Panic at the Disco, Astoria, London

Reviewed,Chris Mugan
Sunday 20 July 2008 19:00 EDT
Comments

Your support helps us to tell the story

From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.

At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.

The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.

Your support makes all the difference.

For a band that has mislaid much of its original fanbase, this Las Vegas foursome remain in exceptionally high spirits. Panic At The Disco were at the forefront of emo, and responsible for some of the genre's most irritating habits – not the supposed interest in suicide, but the pretentiously long song titles, rambling verbiage and whining.

On their 2005 debut, A Fever You Can't Sweat Out, they delivered all that in unrelenting, hyperactive fashion. A year later, at the Reading festival, singer Brendon Urie was hit by a bottle and briefly knocked out. Recording the follow-up to Fever, Panic scrapped what had been done and began afresh, coming up with Pretty. Odd., a kaleidoscopic mix of orchestral pomp and Monkees cheeriness.

Its sleeve art forms tonight's backdrop and references The Small Faces' Ogden's Nut Gone Flake rather than My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade. The band themselves have lost the exclamation mark that once went after Panic, the circus performers they took on tour and, judging by sales, one and a half million fans. Those who remain yell back every line and scream in between.

Two of the band, Urie and guitarist Ryan Ross, have gained mop tops, but there is more to their evolution than mere image change. Panic's twitchy vocalist is flanked by garrulous bassist Jon Walker and the more severe, though no less talkative, Ross. "Behind the Sea" is transformed into swinging cosmic country, while "Pas De Cheval" leans more towards The Divine Comedy than Busted.

"Folkin' Round" is delivered straight up as a hillbilly stomp, and only the glam racket of "Mad As Rabbits" sounds sludgy without its brass parps and pinpoint production.

In such company, older material becomes more accessible. A vibrant "Martyrdom and Suicide" (an abridged title) reminds us they were never completely about moping. A solo Urie kicks off the encore with an acoustic rendition of "Time to Dance", something you could not imagine in their stilted and defensive former guise. With infectious glee, he is already starting the next number as his band mates re-emerge. Downsizing has rarely been such fun.

Join our commenting forum

Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies

Comments

Thank you for registering

Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged inPlease refresh your browser to be logged in