Close your eyes and take a whiff. What’s giving the air an added weight?

Is it the scent of sweaty gym socks and athletic cups imbued in the hallowed halls of Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena that hits like Cro-Mags’ John Joseph in the presence of meat? Or is it just the absurdity of the situation? This place, home of the Nashville Predators of the National Hockey League (and, in the loading docks, likely a few ambitiously inebriated bachelorette parties that have taken a wrong turn down Honky Tonk Highway), will soon become filled to the brim with nostalgic teenagers in Tripp pants and millennials in mall goth makeup (blacks and reds, fake blood and false contacts) hoping to recapture the experience of feeling feelings. Back when music was good (that means whatever you were listening to in adolescence) and

declaring, “I’m Not Okay (I Promise)” felt like a radical act. I am, of course, talking about emo heartthrobs My Chemical Romance—inarguably the most influential alternative rock band since Nirvana; that’s a fact, no matter how you slice it—who are now on their 20-year anniversary tour around the world, 21 years later.

I'm here, in this horseshoe-shaped arena that resembles an ancient Greek tabernacle, because of My Chemical Romance, but not for them. In a corner of this labyrinth, in the early afternoon before soundcheck, I’m seated in one of the backstage locker rooms with my dear friends Dilly Dally—vocalist Enda Monks (they/them), guitarist Liz Ball (she/they), bassist Annie Jane Marie (she/her), and token

straight/drummer Benjamin Reinhartz (he/him). You’ve either never heard the Toronto-based noise-punk indie band, or you’ve heard them unimaginatively compared to the Pixies, or you’re completely obsessed with them. There’s no in between, and I’m firmly in the last camp. But no one could’ve expected this, an email offer to open a few dates on MCR’s Southwest run of the United States—even though the band’s rhythm guitarist Frank Iero is quietly recognized in certain music circles as a huge supporter of DIY music—because, truthfully, it is an absolutely bonkers pairing. (Just think of all the out-of-work ’00s nasal pop-punk bands who might’ve more conventionally fit the bill!) In the interest of all things a little off-kilter, I asked to

tag along and take some photos. What happens when a promising young indie rock band, beloved by all the most interesting and influential people, finds itself on stage in front of 20,000 suburban music fans each night?

“When I was young, Liz and I used to be like, ‘We’re going to be rock stars!’” Monks says with a laugh. “But it wasn’t a plan. It was a fantasy.”

You know, until it wasn't.

In 2009, before Dilly Dally became Dilly Dally—as in, a band and not just an idea—Monks and Ball moved to Toronto and got matching “DD” tattoos at the not-at-all-tacky Tattoo Rock Parlour. They knew they were onto something, even if they might’ve had only a few demos between them. Eventually, ambitions aligned with reality, and they joined forces with Marie and Reinhartz, self-releasing their first single, “Next Gold” (recorded during a 2013 session with Josh Korody, known for his work with Fucked Up, Austra, and Owen Pallett). Two full-length records followed: 2015’s Sore, a thrilling, grunge-y alt-rock treatise on desire, sent soaring by Monks’ inimitable vocal howl—messy, carnal, a controlled crumbling, weather-worn—and 2018’s Heaven, their latest release. It was “the record we’d make if the band had died and gone to heaven,” as Monks puts it. The same thrills from Sore are present—distorted guitars, massive drum thrills, Monks’ singular snarl—but with a new, matured optimism. (On the opening track, the chorus kicks: “I feel free,” Monks’ growl ascends, “and I want you to find it.”) Huge tours followed in 2018 and 2019, including dates with indie singer-songwriter Mitski, skater-haters Fidlar, and alt-punks Against Me!, highlighting the band’s sonic plasticity. Then: A global pandemic hit, a few huge personal life changes took priority, and Dilly Dally slipped into a quiet respite.

Until now. After a single hometown show in Toronto at the Garrison in March 2022 (an emotional one where the band reintroduced themselves to their scene, Marie coming out as trans and Monks coming out as nonbinary. “People kept acknowledging Annie by her dead name,” Monks says. “We felt like we wanted to say something”), Dilly Dally find themselves traversing the lower U.S. in an eight-person passenger van, opening for one of the biggest rock bands on the planet. Funny how life works. Rock ’n’ roll’s alive, and so is the tour diary.

DAY 1. SUNDAY, AUGUST 21.

