Marilyn Manson: A Car Crash, a Planned Murder, Nihilism, Abuse, and Inhumanity
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This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. This is the story about the Antichrist. The Antichrist Superstar.

It's also the story of a deadly car crash, a murder that almost was, nearly innumerable allegations of abuse, and acts by a rock star so depraved we can barely mention them. And that's saying something for this podcast. This is a story about Marilyn Manson, a man who, yes, made great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music.

That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called "Winnie Cooper Stole My Heart" . I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Macarena by Los Del Rio. And why would I play you that specific slice of "I, Cheese, Could I Afford It?" Because that was the number one song in America on October 8th, 1996.

And that was the day Marilyn Manson released his album, Antichrist Superstar, and forever changed the pop music relationship between art and humanity. On this episode, a murder that almost was, allegations of abuse, and shocking acts of depravity from Marilyn Manson. I'm Jake Brennan. This is Disgraceland. ♪

Stay the hell out of my basement. That was the warning from Marilyn Manson's grandfather. Marilyn Manson was, back then, only known by his God-given name, Brian Warner. And his grandfather was not fucking around. Stay the hell out of my basement. His grandfather had a tracheotomy and used a mechanical valve to speak.

He lived his life with an open wound in his neck that led directly to a hole in his windpipe, which allowed him to breathe. The talking mechanism made him sound like a demonic robot. Stay the hell out of my basement. But hell was too inviting a proposition. Young Marilyn, uh, Brian Warner couldn't resist. He snuck down into his grandfather's basement one afternoon to snoop.

And there was a dusty wooden table filled with boxes, tools, dirty ashtrays, pretty much what you'd expect in a grandfather's basement. And there was also hardcore pornography, specialized porno mags, Asian fever, finger, hot pussies and cold spikes, and the more directly named big titties.

There was also a stack of black and white photos depicting bestiality. Men and women engaged in, well, acts with animals too depraved and disgusting for me to repeat here. And then there was a sound. The door to the basement stairs creaked open and Brian quickly hid under the table. His grandfather bounded down the stairs and sat at the table, unaware that his grandson was hidden away at his feet. To a teenage boy,

The sounds that came next were all too familiar. The fly being unzipped, the dispensing of the lotion from the bottle, the slick sound of skin over skin, but the next sounds were truly horrifying. You could barely hear the sounds beneath the scorched earth distortion of Al Jorgensen from Ministries guitars pumping through the speakers, but those sounds of horror, of abuse, they were there.

burbling up from somewhere in this underground Fort Lauderdale fetish club's darkness. It was the early 1990s, and Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids had finished their set at Club Squeeze, and the crowd had split. Now it was just bartenders and barbacks, hosing the place down, counting cash, splitting tips, eager to make it out before sunrise with hopes of some sort of afterparty to crash. But those sounds, the ministry's stigmata, could not cover them up.

One male barback asked a female bartender to walk him into the women's bathroom where the sounds of horror were coming from. Then they entered, and the sounds grew louder. Then they followed the sounds toward a stall, opened the door,

And there he was, leader of the so-called spooky kids, Marilyn Manson, nearly naked, long stringy black hair, makeup smudged across his face in all the wrong places, ripped pantyhose, rubber hot pants, wild eyed with a ball gag in his mouth, handcuffed to the toilet, struggling to free himself like a trapped rock and roll animal.

After laughing uncontrollably for a few minutes at their discovery, the bartender and barback found the keys to the handcuffs and released Marilyn Manson back into the wild. The wild was, of course, Florida, where Brian Warner had relocated from the horror of his grandfather's basement in Canton, Ohio, to attend community college in Fort Lauderdale and study journalism. Brian might have escaped his grandfather's basement and the oppressive Christian education back in his hometown, but he couldn't escape

himself. Even after changing his name to Marilyn Manson and putting together a band and a look that made Alice Cooper, Iggy Pop, and David Bowie appear modest in comparison. And even after presenting a stage show that included leading a female band member around on a leash and violently punching her in the face, among other acts of public depravity and abuse, Marilyn Manson could not escape what he always knew he was, a worm.

