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‘I’m not dead, I’m not done,’ Shirley Manson declares on Chinese Fire Horse, a vitriolic kick-back against journalists who of late have been asking her if she’s planning to retire. Not a chance. With the electro-goth revival reaching full throttle (The Cure, Heartworms, Eurovision hexmaker Bambi Thug) and synthetic space-rock very much coming of age, even following the cancellation of the tour to support 2021’s No Gods No Masters - due to an old on-stage hip injury that left Manson requiring surgery and lengthy recuperation - these originators are as relevant as ever, and going both nowhere and back to the future-rock frontline.
Manson’s rehabilitation period has, in this eighth album in 30 years, created one of Garbage's most reflective releases (here she works towards acceptance of the fragility of her body while also reasserting its many strengths) but also one of their most defiant. Besides using the bubblegum space-rock of Chinese Fire Horse to put the boot into some poor underpaid hacks, across these 45 minutes Manson takes aim at cheating exes, oppressive and warmongering regimes, cruel ideologies and bigots of all shapes and sizes.
Opener There’s No Future In Optimism may have a wink in the title but the song stares glazed-eyed at a burning world; two lovers escape an apocalyptic LA of race riots, earthquakes, circling helicopters and swarming cops. R U Happy Now harpoons the gun-loving, misogynistic MAGA mindset.
Often, the record’s politics broaden into the righteous and inclusive: Get Out My Face AKA Bad Kitty has Manson embodying the voice of online female fightback, while Sisyphus, a gorgeous melding of classical strings and AI-baiting electronics, throws its arms protectively around the vulnerable, be they black, trans or Palestinian.
Diaristic vignettes add to the impact. Hold is a cry for connection from Manson’s surgery-imposed lockdown. Have We Met (The Void) throws back to the night four decades ago when her boyfriend’s mistress turned up at her door and she was flung into her life’s first abyss of uncertainty. The Day I Met God concerns a recent religious experience on military-strength painkillers.
Having three exploratory producers behind her serves Manson arguably better than ever. Butch Vig, Steve Marker and Duke Erikson layer meditative moments in cinematic synth-noir textures, hammer her bursts of self-assurance with innovative tech-rock and drench her personal revelations in a kind of intergalactic opulence. Rarely has a record sounded so far from the allotment.
