“The Pale Emperor” is Marilyn Manson’s latest album release in three years. It dropped mid-January just weeks prior to his show in Milwaukee and I’ve been listening to the infernal thing on repeat.

By the day of the concert, I was afraid I’d listened to it too much, that I’d somehow not be as into the show as I would have been had I taken even a small break.

Seeing as I lost my freaking mind on the floor, there was nothing to fear.

As artists do, Manson released singles from the album in the months prior to its drop. My favorite, “Third Day of a Seven Day Binge” is packed with soul resonating lines of catchy poetic desire. Manson croons over ethereal guitar rifts and even catchier tempo set by the bassist (Twiggy, is that you?).

If one could live inside a song, I would in this one. I would gladly let it envelop me in a hazy world fit for a weary, soul lusty vampire blood drunk and alone at the back of a dive bar in Prague.

I honestly hate playing favorites though. So much of the album is great, and “Birds of Hell Awaiting” needs to be the song that plays when I die.

Those birds will, “with their wings on fire,” appear to me as his voice sails across the river Styx, beckoning. “This ain’t no phoenix, baby/ it’s your death’s desire.” “The Pale Emperor” truly is a portrait of anthemic ghoulishness.