A slimy insect with no backbone, both male and female genitalia. A Darwinian afterthought, the weakest of the weak, a glutton for human rot, too shameful to make it above ground, relegated to the basements and fetish club bathrooms, born of subterranean bestiality and shameful self-gratification. Marilyn Manson fronted one of Fort Lauderdale's most interesting and potentially explosive underground bands.

But he knew that that potential would never be realized without metamorphosing from worm to snake, or better yet, from worm to demon. There was no half-stepping your way to rock stardom. He had two choices in this life. Choice one, strike at the heart and become the man he was meant to be. A man equal in stature to the men he repeatedly read and looked up to. Anton LaVey, author of the Satanic Bible, and nihilistic philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche.

Or choice two, end up with a wife with flabby tits and two dumb kids and a future in a suburban basement with your dick in your hand. And the choice was obvious. Become the man he was meant to be, a rock star, kill the worm. To do that, Marilyn Manson needed to rid himself of any trace of humanity. No empathy, no nothing. He needed to replace the blood coursing through his six foot three skinny frame with ice water.

He needed to be completely callous, totally uncaring, devoid of any and all care or concern for anyone but himself. "Do what thou wilt." It was that familiar narcissistic rock star refrain championed by the acolytes of Aleister Crowley. Jim Morrison, Jimmy Page, David Bowie, but those dudes didn't take it far enough. There was a line between their stage personas and their real life personas. The Marilyn Manson was determined to obliterate that line.

The two cars collided on the street in front of Manson, who was walking home late at night. There were no sirens and no ambulances yet. No cops. No doors opening from nearby houses. Not even any screams from inside the two demolished vehicles. There was just an eerie calm. Smoke rising from the crushed engines, wafting silently into the humid Florida air.

Manson walked toward the crash, not out of curiosity, but just because the accident was between him and where he was going. The slow, mechanical creaking sound of the damaged automobile door opening, and then the scuffed shuffle of the zombies stumbling out of one of the cars onto the street. He was covered in blood, staggering with one hand on his forehead, and then he dropped his hand.

and the flap of skin that was his forehead flopped down over his eyes and nose. Brains, blood, and Manson did nothing. He kept walking, away from the badly injured man in desperate need of help. Manson glanced into the other car as he passed it, and there she was, another severely injured driver, a woman behind the wheel.

She made eye contact with Manson. Her breathing was labored. Her pain was palpable. She was dying. Manson could tell. She whispered to him with a shiver. Please, somebody hold me, she asked him. And Manson kept walking. Fuck them. They didn't deserve his comfort, his mercy. They were dying. And so was the worm.

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Letting two innocent people die on your watch without lifting a finger to help is a special kind of deplorable. So is inflicting abuse on others intentionally, as Marilyn Manson did as part of a stage show. But hold up. This story can't go any further without acknowledging the shock rock elephant in the room. Marilyn Manson is accused of monstrous abuse. Abuse that goes far beyond his admitted neglect and the stage antics he rationalizes as art.

Abuse from multiple women. Abuse that has landed him not only in the headlines, but in court. An abuse that it must be noted Marilyn Manson has vehemently denied. For the record, Brian Warner, aka Marilyn Manson, has not been found guilty of any of the many charges brought against him. In some cases, he and the plaintiffs have settled. So Brian Warner/Marilyn Manson remains innocent, a free man.

That said, it's worth specifically mentioning that the Westworld star Evan Rachel Wood, Manson's ex-girlfriend, has accused Marilyn Manson of a pattern of abuse. Wood testified about her experience before Congress, though in that testimony, she did not name Manson.

She did, however, directly accuse Manson later on Instagram and in her 2022 documentary, Phoenix Rising, which premiered at Sundance. It was shown on HBO. In it, Wood goes into great detail about what she claims was a highly unorthodox and extremely abusive relationship, claiming that Manson drugged and raped her.

Yet, not only did Manson deny these allegations, he countersued and ultimately settled with Wood. He admitted, though, to nothing, but agreed to pay $327,000 to Wood for her attorney fees.

