Song Series

[Tribute] Panic!king

Three months ago I still wondered to myself the existence of rock music, for it carries nothing beyond the incessant cacophonies of myriad instruments, in league with screams and shouts, wreathed in layers and layers of unbridled solos that cannot stand to harmonise a thing. Metal was an exception, because I completely leave the lyrical part alone and bask in the instrumental sounds. But now I am engrossed in the same thing I revolted at three months ago. It is not genuinely rock, in fact alternative, yet proves conducive to my experience with rock by being lyrical rock to be precise. And for once, the shouts and the screams harmonise perfectly, so well-built it endowed me with extreme joy. They are the true kings, or king, Panic! At the Disco.

Are you nasty?

At first notice I have to precaution you against any kind of hasty judgment to that I commenced my journey with P!AtD because of a girl - she led me to Miss Jackson, and it became my life-changing decision the moment I listened to the first line, Climbing out the back door, didn't leave a mark. If there is anything in particular for me to praise it, I will definitely torture myself weighing up the pros and cons, for the fluidity of the song just soothes your ears in the most unforgiveable fashion: its lyrical beauty, its blessed instrumental sound, and its, or Brendon Urie's, inimitable voice projection. In which every thing is there for a meaning, autotelic and immutable, there lies perfection.

If you love me, let me go.

I was introduced to This is Gospel in summer 2015, suggested by a dear friend of mine. And as you may already ponder, yes, I was still unable to fathom rock in the time of suggestion. But months later, I found out that rock music is not to be fathomed, but to be felt, and it could only shift from comprehension to sympathy if you undergo substantial hardships. P!AtD connects the two phases for me, garnering both wordly attractiveness and yearning escapism and begets a sensational beverage, so delicious I dig into it seconds after my first sip. Both the original version and the piano cover by Brendon Urie are suggestible, with analgesic expressions and echoing spasmodicality. Repression and regression are never eternal, and clinging to ideas and beliefs, those inborn and desirous of fulfilling, is inevitable, 'cause I won't give up without a fight.

There's nothing wrong with just a taste of what you paid for.

To this point I had my memories evoked about my vicarious encounters with P!AtD at my tender ages. Earlier on TV music shows, they played The Ballad of Mona Lisa on repeat as promotion to the newly introduced single. But the sounds were faint, and the playfulness of mine overshadowed any lingering leftovers of the song in my head; until one day, as I swifted through the playlists, I immediately descried the face of Brendon Urie, recollected about this only song that has long been sheer ruins. When the sounds started to match, it grew on me incrementally, and soon it became an obession without my notice. You're guaranteed to run this town - such use of language that one might spend an awful lot of time cogitating the galvanising narrative of a tragic story yet still enameled with mysterious osculations allows the single to protrude from its cohorts.

In brief, despite it being a short run, my rendezvous with rock music, Panic! At the Disco in specific, has been gilded with amazement. I stand to witness that my music taste is subject to a great deal of fluctuations, not yet settled in one genre, but as long as it is still good, I need to drink this beverage to the fullest of my sobriety.