Not Elvis Costello. (Rob Trucks with the pics, more below.)
Panic at the Disco
Wednesday, May 7
So these dudes are in the throes of a major Sgt. Pepper fixation: goofy psychedelic clothes, goofy psychedelic pop tunes, the drummer looks a lot like Ringo from far away, etc. This is not so terrible. It holds attention, provokes discussion. During tonight’s climactic sing-along to “Northern Downpour,” an actually quite stirring bumbly-folk ballad, an army of rapt teens bearing digital cameras sing along to lyrics projected on the backdrop screen, part of a set only slightly less elaborate than Hairspray‘s across the street:
Hey moon, please forget to fall down
Hey moon, don’t you go down
You are at the top of my lungs
Drawn to the ones who never yawn
“I have no idea what that means,” notes the Photographer.
“Maybe ‘the ones who never yawn’ are people who aren’t jaded,” I suggest. “The young.”
“Yeah, but babies yawn,” the Photographer counters. “Babies yawn like motherfuckers.”
See? Discussion. Panic at the Disco’s new album, Pretty. Odd., is, well, yeah. I can’t tell if The Kids are into it, these ornate nods to “Octopus’s Garden” and the Doobie Brothers, or if they’re just biding their time for “I Write Sins Not Tragedies.” But it’s heartening to see a young rock band catch a break, net a hit song or two, and then go “Fuck It” and try to write “A Day in the Life” 15 times. This band right now is basically the Warped Tour’s interpretation of “Listen to the Flower People.” I’m comfortable with that if you are. Keep that horn section on retainer, gentlemen.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on May 8, 2008