TS: Give 'Em Hell, Kid
TS info post is located here.
ETA: [12-31-13] Section titles for this and part two are pulled from Welcome to The Black Parade.
~~~~
When I was a Young Boy
Frank likes to say that he doesn't believe in ghosts. He's as into horror movies as Gee, is always up for a Romero marathon no matter the hour or time of year. Hell, his birthday is a howl in the face of death. But the truth of the matter? The whisper that never goes farther than his own pillow? Frank has been haunted all his life.
~~~
When he's young, it does't matter. The voices that speak at night - when the branches of the oak in the front yard scrape against the window glass or that whisper up from the shadows pooling behind his bedroom door - well, they sing. It's a multi-tongue melody; the low hiss of wind, carrying the scent of mysteries, burble of water, rustle of grass and leaves and green. The voices grow louder when moonlight washes across his bedroom carpet, louder and oh-so sweet. For most of his ninth year, Frank sleeps in the middle of the floor, comforted by the cool silver of moonlight on his skin, three nights a month. It seeps into his dreams, brings him night-won memories of running, the brush of fur, warmth and companionship of others like him. Even then, he knows that other kids don't hear the voices, don't feel moonlight press up against their skin as the purest embodiment of love. No one has to tell him this - he feels it, can read the truth in head tilts and the way his classmates sit so readily with their backs to doors. Loneliness winds its own song alongside moonsilver and green, and Frank keeps that chorus close to his heart. He might be small, but he is steadfast, and can keep quiet when he needs to protect.
~~~
Despite his secrets, Frank is good with people. He needs people, requires attention like he needs to breathe and spend time outside. He touches and leaps and tickles. He must. See, Frank has the unshakable feeling that - maybe- the daylight, moon-deaf people aren't real. So he falls against them, breathes in the scent of strange sweat and laundry soap, of soap and shampoo different from the kind his Mama buys. Frank loves the differences - it means the world is bigger, broader that what he's seen. Every skinned knee and bloody nose is worth it. Frank knocks up against the world and the world knocks back.
~~~
When he turns twelve, the song changs. Always aware of how groups form, he's suddenly aware of how power works, how alliances form and shift and break among his peers. It becomes harder for him to commit to one group- there's a complete lack of loyalty that he can't stand. His dreams twist with the changing dynamics - become all bared teeth, low growls, claws wet and dark with blood. The ever-present energy thrumming under his skin jitters even brighter. He starts lashing out, getting into fights. Frank seems like an easy target, being small and prone to illness. More often that not, though, he wins those fights.
~~~
In ninth grade, Frank gets in a fight with the biggest bully in his school. That asshole - who is two years older, a solid foot taller and at least 30 pounds heavier than Frank - is pushing his current girlfriend around. Frank listens as the voices yowling in him sing harmony with his own outrage and leaps on the older teen. It takes four teachers to pull him off his opponent. Frank revels in the triumphant howls within, the feel of blood running down his face... then his eyes meet the other boy's, and all he can see is fear. Naked fear. Frank's internal chorus snarls and rejoice in that expression. Frank thinks about monster movies, the classics with Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff. That look on his opponent's face? That's how they looked at The Phantom of the Opera, The Wolf Man, Frankenstein's monster. Monster. That's the moment Frank knows, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the voices cannot be trusted. He bows his head and accepts his punishment then.
That's the last fight Frank starts in high school. That doesn't mean the bullies leave him alone - far from it, especially once they realize he isn't going to fight back. But Frank doesn't care - he's too focused, initially, on reining in the voices (who simply cry louder, singing of blood and vengeance) to worry about his peers. Though... the situation is starting to become intolerable - you can be shoved into a locker a finite number of times before that shit demands retaliation- when Frank finds punk rock.
~~~
Once he gets his hands on a guitar, none of the other shit matters. It's like a sudden oasis in the desert - music completely overwhelms the urgent yowls baying in him. He hears just himself, riding the music. On stage, his differences don't matter; he gives the voices what they want, drinking in the screams and attention of the audience. He walks through the formation of band after band, looking for the right combination. So many people don't give a shit about the music or the group - and Frank wants, no he fucking craves both. So he keeps playing, turning on the charm and widening his circle.
