Love and Romance
A little giddy adoration is lovely
The first time I heard My Chemical Romance, I was in a London record shop at some insane hour of the night. My mate Audrey had dragged me there for the midnight release of some album by some band, yadda yadda. Standing at the listening station waiting for the clock to strike midnight, she’d looked me in the eye and slapped a pair of headphones on my head. I would love to tell you that I’m Not OK (I Promise) blazed out like angelic fire and set me on the righteous path to true love – the love of a starry-eyed girl for her favourite band – but that would be a lie. What actually happened was I a little sick and burst into tears. (I might have been a little drunk. Don’t judge me.) ‘‘What the hell is this nonsense?’’ I slurred, trying to brush the headphones off my head like a cat trying to wriggle out of a Halloween pet costume. ‘‘It’s My Chemical Romance. You love this band,’’ Audrey replied. Not only did I not ‘‘love this band’’, I’d never heard of them. Besides, I didn’t have time for musical epiphanies. Fast forward five years or so and I found Audrey was right. I do love this band. One day I was listening to Welcome To The Black Parade and thinking ‘‘Oh, so this is what she meant.’’ The next day, I was furiously tweeting song lyrics from a ‘‘secret’’ My Chem fan group, inserting myself into debates about song meanings, hair colours and whether Gerard Way would make a good Doctor Who companion (for the record, yes he would), and getting a little heavyhanded with the black eyeliner. I’d become one of the MCaRmy (look, I didn’t come up with the name). At one point, I had 25 pictures of rhythm guitarist Frank Iero’s dog on my phone. I mean, front man Way was a 30-something recovering alcoholic with a comic book fixation and yo-yo weight issues, and I was a 30-something recovering alcoholic with a comic book fixation and yo-yo weight issues. I couldn’t have conjured up a better late-stage pin-up idol if I’d made him in a vat myself. I’d pretty much thought I was done, 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 Mama and Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na) 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 I’m Not OK 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.