It's always refreshing to hear throngs of students unite to shout something other than "We are Penn State." So what if the new rallying cry is, "We hate love. . .we love hate."

When Marilyn Manson comes to town, you have to expect as much. The band -- who played Tuesday night to a vastly overcrowded Crowbar, 420 E. College Ave. --rests its image on the blending of love and hate, with a special emphasis on the latter.

To those who can stomach the theatrics of the band's members, whose names combine famous models and serial killers (Madonna Wayne Gacy is an example), the combination works.

"It's a sonic experience," said Chris O'Brien (graduate-English). "There are musically better bands, but they have a lot of energy and that's what counts."

The energy began when the Lunachicks opened their last date on the tour with a satisfying set. A fitting complement to Marilyn Manson, they played Bikini Kill-inspired rock, the singer bouncing her head like a marionette in red leather.

Then with rifling guitars overshadowed by Mr. Manson's screeches, the headliners incited Tuesday's claustrophobic crowd into a sweaty frenzy beginning with the first notes of "Get Your Gunn."

Unfortunately, not everyone could catch a glimpse of the band. Several fans were relegated to the lower level, without a view of the stage, while those in the band's sight were packed in like sardines. Others left in anger after being forced to look at their neighbor's back. But those who were closer saw quite a spectacle.

Mr. Manson, shirtless and soaked with sweat, contorted his face and body throughout, recalling images alternately of Alice Cooper and Lily Tomlin. Cross-dressing bassist Twiggy Ramirez stood quietly by his side, even as Mr. Manson reached stealthily up his pink dress.

The band tore through the first half of its set with an arresting version of "Cake and Sodomy" and reached its energy peak with "Dogma." Though they spoke little with the crowd, Marilyn Manson's twisted chemistry was obvious through their songs and gestures. As a sign of affection, Mr. Manson pointed his middle finger at Twiggy Ramirez. Then, as the music turned down a notch, the theatrics increased.

Mr. Manson, squealing through voice distortion, writhed on the stage, writing the word "dead" on his stomach with an arrow to his groin. By the time their signature song, "Dope Hat," was over, blood was trickling down his stomach.

The set ended with an eerie version of the Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams (are made of this)," off their new Smells Like Children album, and the crowd was finally able to move, spent yet satisfied.