Pencey Prep is like finally hitting the jackpot at Atlantic City. They click as a group and they are actually good. So good that Frank thinks about dropping out of school. Not wanting to break his mama's heart (pretty much EVER), he stays, juggling school with practice and shows, eventually going to college while spending his nights in dive bars. Pencey gains a following, recorda a CD... and Frank is riding the wave, loving his life. The only point of discord is that the voices have become strident again. The mosh pit is all that helps, when he isn't on stage. The nights when he isn't playing are still spent in dives, trying to wear himself out.
That's where he finds them.
~~~
To See a Marching Band
He has a beer in his hand and is prepared to be totally unimpressed by the opening band. Especially once they walk out on stage. Not a single member of this band look comfortable up there. The lights dim, he takes a drink of his beer and an unholy howl sounds out, supported by a strident bass beat and fucking insane guitar lick. Frank gapes as that previously awkward singer OWNS the tiny stage. All of Frank's voices are shocked into silence. In the break between songs, the voices hum, content for the first time in years.
///mineminemine// They murmur. And Frank agrees, draining his glass. After the third song, he's in the pit, giving his energy over to the band.
When they leave the stage, he follows. The bassist turns to look at him.
"Hey."
"Hey, you guys fucking RULE."
A faint smile twitches across the bassist's mouth. Frank likes him instantly, even before he realizes he kinda knows the dude. "Mikey, right?"
"Yeah. Frank? From Pencey Prep?"
"Yeah, yeah." He wipes the sweaty hair out of his face, rubs the damp onto his jeans. "I didn't know you'd formed a band..."
Mikey ducks his head. "It's Gee's band. Gerard. My brother?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, introduce me, motherfucker!" He crows, while flinging himself on the slender man. The voices hum. //minemine// Frank still agrees, cupping a narrow hip under his palm. Mikey smiles at him, swaying close. The heat of his body makes it hard to breathe. Frank hooks his fingers on the waistband of Mikey's jeans. Sweaty skin under his fingers is warm and familiar and oh so real...
Ridiculous honking laughter spills around a half-open door before them. Frank looks up into hazel eyes. "Introduce me, Mikeyway?"
Mikey nods, the smile never wavering. "Come on."
They go into the hallway serving as a dressing room. The light is shitty, casting everything in stark, blue-toned relief. Two people look up when they walk in. The guitarist - Ray - looks between them, glances down at Frank's hand tucked into Mikey's waistband and smiles carefully. Frank is having none of that.
"Dude! You are a motherfuckin' shredding GOD!"
That careful smile widens as they shake hands. Frank doesn't know what his says then - a tangled yammer about influences and guitars spills out of his mouth as he bounces in place - but whatever his giddy excitement offers up is enough to get Ray to relax. Still grinning, Frank turns to look at the singer.
"Frank, this is my brother Gerard Way. Gee, this is Frank Iero."
Later, months later, Frank will puzzle over the formality of that introduction. In the moment, he locks eyes with a sweaty, slightly overweight dude, lanky hair falling into hazel eyes and he feels like Cupid - that winged motherfucker - has punched him in the face.
//Oh. Mine. His. Always.//
The words strike his heart and wedge in tight. Frank blinks and leaps forward; with a cry of 'Motherfucker!' he pounces on Gerard, the pair of them going down in a pile of flailing limbs.
~~~
He never likes Otter. Frank is pretty sure the feeling is mutual.
~~~
The Beaten and The Damned
Frank's world is unraveling faster than he can hold it together. Once they hit Japan, Gee is so far beyond his reach, all Frank can feel is despair. The connections between them all are fading around him, giving lie to all the promises Frank's held in his heart. He walks out onto the stage, catches glimpses of their fans - the gleeful faces only increase his fear. He plays, flinging desperation into the dark. When Gerard staggers off stage to puke, all Frank can see is the end.
~~~
He's huddled up, curled tight against stiff cotton hotel sheets, trying to tame the howling in him. He's shivering so hard his teeth chatter; he feels the howls press up against his determination. Frank is lost, confused, scared shitless. The cry for blood is so loud, Frank almost can't hear the phone.
~~~
[Bob Bryar is made of drumsticks, mad ninja skillz and awesomeness: An Essay by Frank Iero]
~~~
A Phantom to Lead You
The Paramour is a fucking disaster. It doesn't help that the itch under Frank's skin had once again grown constant. He'd thought things had finally settled after Panic's funeral. But then Gee decided it was wise to stand on the edge of the ghost lands. Everything about the Paramour is a bad idea. Yeah, Frank can hear snatches of song here, sick carnival tunes that sag towards death. It's like looking down a hole to hell's fairgrounds, vision and sound filtering through a coffin lid. He hates it and wants his band happy and whole more than he wants the potential songs. Too many dreams of coffins and fire make him twitchy.