In addition to Wood's claims, at the height of the Me Too movement in 2018, Manson was the subject of a Los Angeles County District Attorney investigation over the filing of a police report against him alleging unspecified sex crimes dating back to 2011. Again, Marilyn Manson denied the allegation, citing, quote, absence of corroboration, unquote. And the L.A. County D.A. dropped the charges.

In New York Magazine, Game of Thrones actress Esme Bianco, a one-time girlfriend of Manson, claimed he chased her with an axe and assaulted her during a shoot for a music video.

Bianco later sued Manson, claiming additionally that he raped her numerous times. Manson denied these allegations, saying they were, quote, provably false, unquote. In 2023, Bianco and Manson settled out of court, though it should be noted that Bianco continues to rail against Manson publicly, and Manson continues to maintain his innocence. Another ex-girlfriend.

Morgan Smithline told People magazine in a cover story in 2021 that Manson was a monster. She claimed that he cut her, whipped her, sexually assaulted her. Manson denied the allegations through a spokesperson. Smithline later went on The View and talked about suing Manson for rape and human trafficking.

In 2023, a judge dismissed Smithline's lawsuit. And Smithline later recanted her testimony and claimed that Evan Rachel Wood and others manipulated her into making her accusations against Marilyn Manson.

In a sworn statement, she said, quote, "I succumbed to pressure from Evan Rachel Wood and her associates to make accusations of rape and assault against Mr. Warner that were not true. Eventually, I started to believe that what I was repeatedly told happened to Ms. Wood and others also happened to me," unquote. In 2021, another ex, this one unidentified, sued Manson for rape, and Manson's legal team strongly denied the accusations, and ultimately, Manson and this Jane Doe settled the case out of court.

In 2022, the L.A. County Sheriff's Department announced that it had been investigating Manson for close to two years. The department raided his home, seized electronic storage devices, and brought what it thought was its best case against Marilyn Manson to the L.A. District Attorney.

In January of 2025, the District Attorney announced that he would not be bringing any criminal charges of sexual assault against Marilyn Manson, stating that in some cases the statute of limitations had expired and that furthermore, based on the evidence, the District Attorney's office, quote, could not prove sexual assault in court, unquote. Okay, get all that? It's a lot. What do all these allegations have in common, besides the fact that none of them stuck?

I'll tell you. They all happened after 1998. Well, what happened in 1998? That was the year Marilyn Manson released his autobiography, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell.

Why is this important? Well, lots of rock stars write autobiographies, you say. Yeah, you're right. But most other musicians don't contend with years of sexual abuse allegations in and out of court after admitting to some very questionable behavior that some would label abuse in a memoir, theoretically demonstrating what prosecuting attorneys could frame as a pattern of abuse.

In Marilyn Manson's drive to become what he would eventually term the Antichrist superstar, to kill the worm, he repeatedly detailed numerous incidents of abuse in the pages of his own book. Hog tying a groupie is not an easy task. First, you have to find the space to do it, which isn't as easy as you would think.

You might think that backstage is a good enough place, but then you got to deal with pesky onlookers, members of your band looking for a cheap thrill, too ignorant to realize that what you're going for in this situation is nihilism, not kink. The two groupies, they were runaways, a boy and a girl. Now, you wanted emotional carnage. You wanted to break down the humanity, elicit a confession, something neither runaway had admitted before.

There was power in that. Anton LaVey would agree. The boy groupie was fit for the hog-tying contraption in one of the backstage back rooms that was private enough. He stripped down naked. He didn't mind being tied up. You were his savior. He and the girl told you so. You relished in the sight.

A boy with his legs spread eagle, each bound to the contraption, his arms tied behind his back, and the rope that bound him was also attached to his neck so any movement from his legs or arms would choke him. It was quite disturbing. Your partner in crime, your tourist bus driver, sought a confession. The boy in his vulnerable state was eager to give one.