SAN ANTONIO

The band started its tour in Oklahoma City last night. After spending an embarrassingly long time locating the correct security checkpoint, I meet my fellow Torontonians at the AT&T Center in San Antonio. We’re not in Kansas anymore, where Kansas is the sparsely attended DIY circuit and warehouse venue bathrooms should come with a biohazard warning. The band’s van, parked near MCR’s army of tour buses, foreshadows a future date when we’ll crawl out of it and a man who looks like he walked out of a Guitar Center and never looked back—long gray hair pulled up into a ponytail—will joke, “All of y’all in one van?!” This is the big leagues, baby, and being the littlest band in the big leagues means hurrying up to wait around.

We quickly load out the gear, only to sit on top of it as hardcore hotties Turnstile finish their soundcheck. Being the first of three bands on a tour of this size means rarely getting a soundcheck, or even a line check, and whatever time is left after MCR and Turnstile is Dilly Daily’s—if there is any.

“OOOOOOOOOOH/OOOOOOOOH,” Turnstile’s

singer/screamer Brendan Yates echoes throughout the auditorium. “OOOOOOOOH.”

“It almost sounds like they’re rubbing it in!” Monks jokes.

Before I can clock him, My Chemical Romance’s guitarist Frank Iero approaches us with Worm, the band’s security guard. The MCR homie wants to cop some merch, asks to pay for it, and is immediately met with a chorus of “No way! ” Later, Worm waves around the band’s company card: “I’m buying one of everything!” That night, Iero wears a Dilly Dally long-sleeve on stage.

Around us is a parade of venue staff. “Are they wearing... tuning forks...on their shirts?” I ask no one in particular. “Oh yeah, that does look like a tuning fork,” Ball responds. Later, when I step outside the venue for a cigarette and some sunshine (arenas really are super underground, eh?), two women, deep into a conversation about whether or not the My Chemical Romance crowd is, so far, crazier than Lady Gaga’s, tell me, “It’s a spur. You’re in San Antonio, sweetheart.” They laugh. I laugh. As it turns out, the AT&T Center is the home of San Antonio’s beloved basketball team the Spurs, and I am the most Canadian motherfucker alive.

Back inside, the doors have been opened. In the front row, I meet two adorable young MCR fans, Autumn and Haley, who’ve been camping in line for this show for three days. “Being barricaded for MCR is literally every person’s dream!” they tell me. “But openers are the foundation of the music industry. A lot of people don’t know that. We’re excited to check out Dilly Dally. ”

After Dilly Dally perform, we head to the locker room to see if the rest of their rider has arrived yet. (It hadn’t, but a touring staff member kindly passed us a 2013 pinot noir someone kept from working the Boston Calling Music Festival. Five of the six of us split it—the band, me, and their sound person/tour manager, Paul Mack. Marie is sober.) “I need to work on my ‘throwing the water bottle into the audience,”’ Monks jokes, taking a sip of wine, reviewing their performance. “We are good at this job and we just need to be Dilly Dally. We just need to do what we do...but there are some athletic issues.”

In the distance, MCR’s singer Gerard Way’s voice echoes out on stage: “Frank turned me on to Dilly Dally, and I became obsessed!” As soon as we hear those words, we run from backstage to the general admittance area to take in his compliments. “I was real into it. I thought it was really cool.... Luckily I got to email with Enda, and that was really cool too. I looked forward to it, even when I didn’t write back, because I was sad, or something.”

Later that night, as moms and dads and their daughters and nonbinary sweeties in their fresh MCR merch fill the Days Inn we’ve decided to bunk down in, a few people give the band props. Merch count doesn’t end until 1 a.m., so our plan to grab gas station beers is foiled. Monks and I share a warm Modelo I’d been holding on to for the last day in the parking lot. It’s nice.

DAY 2. MONDAY, AUGUST 22.

NO MAN’S LAND, ARKANSAS

Day 2 is a travel day: 11 hours, 750 miles from San Antonio to Memphis. We head to the van at 8:30 a.m., and everyone is in moderately high spirits. When he’s not driving, Reinhartz, who can miraculously read in a moving vehicle almost as well as he can hit the drums, is engulfed in Acid for the Children, a memoir by Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea. Between chapters, Reinhartz is the Mad Libs man, the only one allowed to read out our child games gone dirty. (Example: “What’s your problem, young slut? I have a pain in my upper butt, which is giving me a severe prickly pubes-ache.”) Pit stops are made and gas station taco truck Tex-Mex is inhaled. It’s divine and messy.