Their stay moves quickly beyond bravado and gothic inspiration. Frank doesn't know what the fuck Gee's thinking, taunting death like this, now. Too many of their friends and acquaintances have died, sacrificing themselves on the altar of the Scene for this adventure to prove fruitful.
Every morning he lies in bed and wishes for the strength to leave, like Mikey did. Every morning he prays and wishes and feels the lack of Mikey like a black hole in his chest, sucking away his optimism and hope. Then Bob or Ray pounds on his door, and Frank peels himself free of sheets, stumbles his way down to the kitchen. A half-eaten breakfast/lunch later, and he's back in the studio, for another day's worth of discord and fighting. Frank can feel the friction finding voice on his tongue, but has no idea what spills out on his mouth. Frank is too fixated on their lack to find their unification. At this rate, the in-band tension will slaughter them before the Scene bogeymen pull them low.
Sometimes he dreams about Gee and the feel of his throat between Frank's teeth. He wakes from those dreams sick to his stomach, shivering despite layers of blankets.
~~~
Then one morning Frank wakes with the dawn, the word 'Bohemia' settling on his tongue. It tastes like hope. He bounds out of bed, a riff planted in his fingertips.
Two days later, Mikey appears. He's pale, awkward - but as soon as he sets foot in the studio, it's like throwing a switch. Gee starts to write frantically. When he isn't writing, he's drawing, stark figures of loss and devastation, a weird combination of war and vaudeville. The album suddenly spools out around them. Mikey weaves between them, chords falling like dirges from his hands. It proves to be exactly what Gerard needs - wide-eyed, he weaves an epic tale of the dying and their journeys after, of Joan d'Arc and wolves, of ghosts and hope. Frank looks at Ray (eyes already intent, focused on weaving the tale), at Bob (his fingers twitching, gaze shifting across the stack of mismatched drums abandoned in the studio) and he smiles. In the end, ghosts and voices mean nothing in the face of his band's muses. Frank listens - to the muttered lyrics finding form through Gee's pen and the frenetic power of Ray's strings. He listens and finds his way.
That's how the album spins out - around Mikey, an ode to his strength.
~~~
Every morning, once they lay the first track, Frank goes out on the balcony of the apartment he's sharing with Gee and snarls towards the West and the Paramour.
//You can't have us. We belong to the music. We belong to the fans.//
Every morning he sneers out across the hills, and turns back to the kitchen. The process of making coffee and toast grounds him, wakes the music. In the Paramour he'd been blocked; now the riffs buzz in his hands. Frank is having a hard time catching his breath - the music overwhelms everything. He barely hears Jamia walking away, he's so caught up in this story.
It's all instrumental, a vast, skirting chaos - until Frank gets caught in traffic on the way to the studio and is stuck listening to a glam metal hour.
//Do I need saving?//He thinks, shifting against the cab seat. //Music did save me, back in the day...// And Frank winces at the parade of images from high school. //We can do better. We are doing better.//
As recording continues, they virtually live in the studio. Time stretches, loses meaning. Sometimes, late at night, Frank will glance around and swear he sees Patrick Stump walking out of the sound booth. He never mentions his fancies - but they always make him straighten up and pay closer attention to his fingering.
~~~
Frank is feeling pretty great, despite being homesick and still stuck in Southern California. He can almost taste Jersey - the wait for the final master of the album is all that's holding them back. That, and the lack of a proper title. They'd been calling it The Rise and Fall of My Chemical Romance but decided that was too... ironic. Even for them. This album is no swansong - despite their own obstacles and the increasing risk of touring, they aren't done.
~~~
Conceptually and musically, the album is brilliant. Mikey is there for the first listen - and even he agrees. This is a triumph, a shout against death. Despite that, Frank still feels that listening to the album is like conversing with their ghosts. They cling to each other, to Brian who can't stop grinning, and start planning tours, giddy with optimism and the music.
~~~
We'll Carry On
Mikey vanishes again, saying he's available if they need him. If?! Motherfucker! Frank refuses to get used to touring without Mikey. It might be unfair to Cortez, but his band isn't whole. Mikey's not around and Frank is losing his fuckin' mind. He keeps seeing the weirdest shit out of the corner of his eye. He's also feeling malice pressing close. Frank would ignore it, but that malice laps ever closer to his band. And that shit will not do.
