Keep the Faith
A Time For Heroes.
As I stepped out into the freezing November air and stared at the huge dome looming over me, it finally hit me. The day I’d been waiting eagerly for was finally here, another chance to see five people who mean the world to me in the flesh. Curiosity lingered in my heart, ignited by the rumours that one of these men had changed, that the man who meant most to me no longer cared for his supporters and had become tainted by success and fortune. I was intrigued to see if my anger and fear was justified, the burning excitement replacing the chill of the evening as I made my way across the crunching tarmac with my best friend and father in tow. Whatever the outcome, gaining or losing faith, tonight would be a night to remember.
I sighed with impatience as my head nodded in time with the harsh music erupting from the stage. There was no denying this band were talented but everyone in the arena knew that they were not the people who had changed our lives, not the people whose biting lyrics and beautiful melodies had seen us through each day regardless of the problems we face. They weren’t who we came to see. There was no comfort in their music, only insults and comedy. Mindless Self Indulgence are the polar opposites of my heroes. Was this a sign, I asked myself, that My Chemical Romance were losing their values? Could the rumours be true?
I smiled and cheered as the final round of applause signalled the end of MSI’s set, knowing that soon Gerard and his cohorts would be metres away from me. I was euphoric at getting such great seats. Last time, they were just dots on the vast blackness of an open stage, like stars in a night sky, illuminated by flame and strobe light. Too far away. Last time, they were there but I didn’t feel I was really with them. This time, I was going to let them know I exist; I was going to make sure they knew I supported them through thick and thin. They weren’t getting away from me that easily.
After yet another eternity of waiting in a sea of tense and excited disciples and a series of Mexican waves flowing around the upper tiers of the circular room, the house lights dimmed and an ear-splitting scream exploded from every eyeliner-stained face staring wide eyed at the silhouettes now taking their places on the darkened stage. We could see them through the smoke. We could hear the guitars stirring from their peaceful slumber, ready to wreak havoc once more. They were no longer behind the barrier of television screen or magazine page, no longer a disembodied voice or chord creeping though my tangled earphones. They were there, real and breathing, throwing their black clad forms into every note and syllable exhumed from their platform. At least, three of them were.
I had suspected the drummer Bob Bryar would not be there, due to recurring wrist complaints and had just managed to get over the disappointment of his absence but as I stared suspiciously at the rhythm guitarist playing his instrument in an annoyingly civilised way, I realised this was not the heavily tattooed man I’d grown to love over the last year. Frank Iero would never stand static to perform; he would writhe about in a highly dangerous manner. I glared at this impostor, eagerly awaiting my explanation.
Unfortunately, Gerard Way’s words were drowned out by high pitched shrieks and I was unable to hear why the petite guitarist was not gracing us with his presence. I was frustrated to say the least but I would not allow this to ruin my evening and I carried on cheering for the three fifths of MCR who were so close yet still too far. My hungry eyes travelled to Ray Toro. His mousy brown cloud of hair bounced up and down as his furious fingers attacked the nylon strings of his battered instrument. The enigmatic Mikey Way lurked quietly in his eccentric brother’s shadow, caressing his matt black bass guitar affectionately. Then my focus fell on the bassist’s sibling, the man who has helped me survive the tempest called life by teaching me things no amount of education could ever cover.
He taught me never to give up, to never give in. He taught me not to care what others think and to hold your head up high, despite the cruel people trying to pull you under. He taught me to live each day like it is my last and to be proud of being me.
I knew that every lyric was a memory, a prediction, a story of a life filled with turmoil. The words were a warning against a life he led and did not want us to lead. He survived the car wreck that was once his own life and I wasn’t falling into the same trap. He was intent on saving lives. His band were saviours of the broken and they may not have saved my life but they helped me help myself.
It was then I realised Gerard Way was still Gerard Way, not the arrogant, self-important ogre he had been portrayed as by the faithless members of his supposedly supportive fan base. The aggressive passion was still vivid in his vocals, the joy of performance still vibrant in every gesture and bizarre dance move. He was there for us, not for the fame or the money. He was there to entertain the freezing cold citizens of London, to create a memorable evening before taking a well deserved break after over a year of touring. Every song they performed that starless night was as meaningful to me as the first time my ears heard them and as Desert Song, my favourite song, resounded around the arena, tears filled my eyes and every inch of doubt removed itself from my being.
