Tampa Calling

Here’s a review (and photo) by Amanda Schurr, events editor/arts writer for Creative Loafing Sarasota.

Honda Civic Tour: Panic at the Disco w/Motion City Soundtrack/The Hush Sound/Phantom Planet, 7 p.m. Tues., April 22, Ruth Eckerd Hall, Clearwater

By the time I got to Clearwater for the corporate fun fest Honda Civic Tour, I’d already missed Phantom Planet, those “Cal-i-FORN-YA” crooners who once called actor Jason Schwartzman a band member. Drat. That was the only opener for the Panic-headlining bill I was curious about, and I was still two bands out before the Las Vegas dreamo quartet (A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out) and unfortunate-for-them Pete Wentz “discovery” would go on.

Hordes of teens, custodial units, and the occasional beer drinker were trickling into Ruth Eckerd Hall to catch second act, The Hush Sound. A promising Illinois (and fellow Wentz find) foursome whose Donny-and-Marie duo, Bob Morris and Greta Salpeter, worked the frenzied crowd with Afterschool Special aplomb. Singer/pianist Salpeter’s dulcet pipes brought to mind The Sundays’ Harriet Wheeler, all quirky pop affect and head-bobbing fun. The kids ate it up, but never more so than when hottie Panic frontman Brendon Urie snuck out to sing a refrain.

Minneapolis’ Motion City Soundtrack was next, tearing through the kind of nondescript “indie” power pop that adolescents feel cool listening to and parents don’t find threatening. I was mesmerized by Moog synth player Jesse Johnson’s ass-tingling charisma. His hair buzzed close except for a long swatch in the middle, perfect for tossing about dramatically, he’d plunk down a few notes and then flail over his keyboard as though he was giving himself a spinal tap. “Here’s a new song,” introduced lead singer Justin Pierre, sporting a wonky white-boy afro. “It’s kinda sad… but totally happy.” Cue the patented Blink 182-styled vocals, straight-up major key harmonies, and ferosh four-chord rhythm guitar formula. Terribly earnest, competently performed, perfectly inoffensive (even with the occasional F-bomb), utterly forgettable.

In between sets, an increasingly packed house was implored to “send ur txt mssgs” to some Wizard-of-Oz-esque entity who then scrolled the cyberspeak on a large screen, center stage. “SCREAM IF U JUST WANNA SCREAM,” read one. The audience obliged.
They did so every few moments, in fact, whenever another cause so required. “Scream if you want so-and-so to know I am so over her!” WHOOOO!!!!! “Scream if you think Panic is the best band ever!” YEAHHH!!!!! “Scream to let him know I love him SOOOO much!!!! :->” OWWWWWWWWW!!!!

When they weren’t messaging the big-screen god and screeching with blood-curdling anticipation, fans undoubtedly out past their Tuesday night curfew were queuing for meet-and-greets, navigating a series of towering Honda Civic banners and booths and donning newly purchased, $50 brown-and-tan Panic hoodies. The place was a blur of flat-ironed hair, skinny jeans, and diagonal stripes: It was as if Pat Benatar birthed some 2,200 little lovechildren, and the battlefield was the Eck.

Shortly after a young woman exited the ladies room, lamenting that — no joke — she “had a test in the morning,” the larger-than-life texting gave way to a few Honda spots that absolutely no one could hear. Panic appeared just before 10 p.m., when hipster prep heartthrobs Urie, Ryan Ross and crew stepped up to mics festively adorned with fake, lighted roses. Panic at the florist was more like it.

Thankfully, Urie, Ross and crew eclipsed the high-voiced, testicularly pinched power punk of their Soundtrack predecessors. On tight, driving numbers like “I Write Sins Not Tragedies,” “Build God, Then We’ll Talk,” and “Nine in the Afternoon,” the latter from new release Pretty.Odd., the four-piece (fleshed out with a fifth member live) infused what’s become the Top 40 “alt” prototype of late with epic, electro flourishes and a glam ear for musical and lyrical drama.

The barely twentysomething boys were damn fine — engaging, polished and surprisingly well suited to the above-par acoustics at Ruth Eckerd, by all accounts an odd venue for such a show. If only it hadn’t taken so long to get to the main event. I’d have never imagined I’d be the one in that room with the shortest attention span.

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