You can make a fair assumption that anyone in Liverpool today whoâs dressed in black is coming here. For plenty, you donât even have to guess; the My Chemical Romance t-shirts speak for themselves. And with the closer you get to Anfieldâs grounds, itâs naturally even more concentrated. This is where the real efforts have been madeâBlack Parade uniforms and red ties on black shirts in abundance. Rarely is there this level of confluence between the blanket emo attire and Liverpoolâs foremost football stadium.
Itâs undoubtedly a special occasion, though. Tonight, My Chemical Romanceâs Long Live The Black Parade Tour kicks off its UK run, an event whose impact stacks in multitudes. For starters, this is far from an extensive tour. Itâs grown a bit since its genesis as a single Wembley Stadium show, but not by huge strides. Plus, itâs not like this is commonplace for Liverpool, in one of Anfieldâs only six permitted non-football events per year. Much more noteworthy, though, is the 20th anniversary of The Black Parade, My Chemical Romanceâs signature album, one of 2000s emoâs most ambitious works, and a fairly defining text within 21st Century rock music, full stop. Add onto that the scarcity of MCR, even since their reunion in 2019, and it almost makes slapping on your emo gladrags to queue 24 hours before doors seem rational.
Said scarcity might actually be the greatest motivator to commit to a show like this. Obviously, thereâs the factor of popularity, which is an absolute dead cert. (Resale tickets wouldnât be cracking a grand if it werenât.) But thereâs also the promise of new lore and storylines to dig into, an area that MCR have typically done better than most. From its first announcement, thereâs been a stark look adopted for Long Live The Black Parade thatâs always proven intriguing. The Soviet-style dictatorship of Draag has been built up and fleshed out just for this run, complete with its own propaganda announcements and staunchly unfriendly atmosphere. Walking into the stadium, the stage setup is particularly eye-catchingâslate, brutalist constructions crowned with âMCRâ written in semi-Cyrillic script, where the bouncing-down rain pre-show almost enhances the effect.
It does contribute to the stadium being quite slow to fill out, though. Then again, interest in tonightâs support Echo & The Bunnymen doesnât seem through the roof, so maybe thereâs that, too. Itâs definitely understandable when you consider the other dates of this tour. In the UK alone, thereâs Joan Jett, Sunny Day Real Estate and Skunk Anansie, and letâs not even go there with the international shows. By comparison, Echo & The Bunnymen just donât seem that exciting, especially in the north west where theyâre never exactly inactive. At least thereâs an inkling of something to rope you in to start. Ian McCulloch is particularly striking in his black duster jacket and wide-brimmed hat, coupled with how cavernous the guitars and bass of opener Rescue are made to sound.
From there, thoughâŠthis just isnât it. As much as Gerard Wayâs affinity for post-punk and new wave means this is likely a dream come true for him, itâs not an infectious excitement. They may be on home turf geographically, but in terms of taste? Well, a couple in front of us begins to watch Wimbledon on one of their phones a handful of songs in, if that tells you anything. Even as a performance, though, this doesnât feel like the best of Echo & The Bunnymen. Visually, they try to keep to a post-punk haughtiness, only to have it stripped away in broad daylight. Thereâs also aâŠletâs call it an âinterpretationâ of Lou Reedâs Walk On The Wild Side where McCulloch perpetually sounds about to fall over. At least The Killing Moon is good, purely down to recognisability. Beyond that, the most life comes from McCulloch asking âHow many Scousers are here?â, a true gimme if there ever were one. Overall, then, itâs a bit of a dud.
Thereâs no downturn in mood from it, though. To even suggest such a thing is to underestimate to stranglehold that My Chemical Romance and the nation of Draag have on literally every body in the stadium. Thatâs felt before the show has even properly begun, where weâre introduced to the many secondary players of tonightâs show. They arrive soundtracked by Draagâs national anthem Over Fieldsâthe dictator, sat on a throne within the sound desk; an older man and younger woman, presumed nobility; military personnel; a bureaucrat whose prevalence throughout still doesnât indicate a pretty spectacular heel turn later on. The setting is so well-rounded and fleshed-out, and genuinely impressive in how itâs put together. Even Gerard Wayâs abysmal Russian accent (promptly dropped, thank God) only chips the verisimilitude, at the very most.
What makes it all feel so exceptional is how many additional levels MCR will go to, be they in spectacle or pure fanservice. The former is much easier to glean, towering to stadium-sized heights as it is. The execution by firing squad is the centrepiece here, where each concertgoer is given a card on arrivalââyeaâ on one side, ânayâ on the otherâto decide the fate of a few poor souls on the B-stage. The explosion that follows is a genuinely good effect, entirely for spectacle that reaches all the way up to the (relatively) cheap seats. For the obsessives, meanwhile, there are tidbits sprinkled around to bridge the lores of The Black Parade and Danger DaysâŠ, as if to show how every thread has been considered.