“We love you guys so much!” Gerard exclaimed as he and his exhausted bandmates began to disappear into the gloomy smoke, back to their hidden lair.
Before they could completely evaporate into the blackness, every dry mouth in the crowded arena managed to speak the unavoidable response that must have made these three life changing men catch their breaths.
“We love you too, My Chemical Romance.”
I sighed with impatience as my head nodded in time with the harsh music erupting from the stage. There was no denying this band were talented but everyone in the arena knew that they were not the people who had changed our lives, not the people whose biting lyrics and beautiful melodies had seen us through each day regardless of the problems we face. They weren’t who we came to see. There was no comfort in their music, only insults and comedy. Mindless Self Indulgence are the polar opposites of my heroes. Was this a sign, I asked myself, that My Chemical Romance were losing their values? Could the rumours be true?
I smiled and cheered as the final round of applause signalled the end of MSI’s set, knowing that soon Gerard and his cohorts would be metres away from me. I was euphoric at getting such great seats. Last time, they were just dots on the vast blackness of an open stage, like stars in a night sky, illuminated by flame and strobe light. Too far away. Last time, they were there but I didn’t feel I was really with them. This time, I was going to let them know I exist; I was going to make sure they knew I supported them through thick and thin. They weren’t getting away from me that easily.
After yet another eternity of waiting in a sea of tense and excited disciples and a series of Mexican waves flowing around the upper tiers of the circular room, the house lights dimmed and an ear-splitting scream exploded from every eyeliner-stained face staring wide eyed at the silhouettes now taking their places on the darkened stage. We could see them through the smoke. We could hear the guitars stirring from their peaceful slumber, ready to wreak havoc once more. They were no longer behind the barrier of television screen or magazine page, no longer a disembodied voice or chord creeping though my tangled earphones. They were there, real and breathing, throwing their black clad forms into every note and syllable exhumed from their platform. At least, three of them were.
I had suspected the drummer Bob Bryar would not be there, due to recurring wrist complaints and had just managed to get over the disappointment of his absence but as I stared suspiciously at the rhythm guitarist playing his instrument in an annoyingly civilised way, I realised this was not the heavily tattooed man I’d grown to love over the last year. Frank Iero would never stand static to perform; he would writhe about in a highly dangerous manner. I glared at this impostor, eagerly awaiting my explanation.
Unfortunately, Gerard Way’s words were drowned out by high pitched shrieks and I was unable to hear why the petite guitarist was not gracing us with his presence. I was frustrated to say the least but I would not allow this to ruin my evening and I carried on cheering for the three fifths of MCR who were so close yet still too far. My hungry eyes travelled to Ray Toro. His mousy brown cloud of hair bounced up and down as his furious fingers attacked the nylon strings of his battered instrument. The enigmatic Mikey Way lurked quietly in his eccentric brother’s shadow, caressing his matt black bass guitar affectionately. Then my focus fell on the bassist’s sibling, the man who has helped me survive the tempest called life by teaching me things no amount of education could ever cover.
He taught me never to give up, to never give in. He taught me not to care what others think and to hold your head up high, despite the cruel people trying to pull you under. He taught me to live each day like it is my last and to be proud of being me.
I knew that every lyric was a memory, a prediction, a story of a life filled with turmoil. The words were a warning against a life he led and did not want us to lead. He survived the car wreck that was once his own life and I wasn’t falling into the same trap. He was intent on saving lives. His band were saviours of the broken and they may not have saved my life but they helped me help myself.
It was then I realised Gerard Way was still Gerard Way, not the arrogant, self-important ogre he had been portrayed as by the faithless members of his supposedly supportive fan base. The aggressive passion was still vivid in his vocals, the joy of performance still vibrant in every gesture and bizarre dance move. He was there for us, not for the fame or the money. He was there to entertain the freezing cold citizens of London, to create a memorable evening before taking a well deserved break after over a year of touring. Every song they performed that starless night was as meaningful to me as the first time my ears heard them and as Desert Song, my favourite song, resounded around the arena, tears filled my eyes and every inch of doubt removed itself from my being.
“We love you guys so much!” Gerard exclaimed as he and his exhausted bandmates began to disappear into the gloomy smoke, back to their hidden lair.
Before they could completely evaporate into the blackness, every dry mouth in the crowded arena managed to speak the unavoidable response that must have made these three life changing men catch their breaths.
“We love you too, My Chemical Romance.”