~~~
ETA: [12-31-13] Section titles for this and part two are pulled from Welcome to The Black Parade.
~~~~
When I was a Young Boy
Frank likes to say that he doesn't believe in ghosts. He's as into horror movies as Gee, is always up for a Romero marathon no matter the hour or time of year. Hell, his birthday is a howl in the face of death. But the truth of the matter? The whisper that never goes farther than his own pillow? Frank has been haunted all his life.
~~~
When he's young, it does't matter. The voices that speak at night - when the branches of the oak in the front yard scrape against the window glass or that whisper up from the shadows pooling behind his bedroom door - well, they sing. It's a multi-tongue melody; the low hiss of wind, carrying the scent of mysteries, burble of water, rustle of grass and leaves and green. The voices grow louder when moonlight washes across his bedroom carpet, louder and oh-so sweet. For most of his ninth year, Frank sleeps in the middle of the floor, comforted by the cool silver of moonlight on his skin, three nights a month. It seeps into his dreams, brings him night-won memories of running, the brush of fur, warmth and companionship of others like him. Even then, he knows that other kids don't hear the voices, don't feel moonlight press up against their skin as the purest embodiment of love. No one has to tell him this - he feels it, can read the truth in head tilts and the way his classmates sit so readily with their backs to doors. Loneliness winds its own song alongside moonsilver and green, and Frank keeps that chorus close to his heart. He might be small, but he is steadfast, and can keep quiet when he needs to protect.
~~~
Despite his secrets, Frank is good with people. He needs people, requires attention like he needs to breathe and spend time outside. He touches and leaps and tickles. He must. See, Frank has the unshakable feeling that - maybe- the daylight, moon-deaf people aren't real. So he falls against them, breathes in the scent of strange sweat and laundry soap, of soap and shampoo different from the kind his Mama buys. Frank loves the differences - it means the world is bigger, broader that what he's seen. Every skinned knee and bloody nose is worth it. Frank knocks up against the world and the world knocks back.
~~~
When he turns twelve, the song changs. Always aware of how groups form, he's suddenly aware of how power works, how alliances form and shift and break among his peers. It becomes harder for him to commit to one group- there's a complete lack of loyalty that he can't stand. His dreams twist with the changing dynamics - become all bared teeth, low growls, claws wet and dark with blood. The ever-present energy thrumming under his skin jitters even brighter. He starts lashing out, getting into fights. Frank seems like an easy target, being small and prone to illness. More often that not, though, he wins those fights.
~~~
In ninth grade, Frank gets in a fight with the biggest bully in his school. That asshole - who is two years older, a solid foot taller and at least 30 pounds heavier than Frank - is pushing his current girlfriend around. Frank listens as the voices yowling in him sing harmony with his own outrage and leaps on the older teen. It takes four teachers to pull him off his opponent. Frank revels in the triumphant howls within, the feel of blood running down his face... then his eyes meet the other boy's, and all he can see is fear. Naked fear. Frank's internal chorus snarls and rejoice in that expression. Frank thinks about monster movies, the classics with Lon Chaney, Boris Karloff. That look on his opponent's face? That's how they looked at The Phantom of the Opera, The Wolf Man, Frankenstein's monster. Monster. That's the moment Frank knows, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the voices cannot be trusted. He bows his head and accepts his punishment then.
That's the last fight Frank starts in high school. That doesn't mean the bullies leave him alone - far from it, especially once they realize he isn't going to fight back. But Frank doesn't care - he's too focused, initially, on reining in the voices (who simply cry louder, singing of blood and vengeance) to worry about his peers. Though... the situation is starting to become intolerable - you can be shoved into a locker a finite number of times before that shit demands retaliation- when Frank finds punk rock.
~~~
Once he gets his hands on a guitar, none of the other shit matters. It's like a sudden oasis in the desert - music completely overwhelms the urgent yowls baying in him. He hears just himself, riding the music. On stage, his differences don't matter; he gives the voices what they want, drinking in the screams and attention of the audience. He walks through the formation of band after band, looking for the right combination. So many people don't give a shit about the music or the group - and Frank wants, no he fucking craves both. So he keeps playing, turning on the charm and widening his circle.
Pencey Prep is like finally hitting the jackpot at Atlantic City. They click as a group and they are actually good. So good that Frank thinks about dropping out of school. Not wanting to break his mama's heart (pretty much EVER), he stays, juggling school with practice and shows, eventually going to college while spending his nights in dive bars. Pencey gains a following, recorda a CD... and Frank is riding the wave, loving his life. The only point of discord is that the voices have become strident again. The mosh pit is all that helps, when he isn't on stage. The nights when he isn't playing are still spent in dives, trying to wear himself out.
