Panic At The Disco
Men Women And ChildrenEdit this event
- Astoria, London »
What the hell am I doing here? Why’s everyone dancing? Where’s the mosh? There’s emos everywhere, but this ain’t no rock show…
Featuring ex-Glassjaw guitarist, Todd Weinstock, **Men, Women & Children **are always going to be thoroughly emo-tastic but with that pedigree nobody could possibly expect the cheesy, electro-pop that they spew out. This is the sound of a real disco and it just doesn’t fit in here. Remember, this is meant to be a rock show. I’d hate to suggest MW&C shot their load early but G.A.Y. club’s not on ‘til the weekend.
The sextet blusters through every single 80s idiosyncrasy you can think up, one after another. Coming through with a mischievous sense of camp misdemeanour, they are the polar opposite of Head Automatica (in xdancecorex terms anyway), eschewing any danger of gaining credibility or reputation enhancement in favour of funky handclaps and vigorous hip swivelling on a stage that they’d rather was a Technicolor dance floor. Their amazingly good debut single _‘Dance In My Blood’ _is the only highlight of their set - the reaction suggests the scene kids have clearly been listening to that song on their myspace for a while now. Sadly, that was the only song to register on the rock-ter scale and with good cause. It’s Men, Women & Children’s only track of any worth but _almost _makes them worth watching. Sometimes you just hope it’s all a big in-joke.
Obviously all this tedium is purely incidental up ‘til now because everyone’s here for **Panic! At The Disco**. They scamper onstage with a heady air of sartorial elegance, ploughing their saccharine-sweet, discobilly, emo-pop furrows with a sense of assurance that doesn’t really cause any panic. It’s more of a vague discomfort, stemming from the realisation of the sheer ease with which these Las Vegans have rocketed to the top of the teen trade.
With their highly calculated, seemingly quirky mannerisms and carefully manicured appearances, their awkward lyrics manipulated so naturally by vocalist Brendan Urie, they just seem so damn clever and so damn glamorous. Oh my god, this _is _clever. This _is _glamorous. In all the wrong ways. Damn.
Obviously, there really is no point in trying to curse their impeccable talent because there is such a high sheen on this shit, you’ll just end up admiring your own beautifully sculpted coiffure. Panic! At The Disco have the disgusting talent of making you want to believe in this music. They make you want to believe that these songs will mean anything in 20 years. They make you want to believe that they mean anything now.
The fact of the matter is this fickle public will simply move on when the next My Chemical Romance album drops later this year in wholehearted glory. Then, this shameful Fall Out Boy tribute band could disappear into the ether, like the inconspicuous blast of flatulent air that they are and it would be like they had never existed. Ever.
Repeat: this is not a rock show. This is just the next vacuous, soul-sold product in the line. Lap it up.
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