Marilyn Manson is kneeling between a woman's suspender-clad legs, his face near her crotch. Wearing a bowler hat and PVC platform boots, he barely acknowledges her, singing the Eurythmics' Sweet Dreams with a scowl, studiously observing the baying crowd. Shock tactics are his stock in trade. Since hitting the big time in 1996 with the album Antichrist Superstar, Manson has made it his mission to make the unintellectual and unchallenging rock scene artistic and antagonistic. Offending small-town morality and being accused of messing with the minds of the world's youth have proved very good for business, as the success of new album, The Golden Age of Grotesque, suggests.

A fog of dry ice, accompanied by a burst of classical music, sets the scene. When Manson appears, at the top of set of steps, a re-creation of a gothic church behind him, he looks a small creature, too fragile for such grandeur. Then, as the choppy rhythm and insidious nastiness of This Is the New Shit begins, he shrieks into the microphone, his sandpaper vocals rasping, and seems to grow in stature. Removing the undertaker's coat that swirls around him, he slinks around the stage, striking bizarre poses like a manic mannequin. Sturdy yet graceful, he flexes his muscles and thrusts out his bare chest.

Manson's carefully contrived image - cartoon meets horror story - underpins his threatening mien. But his music is as accessible as it gets. From his beaten-up and disturbed version of Soft Cell's Tainted Love, all bitterness distilled to violent rage, to the throbbing dark-disco stomp of The Beautiful People, he makes great pop songs that embrace the teenage fundamentals - swearing, strutting and sulking.

Manson excels, however, in the heavy, piercing chords of Rock Is Dead, with its la-la harmonies and singalong refrain, and all art evaporates as he leads the crowd in some Queen-inspired handclaps. He may be clever, but at heart he is a pop idol who loves a good sing-song.