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The last time I saw Gerard Way was in October at a comic-book convention in Las Vegas.
His hair was its natural black but his mood was bright.
Gerard’s hair was a vibrant red — more Kool-Aid Man than arterial blood — and his new stage style was loose and breezy.
The album eked out a platinum plaque, but its reception felt culturally inert, as if My Chemical Romance’s creative maturation had somehow skipped the groove of fight-or-flight survivalism that once grounded their fantastic excess.
He flashed and strutted, naturally assuming the role of dangerous front man whether he had a mic in his hand or not.
They ganked attitude and artifice from Bowie and Queen, stole moves from the ’70s campfest , and dueted with Liza Minnelli. But My Chemical Romance was the first group I covered that actually used that mythology for themselves.
In the video for “Helena,” a Catholic funeral explodes into a goth Busby Berkeley review. Gerard called his band “an idea,” labeled his fans an army.
“I think the world is ready for spectacle, for something big,” he said excitedly.
“They’re ready for heroes, for something to believe in.” Parts of the world were, anyway./ ’cause I’m gonna string this motherfucker on fire.”) Onstage, assuming they were able to stumble up to it, the pair were complementary as well: two stringy suburban weirdos peddling punk uplift bruised and blackened with mascara and talk of murder.