Of course, the biggest picture of all is the full run-through of The Black Parade, and itâs naturally the most impressive of all. Itâs clearly a big deal and is treated as such, down to the band clad in that eraâs garb for ultimate authenticity. What really impresses is the energy thatâs both held within these songs, and inspired around them. With the way the band play, youâd never think theyâre only active on a sporadic basis, between notable surges from Mikey Way and Ray Toro on Dead!, and drummer Jarrod Alexander annihilating his kit at any given moment. Least striking is probably Frank Iero, though thatâs only from continuing to reconcile over a decade of scrappy punk bands with Literal-Biggest-Band-In-The-Scene energy. Nonetheless, itâs made up in spades by Gerard Way, the flamboyant, vivacious master of ceremonies who leads the 52nd Regiment of the Black Parade with aplomb, even two decades removed.
As for the songs themselvesâŠwell, the albumâs a unanimously-agreed-upon modern classic, so that sets the temperature of things rather nicely from the get-go. Itâs amazing how well itâs held up, too, no doubt aided by audience fervour at the highest level. The opening G note of Welcome To The Black Parade elicits a mania thatâs borderline Pavlovian, never ceasing across its explosive, operatic size, where each player is at the top of their game and its fist-pumping ending ripples all the way up to the gods. The ballads in particular bring out a scale and a wonder in their crowd participation. I Donât Love You, Cancer and Disenchanted land with immaculate poise, reciprocated in singalongs that very nearly drown out the band themselves.
Itâs probably inaccurate to say that an album this seminal has âdeep cutsâ, but the consistent strength of it all feels amazing to watch. House Of Wolves gnashes and frenzies against violent bursts of light; elsewhere, Mama is the peak of Vaudevillian ambition, a stilted, uncanny Way building an extended bridge thatâs utterly magnetising. The hits, too, sing anewâspecial mention to Teenagers, which sometimes feels like an outlier on the album but excels with its grunting, bluesy swagger hereâand at every turn, The Black Parade is rejuvenated to no end. Blood turned into a (quite literally) explosive finale is achieved to an inconceivable degree.
On its own, thatâd probably be enough, but an additional, beloved catalogue is also MCRâs to explore. Thus, after a transition that retains Draagâs eeriness and coordinates it into something moreânamely a video of a decomposing deer and an extended, haunting cello dirge from Clarice Jensenâthe more cramped climes of the B-stage produce something warmer and punchier. It fits for Vampire Money, a fittingly punk opener that lives outside the pageantry and storyline. The band in plainclothes seem a lot looser and more rambunctious, too. Itâs where the awkward, more squirrelly but utterly charming side of Gerard Way is most apparent, free from his rallyist role to be more himself. (The LFC shirt heâs changed into is also a Steven Gerrard strip, fittingly.)
As a result of all that, what transpires here is a less extravagant and premium piece, but still great nonetheless. Iâm Not Okay (I Promise) is the second song dropped, to expectedly ballistic response. On a similar tack, itâs wonderful to hear a grotty, histrionic emo cut like Thank You For The Venom emanating from the middle of a stadium. Even if these arenât more capital-M moments, they feel special all the same. Itâs the same with a bevy of Danger Days⊠cuts for its own anniversary this year. Itâs not as beloved an album as The Black Parade (duh), but 15 years later, Summertime and Save Yourself, Iâll Hold Them Back have morphed into real heavy-hitters. And, of course, thereâs Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na), a banger from day one that hasnât lost a rip its gas-guzzling luster. If anything, accompanied by the stadium lights flashing from the highest points makes it rage all the more.
If thereâs a criticism to be had, it is found during this B-set, with the B-side Heaven Help Us being a bit of an obscure pull that even some of the most zealous of stans seem to tune out a little for. Thatâs literally it, though. A single black markâmore of a minor smudge, if anythingâon whatâs a legitimately incredible display. Without exaggeration, itâs everything youâd want from a modern stadium-rock show, made all the better by the cosmic forces that seem to have brought this into being. Liverpool may never see another show like this one, just as there isnât another band in rock music just like My Chemical Romance. A closing pair of Helena and The Kids From Yesterday just reinforces that, as a spiralling solo closing out the latter winds into the night air and feels genuinely transcendent. Long live the Black Parade, and long live My Chemical Romance.
Words by Luke Nuttall