He copped to begging in the street. He copped to being abused by his stepfather. He copped to pimping his sister out for cash to buy tickets to your concert. One truck stop blowjob coming up. And the shame was now palpable, seeping into the backstage air as the boy admitted that pimping out his sister got her abducted by a redneck trucker. And the scene was depraved, and it was all being captured on film. Then, outside, the backstage music suddenly cut.

Whispers, murmurs, loud authoritative commands. It was the cops busting up the backstage party, and they were there to make sure the female groupies were of age, digging through purses, checking IDs. In Marilyn Manson's pocket, there were, of course, drugs. And in the room he was in, there was a naked hog-tied boy with evidence of the entire crime on a rolling video camera. Marilyn Manson quietly untied the boy and got him dressed, and the cops never bothered entering the room.

the incident ended without further drama. Not only was the abuse documented on camera, but also in Marilyn Manson's book, as I said. And of course, there are numerous other incidents of abuse details in this book, all of which were made public in 1998, years before Manson was officially accused of anything. My point is that everything was right there in the open for all to see.

Does this abuse incriminate Marilyn Manson for the crimes he was later accused of? No, it does not. But it does paint a picture of someone capable of truly awful behavior. And again, all of that was known. Known, of course, by his bandmates, who in many cases behaved just as badly as he did. Known by his managers and known by his record label. They were all aware of it. And they were even aware of the young woman Marilyn Manson set out

to murder. - We'll be right back after this. - Word, word, word. - Killing your ex-girlfriend is easy. Killing your ex-girlfriend and getting away with it is another proposition altogether. Marilyn Manson plotted this murder carefully. Everything was at stake. You can't break out of Fort Lauderdale in an industrial rock band and lead a nation of malcontent teens out of conformity and into the satanic promised land from prison. No, you must be free.

Free on the outside and free of your ex-girlfriend's obsessive control and smothering presence. Murder was the only solution. Not only did it solve your ex-girlfriend problem, but killing another human solved your humanity problem as well. Kill the girl, kill the worm. The worm inside you. Kill the old you. The Brian Warner still skulking around on the inside. Haunting your conscience with shame and fear and worse, compassion for others. Fuck that guy.

And fuck her. Your plan was solid. You spent weeks piecing it together, obsessing over every detail. First you did your research. You followed her, tracked her daily movements. You cased her house. You took in all the details you could like a proper criminal. And then you decided on a means to match your motive. Arson. It was perfect. Arson destroyed not only the girl, but the evidence linking you to the girl.

It was the type of perfect diabolical scheme that makes psychopaths giddy with delight. You dawned all black and downed enough liquor to steal your spine. And then you hit the street. Toward her house. Kerosene. Check. Zippo. Check. Her street was deserted. There was the house. And you were ready. Then. Say man, you got a light? From the darkness. A homeless man.

He went from asking for a light to trying to get you to buy crack off of him in a Fort Lauderdale minute. And you tried to shake him. You had a job to do. But he had a job to do too. You were a potential customer. And he would not fuck off. This was his street. This was his house. And devilish as you were, you couldn't burn the whole damn street down. So you bailed. And then your murderous plan faded. Saved by a crackhead angel, your ex-girlfriend never realized how close she'd come to death.

That is, until she read your book, where you detailed everything. You wanted the world to know who you really were. Marilyn Manson, not Brian Warner. Brian Warner had to die. Brian Warner was in the way. Brian Warner was preventing you from becoming the Antichrist Superstar.

That was the whole point. That's what you were gunning for. From Fort Lauderdale's industrial underground, nailing women to crucifixes, leading them around on all fours, degrading them, keeping kids in cages on stage, hurling raw meat and bloody animal parts at the audience.

Catching the attention of Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor and his Nothing Records label. To your debut album, Portrait of an American Family. To your breakthrough on MTV and into the mainstream with your excellent cover of the rhythmic Sweet Dreams Are Made of This. And finally, back into the studio in New Orleans, a former funeral home, by the way, with Trent at the boards to create your magnum opus, Antichrist Superstar. But there was an uninvited guest at the studio, Brian Warner. Fuck this guy.

