The Singles Jukebox

Middling score…

[Video][Website]
[4.83]

Alfred Soto: “High” is correct — the track sounds like six coked up men playing with knobs in the studio. This time they write histories, not tragedies: a chapter of self-mythology. Whom do they have to convince? 
[5]

Jonathan Bradley: A bit of a throwback to Panic!’s roots as the inheritors of a Fall Out Boy legacy they were never quite extraordinary enough to carry. The trash synth fanfare, part DJ Toomp and all unearned punk self-assurance, is a very Pete Wentz tactic, and Brendon Urie sounds more Patrick Stump than ever. These comparisons are highlighted because “High Hopes” is a retreat from, say, the rococo diversion of “Nine in the Afternoon” or the Gothic lean of “Miss Jackson,” but it represents a focus of intent that works decidedly well for this band.
[7]

Tim de Reuse: Ah, Panic!’s production is as stringy as ever, and there’s an extra-special strain to the vocals like they’ve spent an hour on a taffy pulling machine; it’s all flourish and no punch. In only a few minutes you can replicate the sensation of having temporarily damaged your hearing! Oh, but the music? There’s a surprising variety of harmonies in there (always a sucker for the old IV-iv-I) but pretty much every other element wouldn’t sound out of place in an Imagine Dragons tune — and I say that strictly in the pejorative sense.
[3]

Matias Taylor: Despite obvious lyrical concessions to Top 40, it seems more of a strategic choice than one indicative of creative dearth: Urie manages to sneak in morsels of sophistication like “museum victories”, and the chorus feels like an expertly crafted ad rather than a lack of ideas; instantly catchy, and instantly re-playable. And this isn’t that a fair barometer for a song with the primary aim of lodging itself in your brain?
[7]

Vikram Joseph: Panic! At The Disco have clearly indulged their synth-pop tendencies a lot more since I last listened to them, and to be fair, this almost works. Musically and vocally, it’s a first cousin of the jagged, high-octane, high-stakes pop of (terminally underrated) Sharpless. But the sort of production that a bedroom pop band can wear well just sounds like Poundshop Antonoff coming from a major-label act. Brendon Urie’s lyrics, shorn of their barbed humour, are flat and generic; also, I’m not sure who allowed this to happen but he should never be allowed to sing a cappella again.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: I developed a soft spot for these guys, at least theoretically, after discovering the trove that is Brendon Urie on Vine. (It helps if you have a friend named Brendan who also likes Vines to whom you can send Vines calling them out.) But this is still a grotesque overinflated “Irreplaceable.”
[3]