When we were young we used to say
That you only hear the music when your heart begins to break
Now we are the kids from yesterday.
—My Chemical Romance, lyrics by Gerard Way
I held my mother’s hand as cancer severed the last threads of her life. In that moment, her heart stopped beating—and mine broke. And beyond the clicking of IVs administering useless painkillers, and the humming of monitors with nothing left to monitor, I could hear music. In my head, that hospital room was full of music. It was tragic, powerful, and dark, and would redefine my life from that day forward.
I thought I’d never be able to walk into New York Hospital again without hearing that music, without feeling that pain in my broken heart. And yet there I was—fifteen years later—walking into that same hospital with a heart not just fully mended, but so full of joy it was exploding. Because there my wife would give birth to our daughter Nandini, who we named after my mother. When she was just minutes into our world, I cradled little Nandini in my arms and we danced around the room. Once again, that hospital room seemed full of music.
Music has always been with me. In every kiss, in every tear, in every word I’ve ever written . . . and in every panel of every comic I’ve ever read. Alongside music, comics have always been there for me. My earliest memories include reading comics while listening to my parents’ records—the Beatles providing a soundtrack to their pages. I felt as though I was experiencing magic.
As a child, I heard music when Jean made the ultimate sacrifice, embracing her humanity on Earth’s moon; when Leonardo fell to the comfort of his brothers, broken by shattered glass and defeat; when Dream simply walked out of hell, bolstered and made brave by Hope. As a young man, I turned pages in awe to discover that P. Craig Russell’s The Ring of the Nibelung graphic novels are as beautiful and musical as the Wagner operas they’re adapted from. And I still marvel at how any arc of The Umbrella Academy is as rock and roll as anything in rock’s great albums. These books sing.
Now that I find myself not just reading comics but creating them, I feel a responsibility to make my books sing. I truly hope you’ll hear the music (and not just Beatles music) in The Fifth Beatle: The Brian Epstein Story, about the man who risked everything to bring the world the Beatles’ great message of love. Because I’ve learned it’s just a trick of glorious, youthful naiveté that makes you wait for your heart to break. There is no need. You can hear the music right now—in this very comic you hold in your hands. Just listen closely . . . and be transported by the music of comics.
Patterson, NY, 2013
