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Better if you do what, oh Messers Disco? Better if you do more exercise? Better if you do as I say and don’t do as I do? Or maybe it’s just better if you lace our brave new age of emotional popcore with the full-throttle drama of the dancefloor and the glitterball. The clue, as is so often the case, is in the question, and the best of both worlds is just what they offer with this flounce-punk stunner.
Everyone’s favourite gaudy city of sin, Las Vegas, may be better known for reducing grown men to trembling wrecks, but since The Killers bounced out in their dinner jackets, it looks there’s more to the city’s musical scene than Elton John’s camp-ola shows for a million Benjamins a pop. Panic! At The Disco are the latest Vegas escapees to wield pretty boy power pop that’s more rousing than an MDMA enema.
This is one of the more straightforward tracks from deranged debut ‘A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out’; albeit with these things being relative (for the sheer hell of it, there’s a breakdown that sounds like Slayer doing Tex Mex). From under their painfully lovely hair, Brendon Urie and his gang bounce about this track like evil chipmunks weaned on a diet of Blink 182 and ’80s electro. Despite rather heavy lyrical story (gets dumped, feels bad, goes to strip joint to forget about being dumped, feels even worse afterwards); it should have Fall Out Boy’s Pete Wentz – the man who discovered them – thinking he maybe should have just left them in the desert after all, because this is competition if ever we heard it.
Everyone’s favourite gaudy city of sin, Las Vegas, may be better known for reducing grown men to trembling wrecks, but since The Killers bounced out in their dinner jackets, it looks there’s more to the city’s musical scene than Elton John’s camp-ola shows for a million Benjamins a pop. Panic! At The Disco are the latest Vegas escapees to wield pretty boy power pop that’s more rousing than an MDMA enema.
This is one of the more straightforward tracks from deranged debut ‘A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out’; albeit with these things being relative (for the sheer hell of it, there’s a breakdown that sounds like Slayer doing Tex Mex). From under their painfully lovely hair, Brendon Urie and his gang bounce about this track like evil chipmunks weaned on a diet of Blink 182 and ’80s electro. Despite rather heavy lyrical story (gets dumped, feels bad, goes to strip joint to forget about being dumped, feels even worse afterwards); it should have Fall Out Boy’s Pete Wentz – the man who discovered them – thinking he maybe should have just left them in the desert after all, because this is competition if ever we heard it.
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