That's where he finds them.
~~~
To See a Marching Band
He has a beer in his hand and is prepared to be totally unimpressed by the opening band. Especially once they walk out on stage. Not a single member of this band look comfortable up there. The lights dim, he takes a drink of his beer and an unholy howl sounds out, supported by a strident bass beat and fucking insane guitar lick. Frank gapes as that previously awkward singer OWNS the tiny stage. All of Frank's voices are shocked into silence. In the break between songs, the voices hum, content for the first time in years.
///mineminemine// They murmur. And Frank agrees, draining his glass. After the third song, he's in the pit, giving his energy over to the band.
When they leave the stage, he follows. The bassist turns to look at him.
"Hey."
"Hey, you guys fucking RULE."
A faint smile twitches across the bassist's mouth. Frank likes him instantly, even before he realizes he kinda knows the dude. "Mikey, right?"
"Yeah. Frank? From Pencey Prep?"
"Yeah, yeah." He wipes the sweaty hair out of his face, rubs the damp onto his jeans. "I didn't know you'd formed a band..."
Mikey ducks his head. "It's Gee's band. Gerard. My brother?"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Well, introduce me, motherfucker!" He crows, while flinging himself on the slender man. The voices hum. //minemine// Frank still agrees, cupping a narrow hip under his palm. Mikey smiles at him, swaying close. The heat of his body makes it hard to breathe. Frank hooks his fingers on the waistband of Mikey's jeans. Sweaty skin under his fingers is warm and familiar and oh so real...
Ridiculous honking laughter spills around a half-open door before them. Frank looks up into hazel eyes. "Introduce me, Mikeyway?"
Mikey nods, the smile never wavering. "Come on."
They go into the hallway serving as a dressing room. The light is shitty, casting everything in stark, blue-toned relief. Two people look up when they walk in. The guitarist - Ray - looks between them, glances down at Frank's hand tucked into Mikey's waistband and smiles carefully. Frank is having none of that.
"Dude! You are a motherfuckin' shredding GOD!"
That careful smile widens as they shake hands. Frank doesn't know what his says then - a tangled yammer about influences and guitars spills out of his mouth as he bounces in place - but whatever his giddy excitement offers up is enough to get Ray to relax. Still grinning, Frank turns to look at the singer.
"Frank, this is my brother Gerard Way. Gee, this is Frank Iero."
Later, months later, Frank will puzzle over the formality of that introduction. In the moment, he locks eyes with a sweaty, slightly overweight dude, lanky hair falling into hazel eyes and he feels like Cupid - that winged motherfucker - has punched him in the face.
//Oh. Mine. His. Always.//
The words strike his heart and wedge in tight. Frank blinks and leaps forward; with a cry of 'Motherfucker!' he pounces on Gerard, the pair of them going down in a pile of flailing limbs.
~~~
He never likes Otter. Frank is pretty sure the feeling is mutual.
~~~
The Beaten and The Damned
Frank's world is unraveling faster than he can hold it together. Once they hit Japan, Gee is so far beyond his reach, all Frank can feel is despair. The connections between them all are fading around him, giving lie to all the promises Frank's held in his heart. He walks out onto the stage, catches glimpses of their fans - the gleeful faces only increase his fear. He plays, flinging desperation into the dark. When Gerard staggers off stage to puke, all Frank can see is the end.
~~~
He's huddled up, curled tight against stiff cotton hotel sheets, trying to tame the howling in him. He's shivering so hard his teeth chatter; he feels the howls press up against his determination. Frank is lost, confused, scared shitless. The cry for blood is so loud, Frank almost can't hear the phone.
~~~
[Bob Bryar is made of drumsticks, mad ninja skillz and awesomeness: An Essay by Frank Iero]
~~~
A Phantom to Lead You
The Paramour is a fucking disaster. It doesn't help that the itch under Frank's skin had once again grown constant. He'd thought things had finally settled after Panic's funeral. But then Gee decided it was wise to stand on the edge of the ghost lands. Everything about the Paramour is a bad idea. Yeah, Frank can hear snatches of song here, sick carnival tunes that sag towards death. It's like looking down a hole to hell's fairgrounds, vision and sound filtering through a coffin lid. He hates it and wants his band happy and whole more than he wants the potential songs. Too many dreams of coffins and fire make him twitchy.
