sound of the old girl groups, it doesn't have as much of their playful spirit.