On the TV show “Friends,” Chandler once asked, “Which hurts worse: giving birth or getting… On the TV show “Friends,” Chandler once asked, “Which hurts worse: giving birth or getting kicked in the nuts?” While both sound painful in their own right, My Chemical Romance’s latest CD provides a third, even more painful option. How about having to listen to this insipid fast-cash album? Hell, I’d rather experience the former two than have to listen to this for a third time. “Find out first hand what it’s like to be me?” No, thank you.

My Chemical Romance’s The Black Parade is Dead is an album recorded live in New Mexico, with all the vocal shortcomings and screaming fans you can handle. The crowd seems to serve only as the band’s affirmation that it has fans at all – MCR doesn’t even acknowledge them until the 13th track, when lead singer Gerard Way finally asks how the audience is doing.

The album revolves around a character the band calls “the Patient” as he dies and looks back on his life. It plays out like an overdrawn movie death scene you wish would end – all the violent imagery you can handle, mixed in with the auditory chaos of questionable instrumentation and pacing. As much as MCR resents the emo brand it’s been labeled with, it’s not doing anything to help the problem.

Rather, the album exacerbates it, like giving a heavy bleeder lots of alcohol and Tylenol. It doesn’t sound so much like a sob story of a dying patient or a critique of modern affairs. Instead, it’s like an overdone parody of emo music – imagine a music documentary cross-bred with “Meet the Spartans.” The guitars warble so much that the music itself borders on the distasteful.

Sometimes the lyrics become lost through the screaming crowd and Gerard Way’s breathy, screamy delivery – he often sounds out of breath, singing lyrics like “Mama we all go to hell / Mama we all go to hell / I’m writing this letter and wishing you well / Mama we all go to hell.” How can these guys say they’re not an emo band with lyrics like these?

“Cancer” is the only track on the whole album that features any emotion and genuine singing on Way’s part. He’s actually quite good, and it’s a shame that the rest of the band doesn’t match it. The other members seem content with the traditional punk-rock fare of near-falsetto vocals cracking like a prepubescent teen’s voice.

The only feeling that comes with this CD is emptiness. The album is emotionally empty – the songs don’t provoke any thought or emotion other than the need to dig through the kitchen drawer for something sharp.

This album just shows the lack of effort that MCR is willing to devote to its music and its fans. It feels like a quick way for it to cash in on its success, and the result is as insulting as it is lame. If you do decide to give this a listen, take Way’s advice from the first track: “Get me the hell outta here!”