You can make a fair assumption that anyone in Liverpool today who’s dressed in black is coming here. For plenty, you don’t even have to guess; the My Chemical Romance t-shirts speak for themselves. And with the closer you get to Anfield’s grounds, it’s naturally even more concentrated. This is where the real efforts have been made—Black Parade uniforms and red ties on black shirts in abundance. Rarely is there this level of confluence between the blanket emo attire and Liverpool’s foremost football stadium.
It’s undoubtedly a special occasion, though. Tonight, My Chemical Romance’s 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. It’s grown a bit since its genesis as a single Wembley Stadium show, but not by huge strides. Plus, it’s not like this is commonplace for Liverpool, in one of Anfield’s only six permitted non-football events per year. Much more noteworthy, though, is the 20th anniversary of The Black Parade, My Chemical Romance’s signature album, one of 2000s emo’s 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, there’s the factor of popularity, which is an absolute dead cert. (Resale tickets wouldn’t be cracking a grand if it weren’t.) But there’s 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, there’s been a stark look adopted for Long Live The Black Parade that’s 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-catching—slate, brutalist constructions crowned with ‘MCR’ 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 tonight’s support Echo & The Bunnymen doesn’t seem through the roof, so maybe there’s that, too. It’s definitely understandable when you consider the other dates of this tour. In the UK alone, there’s Joan Jett, Sunny Day Real Estate and Skunk Anansie, and let’s not even go there with the international shows. By comparison, Echo & The Bunnymen just don’t seem that exciting, especially in the north west where they’re never exactly inactive. At least there’s 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, though…this just isn’t it. As much as Gerard Way’s affinity for post-punk and new wave means this is likely a dream come true for him, it’s 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 doesn’t 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. There’s also a…let’s call it an ‘interpretation’ of Lou Reed’s 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 “How many Scousers are here?”, a true gimme if there ever were one. Overall, then, it’s a bit of a dud.
There’s 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. That’s felt before the show has even properly begun, where we’re introduced to the many secondary players of tonight’s show. They arrive soundtracked by Draag’s national anthem Over Fields—the 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 doesn’t indicate a pretty spectacular heel turn later on. The setting is so well-rounded and fleshed-out, and genuinely impressive in how it’s put together. Even Gerard Way’s 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 arrival—‘yea’ on one side, ‘nay’ on the other—to 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 Days…, 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 it’s naturally the most impressive of all. It’s clearly a big deal and is treated as such, down to the band clad in that era’s garb for ultimate authenticity. What really impresses is the energy that’s both held within these songs, and inspired around them. With the way the band play, you’d never think they’re 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 that’s only from continuing to reconcile over a decade of scrappy punk bands with Literal-Biggest-Band-In-The-Scene energy. Nonetheless, it’s 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 themselves…well, the album’s a unanimously-agreed-upon modern classic, so that sets the temperature of things rather nicely from the get-go. It’s amazing how well it’s 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 that’s 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 Don’t Love You, Cancer and Disenchanted land with immaculate poise, reciprocated in singalongs that very nearly drown out the band themselves.
It’s probably inaccurate to say that an album this seminal has ‘deep cuts’, 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 that’s utterly magnetising. The hits, too, sing anew—special mention to Teenagers, which sometimes feels like an outlier on the album but excels with its grunting, bluesy swagger here—and 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, that’d probably be enough, but an additional, beloved catalogue is also MCR’s to explore. Thus, after a transition that retains Draag’s eeriness and coordinates it into something more—namely a video of a decomposing deer and an extended, haunting cello dirge from Clarice Jensen—the 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. It’s 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 he’s 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. I’m Not Okay (I Promise) is the second song dropped, to expectedly ballistic response. On a similar tack, it’s wonderful to hear a grotty, histrionic emo cut like Thank You For The Venom emanating from the middle of a stadium. Even if these aren’t more capital-M moments, they feel special all the same. It’s the same with a bevy of Danger Days… cuts for its own anniversary this year. It’s not as beloved an album as The Black Parade (duh), but 15 years later, Summertime and Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back have morphed into real heavy-hitters. And, of course, there’s Na Na Na (Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na), a banger from day one that hasn’t 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 there’s 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. That’s literally it, though. A single black mark—more of a minor smudge, if anything—on what’s a legitimately incredible display. Without exaggeration, it’s everything you’d 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 isn’t 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
