I Infiltrate the Emo Kids Pt. 2

NOTE: See the previous post to learn one of many excuses for this conclusion's delay. I at least wanted to finish the story this year, so now that's that.

30 Seconds to Mars rushed out on stage wearing hooked-nosed Renaissance masks. Before beginning their set, they ripped off the masks, and all eyes locked onto the lead singer: as I'm sure any of the howling girls would have told you, Jared Leto is the band.

And good gravy, the guy has a set of pipes. He surpassed the recorded album in this respect, belting the vocals with the length and precision that makes one wonder "he acts, too?" I was all the more impressed upon learning he was sick that night and chugging along without sleep for the previous 48 hours. His stage antics included venturing into the crowd twice (apparently seeking to spread his illness), and spinning, which was made all the flashier by his wearing a white coat with tails.

Honestly, only in rare moments could I actually hear him sing. Since most of the time I chiefly heard the vocals of the girls behind me, it's only fair that I review their performance as well:

This trio of girls gave a vocal interpretation of 30STM's set that was uneven at best, downright amateurish and grating at worst. The harmonies were nonexistent and they obviously did not know how to blend. However, they exuded a confident crowd presence, and what they lacked in pitch control and tempo they compensated in zest and loudness. Nonetheless, these girls (whoever they may be) left much to be desired, and this reviewer fought a constant temptation to shove his way elsewhere in the audience to be couched among superior talents.

Jared Leto made himself surprisingly personable on stage. Sometimes, in the middle of a song, he'd engage us in banter.

“Repeat after me: Fuck you!”

(“FUCK YOU!”)

“Fuck you!”

(“FUCK YOU!”)

This made for a more stimulating All Ages concert than I’d expected.

After the show, anyone who'd obtained special wristbands from buying 30STM merch could stand in the band's autograph line. Bare-wristed, I lounged near the merch booth waiting for Saskia to get her T-shirt eventually signed by the blood-soaked minstrels. Also near the merch table were assorted members of the opening acts, lounging or moping. If you've read Part I, then you're quick to understand that there were no autograph lines forming before these fellas. Maybe one resembling the famous single-file line in the movie Airplane!, but for autographs and hugs, no.

I had a wrenching inner conflict over whether I wanted to make small talk with any of the other bands; I was in a position to instantly improve some of their moods provided I was willing to lie. I knew I would open with some banal question over how they were adjusting to the high altitude, etc., but I feared the conversation would steer toward the topic of whether I'd enjoyed them at all. I remained in my corner, choosing the honest path of silence. This in itself was difficult because while Head Automatica was playing I was seriously considering the honest path of violence.

Eventually Saskia, autographed shirt in hand, found me again. Because of the creatively altered dress she was wearing, the band insisted that she get her picture taken with them, and they encouraged her to wait outside by the tour bus.

We reunited with the magnanimous group of Echelon kids who originally let us stand with them at the front of the line that afternoon. Shivering in front of the tour buses, 30STM fans exchanged awe-struck reviews of the concert in a perceivable glow, though grimacing in the cold. I spoke to no one except for some occaisional whispers to Saskia, and although I looked the part, I was, in my silence, obviously not a 30STM fan. I had a favorite song of theirs now ("From Yesterday"), but nothing I felt was valid to offer in any of the fans' conversations.

Shannon Leto, the drummer, emerged from the back doors to greet the fans. Clusters of emo kids converged on him, broke away, shuffled around, then reformed for picture after picture. Before Shannon left, he said he had no idea whether his brother was feeling well enough to make an appearance as well.

The emo kids grew uneasy. And to pass the time they snapped more and more pictures of each other. I drifted to the fringes of these photo clusters, observing their "see you at the next show" cameraderie and undertones of musical kinship. Then the leader of Echelon arranged a giant ensemble photo for the Web site, cramming everyone in red and white lacy dresses and black tuxedo shirts into the frame.

They invited me into the photograph.

With an uncanny sense of timing -- for many of us were about to desert the tour buses before hypothermia started claiming lives -- Jared Leto came out soon after. My memories of his appearance are dominated by his eyeliner and surprisingly short height; I flashbacked to the time I shook Eddie Izzard's hand in the Paramount Theater lobby.

Gruff but not surly, Jared Leto warned us that he had only ten minutes before he had to hit the road, so everyone best get their cameras ready so he can get to everyone. And from what I know, he did: Saskia got her picture with Jared.

30STM is going to play California over winter break, and Saskia's ambition is to gather a group for a road trip. Currently, I'm waffling. Should I decide to go, I'll have to get that white button-up shirt dry-cleaned. And prepare a more credible explanation for the blood stains.