Rekindling the Romance

Kylie Klein-Nixon.

My favourite band are back, but what if they suck? I mean, they won’t . . . but what if they do? By

you know? Dried up, spent. ‘‘Emotionally buggered’’ was how a mate described it.

To discover that I still had it in me to really love something again, to get my swoon on and to cover my imaginary pencil case in glitter-pen hearts and ‘‘KKN 4 MCR 4 eva’’ was strangely a huge relief.

Sure, it was a mid-life crisis, but a harmless one.

After all, I was already divorced and, instead of a cherry-red MG and 20-something second wife, I got a pair of black skinny jeans and 98 Nissan Presea to hoon around in to play

and at reasonable levels.

Rock on.

When a friend invited me to join her on the West Coast leg of MCR’s World Contamination tour I jumped at the chance. Four shows, three cities and five days later, I knew I’d never love another band like I loved this theatrical, bombastic troop of beautiful tattooed buffoons.

When they split up a little over a year later, I wasn’t surprised. I’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’d followed them to Australia for two shows and to Auckland for Big

Day Out 2012 (where I’d watched them perform from the side of the stage all but vibrating out of my skin, and tweeted ‘‘this the best day of my young adult life’’ and meant every single word. And I still do.)

But part of me thought it was good they’d be going out pristine. There’s nothing sadder in music than a pop band that just hangs on and on. (Duran Duran, I’m looking at you.)

The news a couple of weeks ago that My Chem is getting back together for a show in LA, swiftly followed by the news that they are coming here to my country again, floored me. Not least because after years of not really listening to the old albums much, I’d randomly sung at karaoke twice in the past month.

When the news broke I all but convinced myself I was having some kind of karaoke-induced hallucination.

But I also thought what if they suck? I mean, they won’t, but what if they do? Everything sucks eventually . . . doesn’t it?

I bought a ticket in the pre-presale anyway. And I’ve never stopped wearing skinny jeans. But all that black eyeliner is a bit much, so I reckon I’ll give that a pass this time round.

And I’m delighted to discover I am still capable of a little giddy adoration.

That doesn’t suck. It doesn’t suck at all.

In fact, it feels lovely.