It’s been a little while since I wrote anything here! In all honesty, I’ve largely spent my summer lounging around doing absolutely nothing but endlessly scrolling between apps. But, I just had a great three days that I figured I could write about.
My time started on Wednesday the 8th of July, when I and my little backpack got on a Flixbus to Manchester. I had tickets that night to see Pale Sailor, Pinkshift, and Heart Attack Man at the Rebellion, a cute little venue - maybe 150 capacity, but barely a third full that night - with Che Guevara quotes on the wall, located directly underneath Deansgate station. I had managed to rope a long-time friend, Cass, into coming to the show with me, after securing her the bag (a free ticket). Cass and I have been to countless concerts together - most of which cannot be named, unfortunately. Regardless, it’s nice to make non-forbidden memories together again.
Pale Sailor - an emo band from Sheffield - opened the night. I had never heard of them before, let alone heard any of their music, and I was extremely pleasantly surprised. Their Midwest emo inspired riffs hooked me in immediately, and got me to move up the venue to the second row. Their drummer was playing that kit like it owed him money, too. I’ll definitely be seeing them again when I next get the chance to, hopefully with more lyrics under my belt than my grand total of zero that night.
The show itself was a coheadliner between Pinkshift and Heart Attack Man. I knew of Pinkshift and had for years; I knew one song, called I’m Gonna Tell My Therapist On You. An anthem for a seventeen year old me, for sure. I’d describe Pinkshift’s set as captivating; their frontperson’s energy was immense, their screams hitting perfectly, and I couldn’t keep myself out of the pit, despite only knowing one song. You don’t need to know songs to throw down to them, I learnt that night. At one point, a wall of death opened up, and I absolutely ate shit. I took my entire bodyweight onto my right knee, bruising it massively, scraping my skin off completely, drawing plenty of blood. That’s the sign of a great post-hardcore set.
I closed the night out by seeing Heart Attack Man live for the third time; they were the band I got tickets to see. I’ve loved Hammy for a few years now, ever since they came onto my radar via Waterparks. Their set opened with the heaviest song in their discography - Puke, a song about hating your rapist. Honestly, seeing that song live after so many years did more for me than therapy. I’m not sure I’ve ever screamed a lyric louder than I screamed “fucking disgusting conniving human garbage.” The third song in Hammy’s set was a song called Leap Year, which, at nineteen, I crowdsurfed to, in sync to the lyric “at nineteen, I didn’t think I’d make it to twenty three, but I’m happy to be here.” Of course, I’m turning twenty three this year. I had to crowdsurf to it again - there was no question. I didn’t give a fuck if there were only fifty or so people in the room, I was getting up there if it killed me. So, that I did. I only had about four rows of people to surf over before landing on the stage with a sick roly-poly over a monitor. It was a shame I couldn’t stagedive, there just wasn’t enough crowd to hold me if I dived. I was just happy to get that surf in. I then spent the rest of the set switching between the barrier and the pit (oh, the beauty of a tiny show, huh?). I threw in a couple of two-steps to Freak Of Nature, started a circle pit to C4, and danced my heart out to Like A Kennedy. It was honestly the perfect show - it couldn’t really have gone any better. The frontman, Eric, dapped me up after the show when he came down to meet people, we talked about My Chemical Romance, and I left the show that night for my hotel feeling very satisfied with my twenty pound ticket, even if it was maybe the second sweatiest show I’ve ever been to.
The following day, the Thursday, I had an off-day from shows. But, it was an exciting day nonetheless. I have this friend who lives in rural Ireland, a real life culchie, who was flying into Manchester that afternoon to see Bring Me The Horizon that week. We hadn’t seen each other since I think early 2023 when I flew to Dublin to see her. When I learnt we would be in Manchester at the same time, I decided I had to stay a couple of extra hours than I typically would. I went to the airport to meet her off her flight, and we did a super cringe running hug in arrivals. We didn’t get very long together - two hours, since I had to get home. But, we spent our time well, gossiping over a coffee and a pistachio cookie in Blank Street. At four in the afternoon, she walked me to Piccadilly station for my train home. Little did I know how eventful that train would be.
To paint a picture, it was over thirty degrees celsius on Thursday, and I was wearing a jumper with no t-shirt underneath. I had a three and a half hour journey home from Manchester. I made it about an hour from my house when my train stopped in a station, and the driver came onto the PA to announce that a freight train had stopped in front of us and needed a safety inspection. The delay was expected to be at least forty minutes, but the staff handed water out, so I decided I would just wait it out. I didn’t have much of a choice, to be fair, every train in both directions was cancelled or delayed over an hour. After an hour, though, I gave up and paid £11 to an Uber driver who hated seatbelts and got a ride to a bus station ten miles away where I could take a bus home. God, I was so happy to get in my shower after that. I had hair dye sweat streaks running down my face, seriously.
