I do not like Marilyn Manson.

Me being me, though, I occasionally indulge in challenging my paradigms and exposing myself to things I generally consider shocking or repulsive, watching Quentin Tarantino movies and exploring the art of photographer Andres Serrano being some of the examples.

And there I was, on US Independence Day, wrung out from the snug comfort of my routine, on my way to Akademik Stadium in Sofia to see the “Antichrist Superstar” of shock rock, the man who combined the names of a sex symbol and a serial killer to manifest the alarming duality of American culture.

I am tempted to plunge straight into the recollections of his show and ignore his supporting acts, but I will do them justice in chronological order not only to be true to fact but also to flirt with suspense, just as Manson and any superstar do in their live shows.

At about 6.15pm, after downing a two leva beer (double the usual price) and bypassing the stalls lining the way to the stadium selling various snacks such as soletti for one lev (three times the usual price), I headed to the entrance. It should have been opened at 5pm, according to the organisers’ statements, but the crowd there was not moving forward visibly.

Gothic fashion prevailed, as expected, with heavy black makeup, dark clothing and spiked belts, wristbands and chokers a common sight. What fans had not foreseen, though, was that their styling would be considered a possible security threat, so off went the hostile accessories, on to a pile on a table next to the entrance.

The show started a little after 7pm with a short set by local industrial act Alien Industry, whose bass player is none other than Dimitur “Funky” Kovachev, one of the founders of Sofia Music Enterprises, the organisers of the event. I read nothing but praise for them in internet forums after the show, but I failed to be impressed.

After a brief pause, gothic metal band Type O Negative from Brooklyn took over the stage, marching under the sounds of the parody of Kazakhstan’s anthem from the recent film Borat. They carried on with We Hate Everyone, yet another mockingly cynical number where vocalist Peter Steele insisted that “we don’t care what you think”.

Drummer Johnny Kelly managed to excite the audience by pointing a video camera towards the crowd (by the way he was swinging it though I don’t think he was really shooting). Steele had a brief digression with Deep Purple’s legendary Smoke on the Water riff. And those were the memorable moments.

Steele’s mournful drawling has never really been my cup of tea and the sound was somewhat on the bad side. Eventually, to my delight, the band closed their 40-minute gig with Black No. 1 (Little Miss Scare-All), which was my personal favourite as it reminded me of my mid-teens when I was getting UK metal magazine Kerrang! from a friend of my father’s living abroad and discovered this track on one of their compilation tapes.

A black curtain fell, with two large red Ms resembling blood streaks, and the audience ooh-ed and aah-ed. The air was dense with anticipation for the next half an hour. The speakers were blasting well-known hits by Dio, Rage Against the Machine, Pantera, Blur and Prodigy which got the fans jumping, singing, moshing and headbanging.

From my high position in the grandstand I engaged in more sophisticated journalistic activities such as observing: the non-dwindling line for beer several metres down the stands from me (never less than 30 people); the growing crowd in front of the stage (the audience eventually reached nearly 10 000); the first victim of excitement, a young woman, carried to the nearby ambulances; the illicit spectators on the roof of one of the neighbouring buildings; and the aircraft taking off from Sofia Airport (I wonder what the concert looked like from several hundred metres above ground).

Ok, I admit, I did let my hair down to enjoy the music playing. And while I occupied some of my time with generously re-applying black eyeliner, a friend sneered behind me, “You’re too far, he’s not gonna see you.” Well, him seeing me was not really the point anyway.

Eventually, 10 minutes past 9pm, to the sound of thousands of voices shouting “Manson, Manson,” two red lights shone behind the curtain, billows of smoke shrouded the venue, a piano and cello duet, as if played from an old record, trailed sorrowfully, and the screen fell. Realising that this is a cliche, I will still say it: the crowd erupted.

Manson arrived in Bulgaria just a day before his new record, Eat Me Drink Me, was released to the public worldwide. The photos of him after landing at Sofia Airport struck as images of a normal man. In a recent interview with Bulgaria’s avtora.com, though, he had said that appearing on stage without makeup would be like coming out in front of the audience with his slippers on. That’s a professional showman.

Yet how normal is a man whose lyrics drown with a profusion of blood, death, drugs and violence, and yet he has stated to Rolling Stone Magazine that “[the songs on Eat Me Drink Me] are clearly written to seduce somebody” and has described his new album as “romantic.”

“It also represents exactly who I am and what I feel... This is very earnest and uncalculated and raw, in the sense that I know I’m f***ed up, and I’m really not ashamed of it,” he has also said.

I am rarely entranced by a performer, but Manson had me by the throat from the very start. I couldn’t take my eyes off him in something that I can only describe as a sickly fascination.

He opened with If I Was Your Vampire fresh from his new album, and his microphone looked like a blade that he was pointing at his chest while singing, “Blood-stained sheets in the shape of your heart, this is where it starts.”

The fans got a mix of old classics and new material, of which I will point out mOBSCENE, Rock Is Dead, The Dope Show, the covers of Eurythmics’ Sweet Dreams and Soft Cell’s Tainted Love, and the new hits Heart-Shaped Glasses and Just a Car Crash Away.

In one of the most energetic performances I had seen recently, Manson knelt, squatted, rolled on his back all over the stage and flailed his legs in the air, bending forward to display his backside and grabbing his crotch. Manson’s guitarist, Tim Skold, played his instrument with a bow during one song.

At one point Manson dropped his pants, at another he humped the amp, and several numbers ended with him flinging the microphone to the floor. Scandalous he was, but he did it professionally and in style.

While the singer was closing Tainted Love with groans, a half-naked youth who had somehow bypassed the vigilance of the security jumped on stage, grabbed Manson from behind in a bear hug and then jumped back into the crowd.

Despite this incident, the concert continued normally and closed at nearly 10.30pm with an encore performance of The Beautiful People, during which Manson came down among the audience accompanied by his personal bodyguard. A shower of white paper strips rained on people’s heads. Then a reprise of the mournful piano-cello duo reminded the elated fans that the show was over and it was time to go.

The day after the concert, comments in internet forums ranged from praise to Manson as an artist and a memorable showman to disgruntled opinions criticising the organisers. But after all, a show’s main purpose is to entertain people and I tacitly agreed with my boyfriend’s brief comment expressed on our way out of the venue: “It was fun”.