posted 05/09/2006 (Tue) @ 10:12 am
>>> Music Reviews
Panic! At the Disco - A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out (2005)
Rock in a hard place
- Introduction
- The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide Is Press Coverage
- London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines
- Nails For Breakfast, Tacks For Snacks
- Camisado
- Time To Dance
- Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off
- Intermission
- But It’s Better If You Do
- I Write Sins Not Tragedies
- I Constantly Thank God For Esteban
- There’s A Good Reason These Tables are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven’t Thought Of It Yet
- Build God, Then We’ll Talk
It seems the only difference between punk and pop is the type of people acting like whiny pricks about it on the internet… oh wait, never mind. Despite display of a pitch-perfect ear for pop melody and use of a style that defies categorization by the faux-hawkers and club junkies who claim to hate it, “A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out” is rock in a hard place (the apparent line between pop and punk) and it’s about as devisive to the public at large as a Good Charlotte record as a result.
Whatever you think of either of those genres, if you truly have an open ear for music, Panic! At the Disco deliver an interesting listen with their debut, fusing dance and club electronica of satire-caliber bluntness to the high tempos, blaring guitar chords, and endearing imperfections expected of a band raised by DIY punk rockers. Even if it means getting a record deal from a pit of damnation as reprehensible as MySpace, do it yourself. And stop whining without a microphone.
“The Only Difference” is a zippity-do-da-in-hell rave-up, with a right hook power chorus that makes for easiest visualization of the band’s namesake. Just try not dancing to it, or at the very least not tapping your foot and/or snapping fingers as the opening bars suggest. The house techno bridge will kick in at exactly the same time as the ecstasy.
On the other end of the spectrum, “I Write Sins, Not Tragedies,” an amusing inner monologue of a man scorned, opens with pizzicato strings and cello, but quickly turns around into another thudding head-bobber, while still using the cello and strings. Hey, it worked for Cursive. Why not these guys?
No, they’re not perfect. Like any magician’s act, once you know the tricks, “A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out” has potential to get tired in a hurry, and the smarmy lyrics can strike a nerve in the out-of-mood listener. And then there’s the crop of people, the existence of whom I shall blame upon the band (and their work), who never bother to listen to the message being pounded into the ground over the course of a record, who love Panic! At the Disco because “the lead singer is so hot.”
But the fact remains: Panic! as songwriters are head and shoulders more clever than spiritual partners Good Charlotte and the Bloodhound Gang — a song like “London Beckoned” can be interpreted as a confessional statement of purpose, or bleedingly sarcastic, depending on taste. And their music manages to be much easier to stomach than either of those aforementioned groups by virtue of varied instrumentation and a ear for melody with a much greater frequency response. If they’re too pop for you, try Neon Blonde or the Blood Brothers. If they’re too punk, congratulations on branching out from Ashlee Simpson. We’ll see you on the other side.
Tags: hard rock