It was an early morning on Friday for me after that extravaganza. A six thirty AM early morning. Just three days earlier, my mum and I had snagged last minute seats to see My Chemical Romance at Wembley. I do not live anywhere near London, thank you for asking. At seven thirty, we got on a train into the town we would take an 8:30AM coach to London from. The coach ride was a very uneventful seven hours (yes, seven hours on a coach, it is as horrible as it sounds). We got a thirty minute break in Leeds where we walked around Kirkgate market and bought hats to protect us from the sun. Upon arriving in London, we grabbed some cheap shitty food, and headed over to Wembley Park on the Jubilee line. Do not go on the Jubilee line when it’s over thirty degrees outside, Jesus H. Christ. Luckily, it wasn’t busy, as everyone else seemed to have the clever idea to take the Metropolitan line instead. We only learnt that was an option when a Metropolitan train passed ours, full to the brim. Sucks to be you guys!
Upon finally making it to Wembley Park at about five in the afternoon, we grabbed bottles of water (which we were actually allowed to take inside because of the heat!) and had a right faff trying to get my Ticketmaster account to load with approximately ninety thousand other people trying to access the WiFi or mobile data in the same place. We had to walk around the entirety of the stadium to finally find a spot where our tickets would load. Wembley Stadium is big as fuck. Anyway, we passed security, and got to our seats. It was a great view! I’m not usually someone who goes for seated tickets (you know those TikToks, “maturing is realising you don’t always need to be in the pit, good thing I’m immature”? Yeah, that’s me!), but I was happy with the view anyway. I could’ve been anywhere in that venue and bouncing in my seat out of excitement. What I was less excited about was the fact I paid eighteen pounds for two pints, but that’s London for you.
The opener for Wembley night two was Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, who - I have to admit - are not my thing at all. Regardless, it was fun to hear such hugely popular songs live in a stadium, and it was great to have entertainment to cut through the sheer anticipation. I do love an opening band. After the opener, MCR’s cryptic rules were displayed on all the big screens - my personal favourites being “those who keep calm must also carry on or suffer a penalty of forty pounds,” or “spice bags are prohibited. Hot dogs remain.” What is My Chemical Romance even about?!
At eight fifteen in the evening, the screens ominously turned black, and a whole cast of characters took to the stage in march formation to prepare for the national anthem of Draag; the MCR-verse fake country. Yes, the whole stadium did rise for the national anthem. Then came the beep of a heart monitor and the muted strums of an acoustic guitar. It was fucking time, baby! The moment I’ve waited basically fifteen years for was upon me - The End was playing live in front of my face. I had to hold back tears when singing along to “when I grow up, I want to be nothing at all.” The transition into Dead! made twelve year old me rise from the depths of my soul and start dancing around. I didn’t care if no one else in my section was really dancing - I paid good money to be here, I’m dancing to the band that started it all for me all those years ago. I used to beg my parents to put this CD on in the car when I was a little kid, and now, they were live in front of my face. What the actual fuck!?
I won’t relay the details of every single song to you, but I’ll give you some highlights. I mean, obviously Welcome To The Black Parade was huge. It’s one of my least favourite MCR songs, honestly, but seeing it live was monumental. The roar of the crowd when that first G note played was like nothing I’d ever heard. The entire song I was just in shock - how was this happening? The election with a “nay” result was incredibly fun; their technicians must have a field day blowing up this many fireworks every night. For the uninitiated, MCR hold an election on the governance of Draag mid-set, and the crowd all get given a Yea/Nay sign on the way into the venue. Wembley voted “nay” that night, so the candidates were marched bag-over-head to the B-stage, where they were subsequently put to death by firing squad (okay, it was a controlled explosion, but still). Another highlight for me was Mama, my favourite song on The Black Parade. Getting to scream “you should’ve raised a baby girl, I should’ve been a better son” was the moment my life was complete, if I’m being honest. Their pyrotechnician had an absolute field day during Mama - flames rose from mic stands, from the top of the stage, and a stunt was performed where a man engulfed in flames ran across the stage during the breakdown. They really were trying to emulate hell setting that much pyro off when it was already thirty plus degrees outside. Fireworks screamed and exploded through the stadium at the end of Famous Last Words, a truly beautiful song to witness live as a timer counted down to the end of the set. Flames engulfed the stage as Gerard fell to the ground, screaming the final lyrics of the set into a camera, full theatre kid mode. But, if you know MCR ball, you know the album doesn’t end at Famous Last Words. Blood, the hidden (and cuntiest!) track was yet to come. Out comes a clown as the dainty piano rhythm fills the stadium. The emo clown dances around very cuntily, mouthing the lyrics to Blood over the track. However, at the end of the song, the clown takes off their clown jacket to reveal a suicide vest. I’m honestly not sure how they got this approved, but it was incredible. I was shook to the core. On the final note of “I’m the kind of human wreckage that you love,” the clown blew a kiss to the crowd before their vest exploded and they fell to the ground. I had just heard The Black Parade in its entirety live, in God’s year of 2026.
