Holy crap, was that concert good. SO GOOD.
I dare even say it was better than Jason Mraz. And I only say that because they're so different. Not even comparable. I mean, in one instance we have Jason singing about love (to me, of course, while undressing me with his eyes), and on the other we have a whole lot of angst and yelling and sweat.
Not to mention entirely too many prepubescent 13-year-olds in braces whose parents dropped them off, but who were quite impressive in the mosh pit. And they, like, totally get it, you know? The lyrics just, like, reach them. Life is so hard I'll wear black and mask my eyes in eyeliner and my face in constant look of melancholy just to prove a point.
Take that, authority.
So, anyhow, the concert. Pardon me while I ramble incoherently about it. Three opening acts preceded My Chemical Romance, and thankfully we missed the first. But Drive By was good. And Billy Talent (a band from Canada? Anyone?) screamed a lot. A lot. I considered being terrified, but then I realized where I was: at a My Chemical Romance concert.
I realize I can listen to them, loudly, in the safety of my car, where I can sing along like a little girl, and when I tire of them, replace the CD with something happy like Sara Bareilles, all while wearing pink, but at a concert, not so much, no. Not that I tire of My Chemical Romance, I'm just saying. I suppose I can't expect a live show to be full of 26-year-old women like me with musical bipolar disorder. I can't help it I have an affinity for both pretty boy, sensitive men with acoustic guitars and angst-ridden, screaming men in black and eyeliner who scream.
It might be a bit of an exaggeration to say I almost died when My Chemical Romance (and by My Chemical Romance, I mean Gerard Way) came on stage, but not really. Because I almost died. I have been infatuated with this band (Gerard, cough) for multiple years. I have only fantasized wildly dreamed of seeing them (him! him!) live. Because they are loud and Gerard yells and the lyrics are angry and I-love-them-so-much, sigh.
And their live show was e-ver-y-thing I could have wanted and more. I knew all the songs, and could yell along. I drank beer and had sweat pouring down my back. And when the emo kids swayed, arm in arm, during the deep songs, of course, I could laugh at them. And the outskirts of a mosh pit, turns out, is one of the only places you can acceptably shove someone across the floor with all of your might, and no one beats you up for it. Because, turns out, they do that for fun.
Dammit, it was fun.
I've heard from many a people that My Chemical Romance puts on a good live show, but wow. They weren't lying at all. I don't really want to get all corny and talk about the energy in the room, but I'm going to do it anyway. So much energy! And loud! And yelling! And emos! And sweat! And Gerard was hot!
The show was at the Congress Theater in Chicago, which was just as fantastic as Metro. I was impressed. Again, not really a bad place to stand. We weren't quite as close as we were for Jason Mraz, but we were close enough to satisfy my Gerard-gazing needs.
Apparently, this place does not allow cameras, which was unfortunate, because no pictures for you. But that is not for lack of trying. I attempted to hide my camera in my bra, in my immense cleavage (not immense). I mean, it worked, you couldn't see the camera, so I thought I was golden.
"They're never going to touch your boobs, don't worry," BethJ assured me as we waited in line to be patted down.
Of course not! I mean, it's my boobs!
Turns out, the first thing Mrs. Frisker did was run a hand down my cleavage, and BAM! There's the camera! Whoops! Luckily, all I had to do was pay $5 to check the darn thing at the coat check, but the broad also took the pen out of my purse and threw it away.
"No pens," she said. Meanwhile, Chicago Dave got in with his Swiss Army Knife. Really, people? Really? So, we can stab people, but we can't utilize a writing utensil?
Dammit! And I just stole that pen from the bank!
So, no camera. Or pen? Boo.
I was completely satisfied by the concert. Any song I was dying to hear, they performed. "Helena," "I'm Not OK (I Promise)," "Give 'Em Hell Kid," "Famous Last Words," "This Is How I Disappear," "To The End." And more, and more, and more.
I don't know how long they even performed, although it felt like 8 minutes, but every minute was totally worth getting my camera confiscated by a cleavage-groper.
I do need to say I'm glad the band dropped The Black Parade routine, and that Gerard ditched the platinum blonde pixie cut, because A) just because. And B) I love me some black-haired, sweaty Gerard.
I suppose if you'd like to read a more well-crafted, fruitful review of the concert, find an actual, fruitful review. Or just trust that it was AWESOME. Because this is as good as it'll get over here