Power Trip, Deeper, ABBA, and Dolly Parton blast from the speakers. Kate Bush too—Monks is a fan, Mack is mostly unfamiliar. And then, suddenly, like a bean-y burp from Miss God herself, the sky breaks and opens up. Vision is obscured with rain. It’s absolutely monsooning outside, and conditions are treacherous. The only solace is a detour to Little Rock, Arkansas, for an overpriced Mexican meal. Complimentary salsa, one per person, check.

An explosion on the highway forces our caravan of merry travelers to exit all together and venture down backroads. (“Road” is putting it generously; these were dirt paths in the dark. But Marie is handling them like a Grand Theft Auto Esports athlete or, at least, a veteran Formula One driver with one eye closed.) Eventually we make it to a Memphis Fairfield Inn & Suites for the night, but only just. The elevator’s broken, but the sweet-as-humble-pie clerk at the desk helps us carry gear up to the second or third floor. (No one’s getting robbed tonight.) Rock ’n’ roll bands: braver than the Marines. Who said this life is glamorous? Okay, well, there was the free lobby lemonade...

DAY 3. TUESDAY, AUGUST 23. NASHVILLE

In the van, at gas stations, in stadiums, in the bathroom: “I LIVE!” is our most repeated refrain, lifted from Trinity the Tuck of RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars fame. “We’ve always been a queer band,” Marie says. “The stage was a place where I started experimenting with my gender presentation publicly. So it’s always felt like a safe place for me.” She pauses, considering how her relationship with performance has changed since she came out as trans. “Generally, my life has been much better since transitioning. It’s great to have people not deadname you, too.”

That queerness exists throughout Dilly Daily’s music. “When we first started jamming again [after lockdown,] I suddenly realized all of these lyrics are so trans,” Monks says, laughing. “Singing [our song] ‘Purple Rage’ about wanting to change, ‘And only in time/You won’t recognize the girl you’d known before,’ all this stuff. And then ‘Bad Biology’ is me saying ‘Take your body off,’ over and over again. It’s so trans. [The song] ‘Gender Role’ as well.” At this point, their voice cracks, and they begin to tear up. “Oh my God, I’ve always been so frustrated with my gender. And realizing that it had always been there was really centering.”

At noon we pull into the Bridgestone Arena, charmingly located in downtown Nashville, right on Broadway where cannabis carts hawk single joints for $20 and cowboy hats bob on heads as far as the eye can see. Outside, crowds of emo My Chemical Romance fans sit against a concrete wall as day-drunk tourists stumble past on rideshare scooters. The sun’s beating down. They don’t seem to mind.

When Dilly Dally start to exit the stage later that night, stagehands yell, “Band coming through! Band coming through!” directing other roadies to clear a path. Monks gets out of the way and looks behind themselves to see who’s coming down. “Oh my God,” they wonder, smiling, “Am / the band?”

My Chemical Romance’s resident shredder, guitarist Ray Toro, passes us as Dilly Daily’s gear is loaded off stage by roadies, and compliments Marie’s bass tone. They are the band.

DAY 4. WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 24. CINCINNATI

“People think musicians still make lots of money—this makes

“IT’S CALLED THE mUSIC BUSINESS; NOT THE music FUN TIIYIE;” —EMDfl IYIONKS

me so mad, so this is why I’m talking now,” says Ball, who has been relatively quiet throughout our sit-down, on-therecord chat. “When we put out our first record, I was still bartending and an old friend came in and was like, ‘You’re still bartending? I thought you were so successful.’ You don’t sign to a record label and make a million dollars anymore.”

Even on a tour as massive as this one—and make no mistake, this is a fantastical situation, not the norm—fans approach Dilly Dally shocked about the fiscal realities of touring with a band as huge as MCR. “I had somebody come into a queer bar I was working at and they told me it was so sad to them that I was working there. I was so confused and so angry,” Monks starts. “First of all, working in that queer space was really a beautiful experience. And secondly, it’s classist, essentially. The music industry is, in a lot of ways, our job. Our role is to create this fantasy. Saying that sounds so annoying, but what I mean to say is: You live in this fantasy, right? And as a kid, it’s so amazing to look up at rock bands or any artist who is doing their thing, living a free life where you don’t have to submit to societal expectations. ”

They pause. “On one hand, I want people to have that fantasy as well, that beauty and magic of what we’re trying to portray, but this industry isn’t perfect. I’ll never forget, a producer told me this quote he heard from someone else in the industry, which is: It’s called ‘the music business,’ not ‘the music fun time.’ It’s a lot of hustle to create this fantasy.”

