Panic at the Disco improved upon their most recent Denver performance when they played the Broomfield Event Center on Friday — but just barely. Photos by .
I don’t like being jerked around. And most of all, don’t like being teased.
Last time was in Denver, they played with my emotions. I had high expectations for their show, as the first Panic tour was touted as a grandiose three-ring circus of an event, a full-on showcase that paired perfectly with Ryan Ross’ over-dramatic and catchy lyrics. I didn’t see Panic on that tour, but my love for “A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out” was strong, and I rejoiced at the release of 2008’s “Pretty Odd,” anxiously anticipating the prospect of a tour.
When the time came to witness my first Panic show, I was stung with an early summer performance at the that flat-out sucked (read the full review ). It was over-the-top in all of the wrong places, and I couldn’t help but feel that the band was almost mocking the adoration emanating from the audience. Panic’s spoiled teen-idol behavior was sickening; but I help out hope. Maybe I would see my Las Vegas loves again, and they would make things right.
Let me state for the record, that I am Panic at the Disco fan of epic proportions. I think they make deliciously well-crafted pop music, and in my dreams, I am Ryan Ross’ (considerably older) trophy wife. So, when I saw Panic this time around at the on Friday night, I was ready to be wowed. I had faith. And they almost delivered.
I missed openers , but arrived just as were beginning their so-so performance. The 8th grade girls behind me in matching faux-80s-designed PWTs shirts were screaming and texting with glee through the entire set, so I would say it was a success. I mildly enjoyed “Hey There Delilah,” but didn’t find anything striking about the Illinois quartet.
Between bands, previously-chosen groups from the audience played Xbox’s “Rock Band” game live, which catered nicely to the increasingly short attention spans of the kids awaiting another quickie set, this time from heartbreaking heartthrob, Chris Carrabba, known with band as .
Being gorgeous can be a blessing and a curse, but at this point in his career, Carrabba bats his eyelashes like a pro. He and the rest of Dashboard banged out a tight and sugary set, Carrabba’s white teeth beaming as he belted out “Don’t Wait.”
My cold heart even got a little mushy for songs like “The Good Fight” and “Thick as Thieves,” as I stared at the lead singer, wishing he would take the hat off that I knew was hiding his thick waves of black hair. Carrabba sat down at an upright piano for “Widow’s Peak,” the large screens at each side of the stage broadcasting close-ups of his furrowing Dylan McKay brow.
Carrabba invited two members of The Cab onstage for an entertaining version of Pink’s current hit, “So What,” and the crowd went crazy. Their tenth and final song of the set, “Stolen,” was flawless, and Carrabba flashed his peachy cheeks at the crowd one last time as Warhol-inspired video images of couples making out appeared behind him.
Another Xbox Rock Band “duel” happened awkwardly as the crew began putting up Panic’s set. Looking like an Urban Outfitter’s window display, large patchwork drapes were hung from ceiling to floor and surrounded the giant video screen. Lights were strung across the stage, antique-looking rugs were rolled out, and two giant white platforms shaped like spools of thread were place on their sides, housing the drums and keyboards.
Panic appeared in their Sunday best, opening with “We’re So Starving,” their spirits visibly higher than before. Vintage, digitally-colorized film clips of cars racing and burlesque-style women flashed behind them, and ringmaster Brendon Urie began his 45-minute show. Sneering with boyish charm, Urie seductively sang “Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have without Taking Her Clothes Off,” and the mostly pre-teen audience shrieked and sang along while guitarist Ryan Ross lazily sang back-up.
Ross acknowledged the mostly underage audience, but tossed out a little quip about the importance of voting this election season and went into “Green Gentlemen,” Urie joining him to share a microphone for the chorus. Urie then traded guitar for bass and started “Time to Dance,” cutting through mid-song with a couple of verses from “I Constantly Thank God for Esteban.”
Three large, gilded picture frames dropped from the ceiling and framed three individual images of Brendan’s ego on the screen behind Panic, with him now sitting at the piano for “When the Day Met the Night,” straddling the bench, and pressing his lips to the microphone while cocking his head and doing his trademark eyebrow raise. Mid-song, he ran to an extra drum kit set up on the front of the stage to finish the song.
Howling a lovely version of “Northern Downpour,” Urie came back to the piano once again for the biting “But itap Better if You Do.” Springing from his seat, he peered out into the vast and virtually vacant arena, and marched the band through “I Write Sins Not Tragedies,” proving once and for all that he was the main attraction in the Panic at the Disco show.
“Nine in the Afternoon” had the crowd clamoring and Urie pushing his snarky charm to a high before taking his bass and teasing with a few bars of the Rolling Stones “Satisfaction,” which lead into “Mad as Rabbits.” Drummer Spencer Smith came down from his perch and took a seat at the front drum set to the left, a touring keyboardist joining Ross and bassist/guitarist Jon Walker at stage right while Urie led the crowd in the Isley Brothers’ classic, “Shout.” Like a teen-scene preacher, Urie doused the crowd in a dramatic baptismal fire, shaking and waving his hands as his voice hit an unbelievably high register. And with that, the show was over.
I set the bar fairly low for Panic at the Disco this time around, and my expectations were graciously met. Maybe I expect too much from a band obviously not targeted at my demographic, and I had to realize that suburban teenagers don’t care that PATD only played for 45-minutes, or that Brendon Urie seems to be the only member interested in entertaining them.
I will still carry a hopeful torch for PATD’s future, and continue to love the power-pop disguised as epic rock that they create. Maybe when I was 15, my expectations were low too, and it just so happened that my own arena rock dream band (the Smashing Pumpkins) spoiled me by playing a mind-blowing two and a half hour set. Oh, the golden age of the ’90s.
is a Denver writer and regular Reverb contributor. Check out her and .
is a Boulder freelance photographer and Reverb contributor.
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