If you’ve ever asked me about my favorite artists, we’ve more than likely had a conversation about how much I love Panic! At the Disco. Having listened to their newest album, Pray For the Wicked, on an endless loop for the last two months, I can’t help but point out the brilliance and taste behind such a perfect concept album.
We’ve seen a lot of cool shit from Brendon Urie in the last few years. And now he’s taken us on a journey through the bullshit that many talented, creative artists deal with as they attempt to climb the rungs of the music industry. Born with talent and desires, we often struggle to accept ourselves for who we are, because pop culture so often teaches us to be something we are not, and we never build up the right amount of self confidence to pursue our dreams. However, for those that surpass such initial obstacles, the road that follows is filled with trials and tribulations; pressure and manipulation; doubt and fear. Aspirations for success and individuality get lost in a sea of fake personalities and greed, while substance abuse and the appeal of luxury sneaks up on all. Perhaps those that make it really start living, but then again, maybe they just end up “Dying in LA.”
I suppose we should join Brendon and pray for the wicked…
“We’ve been falling, it’s like we fell to the top. I was born to cut a million. Cut my teeth and made a killing. Now I’m dodging everything you think that I’m not. Archetype of television, was lost in thought but held the vision.
Been waiting for somebody else to carry me. There’s nothing else there for me, at my door, all the people I know aren’t who they used to be. And if I try to change my life one more day there would be nobody else to save me. And I can’t change into a person I don’t wanna be.
All my life been hustling and tonight is my appraisal. ‘Cause I’m a hooker sellin’ songs and my pimp’s a record label. This world is full of demons, stocks and bonds and bible traitors. So I do the deed, get up and leave a climber and a sadist.
Mama said, ‘Burn your biographies. Rewrite your history, light up your widest dreams.’ Museum victories everyday. We wanted everything, wanted everything. Stay up on that rise. Stay up on that rise and never come down. Mama said, ‘Don’t give up, it’s a little complicated. All tied up, no more love and I hate to see you waiting.’ They say it’s all been done but they haven’t seen the best of me. So I got one ore run and it’s gonna be a sight to see. Had to have high, high hopes for a living. Shooting for the stars when I couldn’t make a killing. Didn’t have a dime but I always had a feeling, always had high, high hopes. Had to have high, high hopes for a living. Didn’t know how but I always had a feeling I was gonna be that one in a million. Always had high, high hopes.
Oscars and Emmys and Grammys. Everyone here is a trophy. And I’m sipping bourbon, the future’s uncertain, the past and the pavement below me. Maybe I’ll elevate, maybe I’m second rate, so unaware of my status. Maybe I’m overjoyed, maybe I’m paranoid. Designer me up in straight jackets. My tell-tale heart’s a hammer in my chest. Cut me a silk tie tourniquet. This is my roaring, roaring 20s. I don’t even know me. Roll me like a blunt ’cause I wanna go home.
And if you’re night crawling with him, I won’t take it lying down, I’ve got a few lawyers and you’re guilting as charged. We could be waltzing, but darling don’t be throwing shade now. Don’t call me Saint California if you’re at another altar just gimme your vows. Dancing’s not a crime unless you do it without me.
Dancing with the demons. Holy Spirit grips you like a pistol. Wet the whistle, abyss of iced Cristal. Every weekend with your friend, every weekday when it ends, damn it’s all good, I guess. This is what it feels like when you become one of the drunks. Searching for a new high, high as the sun, uncomfortably numb. This is what it feels like when you become one of the drunks.
Sorry to get sentimental tonight. It’s just that everything reminds me of things I thought I shouldn’t have to see again. See, the thing is, I’m so sorry to say, someone still loves you.
Somedays I lie awake til the sun hits my face and I fade, elevate from the earth, far away to a place where I’m free from the weight. This old world, this old world. I don’t trust anything or anyone below the sun. I don’t feel anything at all.
We were borderline kids with a book of disorders, medicating everyday to keep the straightness in order. Dead and gone so long, seventeen so gone. It’s the false side of hope where believers concede and there’s only memories when it’s over. So pour out some liquor, make it an old fashioned. Remember your youth and all that you do, the plank and the passion. They were the best of times, they were the best of times of your life.
The moment you arrived, they built you up, the sun was in your eyes, you couldn’t believe it. Riches all around, you’re walking, stars are on the ground, you start to believe it. Every face along the boulevard is a dreamer just like you. You looked at death in a taro card and you saw what you had to do. But nobody knows you now, when you’re dying in LA. Nobody owes you now, when you’re dying in LA. Oh the power, the power, the power of LA.”
~ Panic! At the Disco, Pray For the Wicked