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By Melissa Bobbitt Hit Invasion YOU CAN TELL A LOT ABOUT A PERSON BY THE EMBELLISHMENTS ON THEIR CAR: A CUSTOMIZED HORN MIGHT SUGGEST A BOISTEROUS PERSONALITY; TINTED WINDOWS MEANS A DESIRE FOR PRIVACY AND FUNKED-OUT RIMS COULD INDICATE, WELL, BAD TASTE. SO WHEN IT CAME TIME FOR THE FELLOWS IN PANIC AT THE DISCO TO CUSTOMIZE A HONDA CIVIC FOR A FAN GIVEAWAY, WHAT WAS THE ONE COMPONENT GUITARIST/LYRICIST RYAN ROSS WANTED TO INCLUDE? “A TIME MACHINE,” HE SAYS, ONLY HALF-JOKING. In a way, Ross is a lot like Back to the Future’s Marty McFly, a musician who’s ended up exploring the past. Whereas most young lads wear black T-shirts emblazoned with logos, Ross and his Panic compadres were donning Victorian suits and dapper duds straight out A Clockwork Orange’s droog gang. One may argue that the band’s anachronistic image was as vital to the popularity of their debut platinum-selling album, A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out, as the songs were. Part punk-pop, part Vaudevillian, the clever and verbose record stoked a fire that all but consumed the blogging community in late ’05. In their teens at the time, the self-proclaimed “wet dream[s] for the web zines” incited more heated debate than an Iowa caucus: Was the omnipresent single “I Write Sins Not Tragedies” a stroke of pop genius by a quartet of prodigies, or a bloated mess by a bunch of pretty boys? And yet, the biggest polarization was yet to come in the Panic camp. Not content to repeat themselves on their new record, the band bestowed upon their followers Pretty.Odd. in March, which debuted at No. 2 on the Billboard 200. The name speaks for itself; a robust combination of Beatlesque orchestration and folksy musings. It’s a collection that fans either worship or revile. Gone are the paragraph-long song titles. Gone is founding bassist Brent Wilson, who introduced Ross to the group’s lead singer, Brendon Urie, while they were growing up around Las Vegas. Gone is the exclamation mark that irked a thousand copy editors. But before accusing the boys of abandoning their former selves, drummer Spencer Smith wants to remind detractors that gone are also three years since their last album. “We didn’t sit down and have this meeting like, (scoffs), ‘We need to change. This is what we’re going to go do,’” Smith says. “It was all natural, so we were hoping — maybe some of the old fans won’t like it — but hopefully some people who weren’t into our band will get into it, and hopefully some fans will grow with us. They’re three years older now as well, so maybe it will relate to them now, like the first one did three years ago.” New Panic formula It’s a sentiment echoed in Pretty.Odd. ’s opening track, “We’re So Starving.” Urie spouts a melody that insists, “You don’t have to worry ‘cos we’re still the same band.” What’s ironic is that the song is probably the only one on the new album with any shades of the old Panic formula (squelching keyboards over a rabble-rousing beat and Ross’ nimble riffs). What’s even more ironic is that new bassist Jon Walker provides backing vocals on that line. His history with the band stems back to 2005, when he was teching and videotaping for Panic’s tour mates The Academy Is…. He and Ross struck up an immediate friendship. Walker joined in 2006 after a spate of conflicts between Wilson and the other members. That same year, he made his impromptu debut at the KROQ Weenie Roast after Wilson went AWOL. The band says Walker jumped a flight from Chicago to Los Angeles right after attending his girlfriend’s prom, learning the bass parts on the plane. (A jilted Wilson threatened to sue his former band mates, but both sides settled out of court. Since then, Wilson’s told the media he’s “not bitter” about his departure.) Ross attributes much of Panic’s evolution to Walker’s presence. “I think Jon coming into the band was a big deal, a big thing for us because he’s such a positive person,” Ross says. “Me and him spent a lot of time together over the summer and we wrote a bunch of new songs together. I think just having somebody new in the band that is excited about doing this was an eye-opener for all of us to start having more fun with what we get to do in our life.” Cabin fever Unafraid to pursue unconventional inspiration, the foursome retreated to a cabin about an hour outside of Vegas after a tiresome yearlong tour for Fever. Ross was in the midst of developing a fairytale narrative that he envisioned as a potential musical. But after two and a half months of isolation — from the fanfare, the pop charts, the rubbish of modern life — they realized the timing wasn’t right. They flocked back to their garish hometown to the Studio at the Palms hotel and culled from their recent rock obsessions (The Beatles, Silverchair, early ’70s minstrels.) Soon, “Nine in the Afternoon” was born, the heir apparent to “Penny Lane,” with its bells, whistles and jovial piano. Following suit was the tune that best defines Panic’s present era, “That Green Gentleman (Things Have Changed).” “Things have changed for me, but that’s OK. I feel the same,” croons Urie in the chorus, his aching vibrato imploring his audience to have an open mind about their experimentation. Their musical growth was cultivated further by producer Rob Mathes (Rod Stewart, Elton John). He networked with Peter Cobbin, a mainstay mixer at Abbey Road Studios, where Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band — a great influence on Pretty.Odd. — had flourished. There, Panic dabbled in orchestral feats (“She Had the World,” “The Piano Knows Something I Don’t Know”) and saloon-vibe songwriting (“From a Mountain in the Middle of the Cabins”), and swooned over the history emanating from the hallowed halls. “I Have Friends in Holy Spaces,” a shuck-and-jive ditty, employed one of the world’s oldest microphones, dating back to the studios’ inception in the 1930s. “Something to think about” Not only has the music transformed, but the subject matter as well. Fever was footloose and fancy free, and as Ross says, a little myopic. Pretty.Odd. allowed him to stretch as a lyricist and as a philosopher. Ross sings lead on “Behind the Sea,” a track that muses, “We’re all too small to talk to God/We’re all too smart to talk to God.” “I went to Catholic high school and religious schools throughout my whole life,” he says. “It’s just being 21 and being confused about what you believe in. One thing though, with all the lyrics on this album, that is a lot different [from Fever]. …Before, we didn’t know if anyone was going to listen to our band. I felt like if there were going to be people hearing this, at least I should try to give them something to think about.” As he converses with Mean Street from a tour stop in Miami, the most prominent thing Ryan Ross is thinking about is heading down to the ocean for a cleansing swim — to wash his hands of his “emo” past, to embrace the unknown. He’s ready to take that courageous dip into adulthood. “Everybody has this complex — or at least, we did when we were 17 — [that] young boys think they know everything about the world,” Ross says. “I just realized in the past year or so that I don’t really know anything. That’s let me become a lot more open-minded and a better person in that sense that I’m not closing everything out and I’m trying to learn more about what’s going on.” On the web: panicatthedisco.com |
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Copyright © 2002 Mean Street Magazine, LLC |
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