Panic at the Disco @ the Fillmore Auditorium
By bree davies | June 5th, 2008 | No Comments »
“Show me your jazz hands, Hot Topic patrons!” Photos by Sarah Cass.
As a performer, you can only get away with as much on stage as your audience will allow. When your audience is 3,500 13-year-old girls eagerly awaiting the sheer glimpse of your face, you know they will fall for almost anything.
Ryan Ross, lyrical mastermind and guitar-playing pre-teen dream of Panic at the Disco, is fully cognizant of this fact. Headlining this year’s Honda Civic tour, Panic wandered on stage, lazy attitudes in full view, 20-something hipster-boy swagger oozing from their pinstriped pockets. As Ross stood stage right staring blankly at his adoring audience, it was apparent that someone had woken up on the wrong side of their Four Seasons Temper-Pedic bed that morning.
Beginning with “We’re so Starving,” and dribbling right into “Nine in the Afternoon,” the band played hollow and half-heartedly; live versions of “The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide” and “She’s a Handsome Woman” were empty delivery, and in comparison to their stellar recordings, painful to witness live.
“But it’s Better if you Do” was off-key and sludgy, and Ross’s look of total confusion led me to believe the slowed-down version wasn’t intentional. He actually chewed bubble gum as he half-sang backup to lead singer Brendan Urie’s flippant and pitchy vocals during “Camisado.” Never have I seen someone so apathetically chew a piece of gum or play a tambourine in a way that could offend me. But Ross achieved this feat, and it was obvious that he had checked out long before the show began.
Luckily, Urie and bassist Jon Walker attempted to compensate for Ross’s behavior as they yucked it up between songs, winking at the audience and shamelessly plugging their latest release, “Pretty. Odd.” Mentioning the album (the cover of which was sprawled out on a giant screen, as well as in cardboard cut-out form across the stage) at that point in the show seemed self-indulgent and tacky, but the gaggles of teenage girls howled for more.
At one point, Ross attempted to breathe life into his deflated routine by baiting the middle school set to show him their “jazz hands.” Rows of flailing Panic-ettes complied like “Girls Gone Wild” minors-in-training, throwing their arms up as he stood at the microphone mildly pleased, a smug, jock-ish demeanor peering out from under his emo facade.
As Urie stood center stage in a sweat-soaked snap-front cowboy shirt, he sympathized with the crowd’s obvious discomfort in the heat by coyly asking, “Who is sweating balls right now?” This prompted yet more screaming from the barricades teeming with near-fainting fans. Then the bubble and fog machines kicked in, and the screaming endured.
Ross dedicated “Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking off Her Clothes” to all the single people in the audience, and of course, more fanatic screaming. Even the mention of grandmas and grandpas by Ross incited riotous screeching from the tiny girls in tiny PATD t-shirts. It was obvious that music was second to any movement, command or slight smile the audience was lucky enough to squeeze out of the band. Both performer and crowd seemed content with the performance.
Finishing with “Northern Downpour,” it was unclear if Ross’s guitar was even plugged in as he aggressively meddled with his cable and input. My guess was that he may have encountered problems while unnecessarily switching guitars four times in a 17-song set. Mechanically saying their goodbyes, PATD left the stage for a few moments as guitar-techs and towel boys scrambled around, preparing for the encore. Seconds later, Urie re-appeared and sang “Time to Dance” alone and acoustically, which was possibly the most enjoyable part of the set. Ross, Walker, and drummer Spencer Smith joined him for “Pas de Cheval” and “Mad As Rabbits” which lead into “Na Na Hey Hey” as the finale, and then they abruptly exited.
I went to the Panic at the Disco show expecting to be wined and dined, romanced with the over-the-top Beatles-esque “Sgt. Pepper”ism and Fall Out Boy “Grand Theft Autumn”-like charm their videos imply. Instead, I felt like I had just left the McDonald’s drive-thu alone with a grease stain on my skinny jeans and Strokes cassette stuck in the tape deck. An obsessed PATD fan until the death, I will stick to their LPs, thank you.
Bree Davies is a Denver-based writer and Reverb contributor.
Check out more excellent photography from Reverb contributor Sarah Cass.
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