How can you transform yourself into the biggest rock star on the planet when you've got a wormy little asshole inside you telling you to take it slow and maybe consider what others want out of this project? Your bandmates, your producer, your record label, your fans. Fuck them and fuck Brian Warner. First, it was cocaine.

A lot of cocaine. Rails and rails and rails of cocaine from the minute you entered the studio until the minute you left. Then you tried drowning Brian in alcohol. And when that didn't work, you added pills. But Brian wouldn't go down easy. Still, you kept at it. Months in the studio of nothing but drugs and alcohol and destruction. Tape recorders in microwaves, hell fireworks in microwaves, destroyed guitars, snorting glass for fun.

You had, after all, a debaucherous studio reputation to live up to, ever since that time in Miami with the deaf groupie. You brought her back to the studio there, and she was eager to strip down. You covered her in meat, and then the sex act started. Then you degraded her in the most vile way. You urinated on her. You claimed she wanted it.

You wanted that kind of inhumanity now. It was the only way to kill Brian and to possess the power necessary to create what you knew you had in you. A culture-changing album. The type of record that separated you not only from the conformists, but from your peers as well. Head and shoulders above Al Jorgensen and anyone else from the industrial scene. A whole other thing.

Too big for the underground. A modern-day David Bowie fronting lead fucking Zeppelin powered by a fresh new record deal with the devil. And as far as Trent fucking Reznor was concerned, he could hammer a nine-inch nail into his two-inch cock and fuck off back to Courtney Love's bed. You weren't his protege like they said you were. He was a creative wench, a bitchy egomaniacal mile marker on the lost highway to superstardom.

But right now, hardly any music was being made.

So once again, you turned to sex. Sex with rank, vile drug addicts in filthy public bathrooms. You degraded them so violently in one instance that I'm not even going to repeat it here, but let's just say it involved a clitoral ring and you projected the degradation, but really you were the target. Well, Brian was the target and yet nothing worked. Brian lived and your art suffered. Your

Your band was dying in the studio in a haze of bad sex, worse drugs, and no rock and roll. In an effort to destroy your humanity, you destroyed yourself as an artist. Because humanity is at the core of all great art. You were too smart not to finally realize this. And when you did, you snapped too.

If humanity was indeed needed to survive, to, in some twisted, ironic way, to give birth to your greatest artistic endeavor yet, the Antichrist superstar, then fuck it. Brian could stay. And you'd get clean-ish. Knock down the drug and alcohol intake and focus yourself and your band on the task at hand. And you'd relegate Brian to the basement of your soul where he was comfortable and put him to work whenever necessary.

After all, you had a job to do, to make the most shocking mainstream rock album of all time, and fistfuck the American youth out of their catatonic, conformist state. ♪♪

Celebrity is its own drug. When all the famous people in Hollywood want to get up close to your own personal freak show and experience what it's like to breathe the same air as you, it's intoxicating. As intoxicating as the drugs you take and the drugs that you're on right now. You're so high. It's hard to remember what you even took. It's hard to remember where you even are. You're at a table in public. And Billy Corgan is sitting at this table across from you.

He's either arguing with or coming on to Rick Rubin's beard. Rick Rubin, the famous producer, he's at the table too. You're in a restaurant or club or a bar and everywhere you look there are famous people but they're looking at you like you're the attraction. And there's the dudes from ZZ Top.

Oh no, are their beards gonna wanna fight Rick Rubin's beard? You hope not. Your mind, it turns away from them. It turns to your date, your lost date. You lost your date, Fiona Apple, long ago in the night. It's too bad, you really liked her. But now you have another date. And she's sitting at the table with you and Rick Rubin and Billy Corgan. She's next to you. And your jacket is on her lap.

Your hands are down her pants under the table. She's famous too. She's also married. She's a porn star. Jenna Jameson. You just met her and you're pissed off that she isn't Tracy Lourdes. The Beautiful People, your smash single from the excellently produced, performed, and presented album Antichrist Superstar comes on loud over the speakers. You feel people's eyes on you.

You don't care. Most artists would feign embarrassment. Not you. You welcome the attention. It's about fucking time. You deserve it. Making Antichrist Superstar nearly killed you and your band, but not Brian Warner. He's still in there. And the album debuted at number three on the Billboard charts.

