Monday 13/11/06 Panic! At The Disco, Jack's Mannequin, Plain White T's @ Madsion Sq Garden, New York

After the tour-ending drama of Bloc Party drummer Matt Tong’s collapsed lung, Saves The Day had been mooted to live up to their name and step unto the breach, but for the two-night stand at Madison Square Garden, endearingly earnest pop-punksters Plain White T’s filled in, with TRL favourite Hate (I Really Don’t Like You) proving a rousing start to an occasionally pedestrian evening. Facing an audience divided largely between emo kids and tweens accompanied by their unimpressed parents, there’s something pleasantly unthreatening about the heartfelt thankyous of lead vocalist Tom Higgenson, and the simplicity of their set compared favourably with the overblown theatrics that later follow from the headliners.

Whilst his good looks elicit an audience response more appropriate to a boyband, Jack’s Mannequin lead-singer Andrew McMahon onstage is a man possessed, performing with the commitment and passion you’d expect from a leukemia survivor. A blur of constant movement, rebounding between two different microphones, his zeal transforms their back catalogue from something potentially ordinary into music full of an insistent, irresistible momentum, and profoundly joyous, despite the trauma of his life. With a storming rendition of Kill The Messenger to open their set, and rapturous receptions for singles The Mixed Tape and Dark Blue, it’s almost a given now that McMahon’s side-project will eclipse the success of his alma mater, Something Corporate. It wouldn’t be undeserved.

Though the palpable sense of anticipation prior to their appearance is unsurprisingly transformed into ecstatic applause from the largely female, largely teenage crowd, anyone over 16 can’t help but think as Panic! At The Disco emerge, “this is a bit much, isn’t it?” The extravagant stage set-up, the backing dancers, the overwhelming campness of the whole piece- it’s certainly impressive, but undeniably contrived. One can’t help but feel a bit irritated at the hypocrisy of this over-elaborate production - for a band who only allowed one shot of themselves in their video for ‘Lying Is The Most Fun A Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off’, apparently because of fears that their looks were overshadowing their music, they seem awfully concerned with appearances. It’s unfortunate as well, because the music definitely warrants acclaim. Ryan Ross’ lyrics have an enjoyably effusive flow, and their combination of punk and electronica separates them from the mediocre ranks of the emo genre. There’s a glorious bitterness to ‘Lying Is The…’, and a revelatory cover of 'Killer Queen' exposes the similarities between these novices and Freddie Mercury et al. 

But the unavoidable conclusion is that this is too big a tour, too soon. It’s not that their meteoric rise since the release of ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’ has been undeserved, but that this band simply don’t yet have enough material or experience for this kind of success, these kind of venues. Brendon Urie does show genuine promise as a frontman, especially when aping Morrissey-esque homoerotics with lead guitarist Ryan Ross, and his technical knockout by a plastic bottle at this year’s Reading Festival seems to have had little effect on his onstage poise.

The band’s apparent fascination with the silent era later manifests itself in a startlingly dull vaudeville reel prior to the encore, only further illustrating that ‘greatness’ has been thrust upon them, and they’ve had to rely on dancers, gimmicks and makeup to paper over the cracks. Again, whilst it predictably received ecstatic applause, a bizarre ensemble drumming interlude merely affirmed that bands with the experience and showmanship of, say, Green Day can pull off such self-indulgence; one album and less than a year of touring really isn’t sufficient. 

To make the leap from flash-in-the-pan fads to global success-story, they don’t need to entirely jettison their theatrical side, but just to let it breathe through the precocious wit of the music, rather than through grating dance-numbers and needless flamboyance.