And so we return, in a climate that has sadly progressed beyond grizzled schlock-horror industrial metal, to tentatively uncover the latest offering of one of the scene’s veterans. I cannot say whether I speak for all my peers, but I can definitely bear witness to a shift in the zeitgeist of the metal scene: back when I was a lad, and making my first ventures into the cornucopia of divine sonority and cacophonic grace, I was accosted time and time again by hordes of mascara-d prepubescent vermin, who attempted to distract me from my pilgrimage to the heart of darkness by trying to infiltrate my musical consciousness with the deliberately identifiable and very marketable produce of one Marilyn Manson (real name Brian Warner, spawn of middle class white American suburbia and the voice of the annoyed-and-annoying generation). I could have joined them, but to me it seemed like the cushy job in the customs office, where I would be forever gazing at the map of the Congo, rather than travelling the perilous yet magical river into the deepest bowels of the jungle to find my very own Kurtz. However, with maturity, I came to realize that Manson, despite the utter detestation I held for the majority of his bubble-headed fans, was nevertheless a talented and capable musician. This realization, that brought me many hours of pleasure yelling along to Portrait of an American Family, has brought about in a large way by an appreciation of a similar aesthetic, so masterfully presented by Manson’s colleague, Rob Zombie.

Discovering The Sinister Urge and Hellbilly Deluxe as a kid led to many hours of almost guilty pleasure- it sounded like something all my Manson-quoting “friends” might enjoy, but yet, it was different. It was good. Further venturing into Zombieland, I came across the delightful sleaze of White Zombie, and I realized that Zombie would never be as popular as Manson because, ultimately, the majority of the potential consumers wouldn’t understand Zombie and his intended artistic product. Of course, I also needed to see his films, which played a vital part in my development of taste for the horror aesthetic.

In hindsight, however, Hollywood must have given Zombie a taste for accessibility. Educated Horses was, for me, like for many others, a disappointment compared to the delightfulness of The Sinister Urge. However, in the light of his latest offering, the wonderfully titled Hellbilly Deluxe 2- Noble Jackals, Penny Dreadfuls and the Systematic Dehumanization of Cool, I’m willing to forgive and forget (mostly forget) Educated Horses as the result of Zombie merely testing the waters of musicianship after his 5 year sojourn in Hollywood. Hellbilly Deluxe 2 is, as delineated explicitly in its title, a deliberate attempt at returning to the glitzy shock-rock industrial dance hybrid that so many of us revel in as being the decent alternative to Slipknot. I can’t help but yell along “All hail Jesus Frankenstein!” to the title track, a joy enhanced if consumed along copious amounts of ethanol. The groovy riffs, joined with Zombie’s successfully executed horror aesthetic and satirically evil vocals, lend enough credibility to the schlock chanting of the chorus to make it something actually stirring- you almost forget he’s talking about Shelley’s monster being the true Saviour. The schlock bubblegum theme is quite present throughout the whole album- Zombie’s horror aesthetics are kept firmly and obviously tongue in cheek, much as they were doing The Sinister Urge and Hellbilly Deluxe. The explicit tip of the hat to that particular part of his musical heritage is Sick Bubblegum, which showcases Zombie’s almost Ramones-esque attitude to his industrial groove. Lyrical themes revolve around the perennial B-series fare: Space monsters, Frankenstein, Werewolves, Nazis, etc. The satire even spreads to the forefathers of irony-rockers, Led Zeppelin: I can only assume that the absurd drum solo in The Man Who Laughs is a tribute to Moby Dick, the track everyone skips on Zeppelin II.

The tale of inter-galactic gigolos and domestic abuse that is Mars Needs Women also provides the most obvious example of an otherwise overlooked yet immensely important element to this whole product. John 5 might not be the most ostentatious of guitarists, but he can groove like a motherfucker. Anyone who’s ever listened to his solo work knows him to be the proud owner of country guitar chops the size of Steve Jobs’ ego. His utter versatility, often overshadowed in his earlier work with Marilyn Manson, is a wonderful addition to this album, and Zombie would lose nothing and gain everything by giving John 5 more space. His rockabilly nuances on Mars Needs Women evoke Zombie’s favourite Americana tradition of horrific surrealism; the Spanish-sounding solo on Werwolf Women Of The SS is perfectly tongue in cheek, ambiguously sounding both sexy and intense at the same time, while retaining a credible ridiculousness that defines so much of Zombie’s overall work. This album proves that Zombie and John 5 can do great stuff together- they’re just still trying to find their balance. It’s a great record, and if you’re not afraid to get your hands a little dirty with some industrial, there is no reason why you shouldn’t own this.