Words by Allen Lulu//Illustration by Ally Ritchie
There must have been something in the water in 2004. A little extra “mercury,” perhaps.

I didn’t think much of it when My Chemical Romance and The Used released their one-off cover of Queen’s “Under Pressure” that year. Good for them, seems like everyone covers a Queen song nowadays. Besides, I was distracted by Green Day’s decision to close their shows on the American Idiot Tour with a rousing and ballsy rendition of “We are the Champions.”. Nice touch, passing the torch to themselves.

And then The Black Parade dropped. Now it all makes sense. Who was Freddie Mercury’s favorite performer? Liza Minelli. And who shows up on the new Black Parade? Ms. Minelli, you’re needed on Track 9. And Rob Cavallo, Green Day’s producer, he’s here, too. What’s going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. The echoes grow clear from the very first Floyd-ian strains of “The End” on The Black Parade. This album might actually BE something. But it’s really on “Dead!” that it all crystallizes. Wait, are those multi-tracked backing vocals? Harmonies? Soaring front man vocal gymnastics? And…and….YES! About two minutes into the second track on this sublime release: hyper dynamic, split-audio, stereo guitar scale solos!

Need more? Okay, Gerard Way altered his look this year, from emo-goth to glamilitary: preening, effective, committed. In fact, the whole band has followed his lead. It all makes sense. Queen is the new punk.

It’s no secret that scores of modern-day rock bands have claimed Freddie & Co. as a source of inspiration. Metallica and Guns ‘N’ Roses were both effusive in their adoration when they played the Concert for Life after Mr. Mercury’s death. But what MCR and GD have proven is that the latter day “punks” are actually the heir apparents to Glam Rock. Theatrical Rock. Stadium Rock.

But it takes a whole package to achieve this. It takes a “look”. Check. It takes performance ability, stage know-how and an engaging front man. Check. You also need musical ability. Check. And it takes songs. Not just driving beats and 8th note down strokes. Songs that have melodies. Songs that tell stories. They must have a certain celebratory joy, an overblown sense of self worth while at the same time remaining simple and honest. Check. And it takes an epic. Check and double check.

The single, “Welcome to the Black Parade”, was the harbinger of things to come and it needed to do something special. It had to be explosive. It had to have promise. It had to make you want to go out and buy the whole damned thing. In our ipod-ian world of singles and shuffle play this is no mean feat. (I direct you back to my review of The Killers’ new one. Buy the singles and don’t worry ‘bout the filler) And while “Welcome” is magnificent, it also fits into the canon of songs, the ALBUM, the way “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” fit into American Idiot. By itself, “Welcome” is an almost perfect concoction of Rock Opera and Power Pop/Rock. In the context of the “collection”, it’s just the bridge between the pneumatic drill of “The Sharpest Lives” and the soaring, bittersweet balladry of “I Don’t Love You”. Just another bouncing betty bomb of Epic Classic Rock made Modern.

And, truly, no two songs are alike. They all sound like My Chemical Romance. But, that doesn’t mean the whole album sounds “emo” or “punk rock” or anything easily pigeon-labeled. Way and the boys are listening to everything in their record collection (and their parents’) and putting it through their own taffy machine. “House of Wolves” sounds like The Cramps born again unto Brian Setzer and Motley Crue: fast, desperate, sleazy and dangerous. “Mama”, with its syncopated, eastern European rhythms reminds me of Brian May’s excellent banjo work on Sheer Heart Attack’s “Bring Back that Leroy Brown” (or was it a uke?), not in style, but just the fact that it was so different that it just, well, belonged. It doesn’t hurt that they’ve also tossed in a little schizophrenic rock opera style reminiscent of the judge in Pink Floyd’s “The Trial” from The Wall. And “Teenagers” could have fallen off a New York Dolls playlist (or Sweet or even the Bay City Rollers, for Chrissakes), and been a hit for any of them.

MCR hasn’t forgotten the 90’s, either. There’s a little flannel in here, proving a unique insight into the link between glam and grunge the way Smashing Pumpkins tried, but couldn’t really achieve.

So, if “punk” is really the new classic rock, and Green Day and My Chemical Romance are the keepers of the AOR torch, (and The Killers are evoking the holy name of Bruce every five seconds) my guess is that Billie Joe really wants to be the next Bono. That’s fine. He can show up at every function, play with every icon, be a shining example of self-examination and worldview—every generation needs one. I think Gerard wants to be the next Freddie Mercury. And, thank God, cause I have missed rock for far too long and every generation also needs a showman. A showman who can actually sing.

My Chemical Romance isn’t afraid of the kitchen sink. And that’s a great thing on this record. They have been the repository for the last 30 years of music they have gown up with, were weaned on and loved and they have reached into their souls to create a concoction that is at once ambitious, fractious and sublime. An alchemy of musical styles that is dead on in its chemistry.