My fourteen-year-old self would be proud to know that I never grew out of my emo phase. At least not fully. As soon as I left home for uni, I pierced my face to oblivion and unleashed La Riche Directions hell on my ¾ virgin hair, tainted only by the memory of a blue dip dye my mum allowed me to do one summer as a distraction from my significant lack of a job and decent friends.
Even now, as I sport a ‘grown-up’ haircut and wean myself off heavy eyeliner, I still fancy the fuck out of Paul Dano in Little Miss Sunshine and can quote chunks of the first (and best) Twilight film off by heart Books, following films and troubling elements of possessive relationships and straight-up noncery aside, it’s not too bad a teen film. Even my current favourite band, Camp Cope, unashamedly call themselves a ‘power emo’ trio. Jokes aside, coming from an all-female band, this speaks volumes to present and past Slagatha, for whom the scene offered few female icons beyond the divine and honourable Hayley Williams. Of course, like many cultural movements, emo had its issues; while the mainstream media hyped up myths of suicide cults and self-harm, for many former fans, memories of the scene are painfully marked by casual misogyny, abuse of power and a lack of clarity surrounding consent.
It's not a phase mom!!!
While I don’t want to nostalgically gloss over the parts I am most ashamed of, glorifying a culture that was as problematic as it was empowering, my love of MCR exists as a separate entity, untethered to the likes of Me vs. Maradona vs. Elvis and Misery Business. Unlike their contemporaries, some disgraced, others apologetic, MCR channelled their angst into the art of storytelling, delivering narratives of undying love and impending death, rather than finding new ways to artfully slut-shame their exes.
Their sound was explosive and their style was surprisingly versatile; even Danger Days, which significantly divided the fanbase, was something new and exciting at least. Also notable was Gerard Way’s own experiments with androgyny, influenced by the late, great David Bowie, whose sound clearly shaped the band’s most well-known album, The Black Parade. I finally decided to put down Kerrang!and delve into another artist’s back catalogue, it was David Bowie I opted for, who today remains my favourite artist of all time. It’s also not surprising to know that the next band I became obsessed with was The Manic Street Preachers, whose morbid masterpiece The Holy Bible makes Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge sound like Sgt Pepper in comparison.
Peas in odd pods
While I am gutted that I’ll have to wait another year to finally scream along to Thank You for the Venom in front of Daddy Iero himself, I know it’s totally worth it. I have a lot to thank MCR for, so instead of being sad today, I’m going to use it to look back on the defining relics of ‘the sinister cult of emo’, celebrating its highest hallmarks and laughing/crying at its lows:
Alright, I'll stop now
IT’S A FASHION STATEMENT
Red Eyeshadow
From Urban Decay’s Naked Cherry palette to Lime Crime’s Venus, it seems the world isn’t ready to give up living in shades of red. True emos can save money by crying all day instead (sorry Deb!)
Checkerboard Vans
A strong staple, but probably better off paired with straight-leg jeans, rather than neon skinnies with studded belts
Denying you’re emo when you are clearly an emo
Might help you pass for an E-girl/boy/person off TikTok instead
IT’S A FUCKING DEATHWISH
Online relationships
Always guaranteed to end badly. After five minutes of unfiltered conversation in the real world, you will realise that their laugh is unbearable and RAWR XD doesn’t hit the same when said out loud. Even worse if your beloved xxx_ethan_ethanol97_xxx turns out to be a massive incel or a 32-year-old man who can't even cook oven chips
Tim Burton
Tory.
Being emotionally vulnerable and unafraid to show your pain to the world
Sorry lil Slagatha, but I’m with the Zoomers on this one. Watching today’s tweenagers eating tide pods and laughing at mind-bogglingly abstract memes while the world burns around them makes me wonder whether I was doing myself more harm than good by writing ‘DIE JUSTIN BIEBER AND ROT IN HELL’ on my pencil case, to piss off the horse girls who called me a freak on a daily basis in school. To make it up to Biebz, I’ll keep being an ice cold bitch from now on
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