The Heritage Bank Center in Cincinnati sits in the center of downtown, right on top of the Ohio River, dividing the state from Kentucky. By 3 p.m. the line of MCR fans has already wrapped around the block. A confused pizza delivery guy crosses the line, up and down, until an adult in a jet-black marching-band uniform (a classic MCR cosplay circa their 2006 record The Black Parade) flags him down.

Backstage, the arena staff has lit incense. Today, the band gets a proper soundcheck—their first. Iero pops by out of nowhere, like the magical rock elf I’ve dubbed him, offering me “an old lady candy.” I accept. It’s strawberry, the preferred Neapolitan ice cream flavor of children, not old ladies, but who am I to correct the guy who turned Gerard Way on to Dilly Dally and got them on this tour in the first place?

There’s an added pressure for the final night—and an added joy. The colossal venue is the fullest it has ever been for Dilly Daily’s opening set. The crowd claps along as Reinhartz eggs them on, striking his drumsticks above his head. The audience cheers louder than they have at any of the shows, almost as if they, too, had watched every Dilly Dally performance this week and felt the magic of this night. Or maybe I’m projecting. Whatever, it ruled. “You know,” a young femme says, approaching me, Ball, and Marie as we stand in the back of the pit to watch My Chem later that night, “this was the first time in a long time I saw an opening act I really loved.”

Backstage, there’s a care package waiting for Dilly Dally: from Ginny, a witch, and her partner Bob, who are housing us for the night. They’re friends of Ball. (“She has a thing for hosting bands, I’m not entirely sure why,” Ball says. “We just vibe and have an unspoken witchy connection.”) It's full of snacks for everyone’s dietary needs and a large crate of Graeter’s ice cream, a local brand, which we enjoy with the production staff. Boozeless bubbly brut is shared in the greenroom.

After the show, we drive back over the river into Kentucky to go to Bob and Ginny’s house. “I liked you guys so much more than the second band!” Bob tells us, throwing some

adorable shade Turnstile’s way. “The second band sells the tickets, but the first band becomes your new favorite.” Their home, located in the suburbs, is eclectic in the style of necromancy: full of vintage odds and ends, gold frames and eucalyptus, urns and candles. Magazine clippings and hand fans cover the wall of the bathroom. A dog and a couple of cats run around. It occurs to me, at some point in the wee hours of the morning, that I’m still not totally sure how we ended up here. (“I’m a witch,” Ball says, “so we were drawn together by our witch powers. ”) The following morning, Bob drives me to the airport in his vintage Oldsmobile Cutlass. I forgot to ask Ginny if she had a spell for me: I wonder if she could’ve used those powers to keep the tour going forever.

In the gloomy days that followed—if anyone tells you posttour depression doesn’t exist, they’re lying, or they’ve

never been on tour, or they can afford health insurance and what’s that like?—something astonishing happened. For the first time since A1 Gore invented the internet, people were nice online. “I don’t think I’ve ever gained such an obsession with an opening band,” a fan wrote on Twitter. “Dilly Dally fucking killed.” “MCR turned me into a full fledged dilly dally fan,” another said. “So everyone go say thank you and check out dilly dally.” “It’s honestly so sick that dilly dally are getting a whole bunch of new fans from playing with fuckin MCR,” wrote another. “They’re the sickest band and more people need to get into them!” The long-tail effects of the tour remain to be seen, but in the interim, it looks a lot like Dilly Dally are closer to living the fantasy than ever before.

“I used to think we were going to be huge—in the deepest part of my soul, and with all of my heart,” Monks says, their eyes starting to water. A pause, then they add with a laugh: “You caught me on my period!”

“As you get older, you learn to take life as it comes. There’s a lot of gray area. There’s a lot of things that are out of your control. Whether you did a good job or not has nothing to do with it,” they continue. “You can make art that you’re proud of and it might not connect with the public. I fully lost hope and I completely let go. And then these shows happen...” Their voice starts to trail off, not breaking, but held—softer than their singing voice, but with the same sort of jaggedness. “It’s crazy. I wouldn’t tell my younger self anything. I think my naivety brought us here.”

So, what next? Are they working on new music? Will they capitalize on this newfound interest and fan base? “Who knows?” says Monks, looking around at their bandmates. “What is happening with Dilly Dally?”

“Ellipsis, baby,” Reinhartz responds. Everyone laughs. There’s value in living the moment, this moment—and not being a careerist band for the sake of notoriety...

(Additional reporting by Maria Sherman)