Earlier this year, I took my 16-year-old niece to see My Chemical Romance.
It was her first ever gig. And, although I didn’t know it when we arrived, it would be the night I finally understood a band I’d spent years not really getting.
I’d told her I couldn’t get tickets. As far as she knew, we weren’t going. I wanted to surprise her, to give her that moment she’d remember. What I hadn’t expected was how much the night would stay with me, too.
Looking past the eyeliner
When My Chemical Romance became huge in the 2000s, I didn’t fully understand the appeal. I noticed the black clothes, the eyeliner and the whole emo scene before I properly considered the music or the people it meant so much to.
I judged the book by its cover. There’s no clever way to dress that up.
Walking towards the venue, surrounded by thousands of fans expressing themselves in ways that once would have seemed completely alien to me, I briefly caught myself making the same old assumptions.
But then I looked again. These weren’t people dressing up to make a point to anyone else. They looked comfortable being themselves. For some, perhaps more comfortable than they felt anywhere else.
It wasn’t just fashion. It was identity.
Two generations, the same songs
Then I looked at my niece.
Here was a 16-year-old experiencing the same band that had helped another generation find its feet more than twenty years earlier. Different decade. Different lives. The same songs still reaching people.
And suddenly I got it.
Oasis did this for people. Nirvana did it. The Beatles did it. And My Chemical Romance did it for a generation whose version of rebellion, uncertainty and belonging looked different from mine.
Great bands don’t just write songs. They create somewhere people can feel they belong.
Looking around that crowd, I could see people who might have spent years feeling out of place finding themselves surrounded by others who understood them without a word being spoken.
What I took home
Towards the end of the show, I watched my niece gradually stop holding back and become part of the crowd. I don’t think she realised I was watching. I hope she remembers that feeling for years.
Her first gig wasn’t simply a night out watching a band. It was a glimpse of what music can do: connect strangers, give people confidence and make somebody feel seen.
As someone who writes and records music, that hit me harder than I expected. We can get caught up in guitar sounds, mixes, arrangements and whether a song is technically any good. Those things matter. But somewhere on the other end of it all is a person bringing their own life to what they’re hearing.
A song might mean something to them that its writer never imagined.
I went to see My Chemical Romance because my niece loved them. I left understanding why.
And the best part? I got to see her discover something I’ve loved about live music for most of my life.
Music isn’t just sound. It’s identity, connection and belonging.
For another side of the band’s story, read our piece on My Chemical Romance’s long-lost Black Parade song.