After an interlude, and a beautiful cello piece, the band took to the B-stage in the middle of the pit. No but seriously imagine it - the stadium lights go out, a spotlight shines on Ray Toro, and the guitar intro to I’m Not Okay starts blaring. Holy fucking shit, life changed. Everyone was immediately out of their seats, headbanging and dancing away. The band gave us zero time to recover from a Three Cheers song before busting out a deep cut off that album, To The End, one of my favourite MCR songs of all time. Then came My Way Home Is Through You, a mega-deep cut that I don’t even know the lyrics to. Next, we got a Danger Days moment with a beautiful, slow moment to Summertime, followed by the explosiveness of Na Na Na with the full stadium lit up. I couldn’t keep track of how many circle pits had opened, and God, I was so jealous of everyone in them. When the lights went back off after Na Na Na, Gerard gave a speech about how creepy the stadium was in the dark, and asked for phone lights. On came The Ghost Of You, slightly slowed and distorted, almost less heavy than on the record, making it even more beautiful. It was seriously one of the most spectacular things I’d ever been part of; the crowd sounded beautiful. After this, people had started to file out of the venue slowly. Me and my mum decided it was time for us to make a run for it; we wanted to stay, but we couldn’t. Our night wasn’t over.
When I say “make a run for it,” I mean it literally. We ran out of the stadium towards the main entrance and the tube station. At least five thousand people had the exact same idea, but after a quick snack stop in a corner shop, we were met with the infamous Wembley lollipop men outside the tube station, and their signs were on “go.” We got on a tube immediately. Seriously, shout out Wembley’s crowd control, it’s impeccable. They’ve got it down to a fine art. We jumped off our tube at the next stop, Finchley Road, along with a whole lot of other emos. Our Flixbus stop was right outside. Yep, we didn’t have a hotel, just a midnight bus. Really, we realised we could’ve stayed for the entire set and still probably made the bus, but we weren’t risking it for a few extra songs. I found out when I sat down at the bus stop (it is literally just a bus stop on a street) that I had missed Demolition Lovers. I was so grumpy all night about it; Bullets is one of my top five albums of all time. Fuck you, My Chem, and fuck you, Flixbus.
“Fuck you, Flixbus” would soon become my motto of the night. After a pretty pleasant hour-long wait for our bus, where we spoke to a pair who had also just come from Wembley, and a sweet Russian woman who had missed her bus and needed help getting a new ticket, we got on what was supposed to be a seven hour coach to Newcastle. Not where I even live, but close enough, we figured. The bus ride was uneventful for the forty or so minutes it took to get out of London and onto the motorway. However, before we even hit Luton, we were stuck in a dark red traffic jam on Maps, and we were stuck there for over an hour. I fell asleep, woke up, and in that time we still hadn’t passed Luton. At this point, I knew exactly what was going to happen - our bus driver was going to run out of time he was allowed to drive for. That he did. In Northampton, at three in the morning. We were at least all allowed to get off the bus and go into the service station for a walk around. Once the new driver showed up, he took us to our stop in Leicester, where yet another new driver awaited us. Jesus Christ. Anyway, the bus continued uneventfully through Sheffield and Leeds and into Newcastle, even if it was nearly three hours late. It was past nine o’clock in the morning when we arrived in Newcastle, and we were so tired, we immediately jumped on a train home - no stopping for breakfast or anything. I swear, I passed out the second I took my clothes off and got into my bed.
So yeah, I saw My Chemical Romance. What the fuck? And Heart Attack Man, and Pinkshift, and Pale Sailor, of course. But holy shit. It was so worth the horrible journey; I wish I could do it a million times over. I honestly think all the years of bullying, being called a goth, a mosher, a greebo, a faggot, were worth it for that one night of ninety thousand emos screaming the lyrics to those songs we used to cry to together as teenagers. My Chemical Romance started it all for me, and I wouldn’t be who I am today had I not found their music. I’m not sure I’ll experience as crazy a night as that again; I’m so grateful for it. I love you, Michael Romance!
Comments
Post a Comment