Their stay moves quickly beyond bravado and gothic inspiration. Frank doesn't know what the fuck Gee's thinking, taunting death like this, now. Too many of their friends and acquaintances have died, sacrificing themselves on the altar of the Scene for this adventure to prove fruitful.
Every morning he lies in bed and wishes for the strength to leave, like Mikey did. Every morning he prays and wishes and feels the lack of Mikey like a black hole in his chest, sucking away his optimism and hope. Then Bob or Ray pounds on his door, and Frank peels himself free of sheets, stumbles his way down to the kitchen. A half-eaten breakfast/lunch later, and he's back in the studio, for another day's worth of discord and fighting. Frank can feel the friction finding voice on his tongue, but has no idea what spills out on his mouth. Frank is too fixated on their lack to find their unification. At this rate, the in-band tension will slaughter them before the Scene bogeymen pull them low.
Sometimes he dreams about Gee and the feel of his throat between Frank's teeth. He wakes from those dreams sick to his stomach, shivering despite layers of blankets.
~~~
Then one morning Frank wakes with the dawn, the word 'Bohemia' settling on his tongue. It tastes like hope. He bounds out of bed, a riff planted in his fingertips.
Two days later, Mikey appears. He's pale, awkward - but as soon as he sets foot in the studio, it's like throwing a switch. Gee starts to write frantically. When he isn't writing, he's drawing, stark figures of loss and devastation, a weird combination of war and vaudeville. The album suddenly spools out around them. Mikey weaves between them, chords falling like dirges from his hands. It proves to be exactly what Gerard needs - wide-eyed, he weaves an epic tale of the dying and their journeys after, of Joan d'Arc and wolves, of ghosts and hope. Frank looks at Ray (eyes already intent, focused on weaving the tale), at Bob (his fingers twitching, gaze shifting across the stack of mismatched drums abandoned in the studio) and he smiles. In the end, ghosts and voices mean nothing in the face of his band's muses. Frank listens - to the muttered lyrics finding form through Gee's pen and the frenetic power of Ray's strings. He listens and finds his way.
That's how the album spins out - around Mikey, an ode to his strength.
~~~
Every morning, once they lay the first track, Frank goes out on the balcony of the apartment he's sharing with Gee and snarls towards the West and the Paramour.
//You can't have us. We belong to the music. We belong to the fans.//
Every morning he sneers out across the hills, and turns back to the kitchen. The process of making coffee and toast grounds him, wakes the music. In the Paramour he'd been blocked; now the riffs buzz in his hands. Frank is having a hard time catching his breath - the music overwhelms everything. He barely hears Jamia walking away, he's so caught up in this story.
It's all instrumental, a vast, skirting chaos - until Frank gets caught in traffic on the way to the studio and is stuck listening to a glam metal hour.
//Do I need saving?//He thinks, shifting against the cab seat. //Music did save me, back in the day...// And Frank winces at the parade of images from high school. //We can do better. We are doing better.//
As recording continues, they virtually live in the studio. Time stretches, loses meaning. Sometimes, late at night, Frank will glance around and swear he sees Patrick Stump walking out of the sound booth. He never mentions his fancies - but they always make him straighten up and pay closer attention to his fingering.
~~~
Frank is feeling pretty great, despite being homesick and still stuck in Southern California. He can almost taste Jersey - the wait for the final master of the album is all that's holding them back. That, and the lack of a proper title. They'd been calling it The Rise and Fall of My Chemical Romance but decided that was too... ironic. Even for them. This album is no swansong - despite their own obstacles and the increasing risk of touring, they aren't done.
~~~
Conceptually and musically, the album is brilliant. Mikey is there for the first listen - and even he agrees. This is a triumph, a shout against death. Despite that, Frank still feels that listening to the album is like conversing with their ghosts. They cling to each other, to Brian who can't stop grinning, and start planning tours, giddy with optimism and the music.
~~~
We'll Carry On
Mikey vanishes again, saying he's available if they need him. If?! Motherfucker! Frank refuses to get used to touring without Mikey. It might be unfair to Cortez, but his band isn't whole. Mikey's not around and Frank is losing his fuckin' mind. He keeps seeing the weirdest shit out of the corner of his eye. He's also feeling malice pressing close. Frank would ignore it, but that malice laps ever closer to his band. And that shit will not do.
~~~