Rolling Stone said the album is responsible for the death of grunge. They ought to thank you. Someone had to do it. And those whiny flannel-clad pussies had it coming. You hate grunge. Not the music. The label. You hate all labels. And that's in part why you're here. Sitting at the table with your finger inside America's most famous porn star at your rightful seat at the table with all the other rock stars. You made it. And the rest of the world is pissed.

Pissed at you. Pissed at your music. Pissed at your band. You're an affront to everything normal and decent in this country, is what they say. To which you reply, ain't that the fucking point? You tear up the pages of a Bible on stage. You literally wipe your ass with the American flag. You strut around in a back brace with a G-string and a ball gag like some fascist dominatrix dictator. And parents, priests, and politicians are apoplectic.

What they said about you was wild. Marilyn Manson is the son and daughter of Charles Manson. Marilyn Manson had one of his ribs removed so he could give himself a blowjob. Marilyn Manson isn't really Marilyn Manson at all. He's Paul from the Wonder Years and he got Winnie Cooper pregnant. And then he killed her and then he had sex with her. And then he had sex with a pig on video. He's actually black.

For real. He just bleached his skin like Michael Jackson. He and Michael have a sex cult, and Corey Feldman is their own personal doll. Manson dug up a body and smoked the bones. He stole Courtney Love from Billy Corgan, who stole her from Trent Reznor. No, that was actually Twiggy. Manson tattooed his entire dick solid black. He has breast implants. They're just really small. He's Anton LaVey's son. Don Henley's niece. Marilyn Manson is a fuck.

What was true? What was false? Who even knew anymore?

For a minute there in the 90s, after the release of Antichrist Superstar, Marilyn Manson owned the zeitgeist. His album painted a grotesque image of American society and presented it as a mirror, and America did not like what it saw. Most of America, that is. The teenage record-buying public being the exception.

Manson's records sold millions of copies, as did his next album, Mechanical Animals, which went platinum on the strength of the Monster singles Dope Show and the excellently titled I Don't Like the Drugs, But the Drugs Like Me. Throughout the early 2000s, Manson enjoyed his celebrity, waltzing through the spotlight with beautiful high-profile girlfriends Rose McGowan and Dita Von Teese, who he briefly married before beginning a relationship with 19-year-old Evan Rachel Wood.

From there, we can start to track the downfall of Marilyn Manson, at least as it relates to the abuse that he has been accused of by Wood and others, which he denies. And perhaps less seriously, Marilyn Manson was accused back then of not only corrupting America's youth with the music on Antichrist Superstar, but of also being a fascist and a racist due to the David Bowie-inspired fascistic imagery Manson incorporated into his live shows.

Manson is on record stating that Bowie got away with it because Bowie claimed he was playing a character. Manson said, "That's a cop-out." The Antichrist Superstar concept was not a character. It was his art. Yes, but it was also him. In his autobiography, Manson wrote that, quote, "When people ask, 'Is it an act or isn't it?'" Manson says, quote, "It's both. I mean, my whole life is an act, but that's my art." Unquote.

Allegations of abuse. Allegations that Marilyn Manson vehemently denies. Allegations that did not stick are also part of Marilyn Manson's life. And what are we to make of them? Were they the result of behavior that was just part of the quote-unquote act? Or were they part of something deeper, darker, and far more disgraceful? I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. ♪

All right. Thanks for hanging with me through some of the more gnarly parts of this most gnarly episode. Apple Podcast listeners, please make sure you have auto downloads turned on so you don't miss any episodes. This week's question of the week, guys, is was Marilyn Manson the most subversive artist of the 1990s? If not,

Who was? Let me know. Hit me up. 617-906-6638. Leave me a voicemail. Send me a text. Hear your answer on the after party bonus episode coming up right after this one. You can also send your answers to me at DisgracelandPod on Instagram, X, and Facebook. Leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify and win some free merch. All right. Here comes the credits. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at DisgracelandPod.com.

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