Check out our gallery of photos from tonight’s stunning show

Part of the unnervingly savvy Pete Wentz’s stable of power pop/punk creations, Cobra Starship are surprisingly good. One could be forgiven for thinking they were the main act – a legion of teenage girls literally go mental for them, chanting along to their fun songs and ‘putting their fangs in their air’ in a show of solidarity. It must be said though that they write terrible lyrics, mostly about shitting and kissing, although thankfully not at the same time.

By contrast, The Academy Is… are forgettable. Led by what seems to be a gay, non-menacing version of Mick Jagger, they postulate and prance around the stage but simply don’t have the music to back it up, and the crowd are losing momentum. For mine, the main problem is completely forgettable melodies that don’t in any way seem to fit the heavy soundtrack they’re set to.

All thoughts of the plainly amateur previous acts are instantly annihilated by the opening strains of We’re So Starving, announcing the arrival of Panic At The Disco as grown-ups and genuine musical talents. From the get go, the difference between the band circa 2005 and the band now is obvious – long gone are the flamboyant, baroque costumes and the gothic stage circus; in their place is a stunning stage motif of garden flowers and tea room wallpaper projections, accompanied by a more modest and fetching sartorial sense. I for one am extremely jealous of how good lead singer Brandon Urie looks in skinny grey jeans.

Following the lead of their latest album Pretty. Odd., PATD morph from the opening into Nine in the Afternoon, treating the arena to one of their best tunes. It’s ever so pleasing to note that they opted to replace the horns and strings in the recording with an ably tickled set of ivories (as opposed to playing a backing track), and it’s artistic decisions like this that further show that this young band are really in it for the music. They even seem to be shying away from their earlier material, or are at least attempting to mould their arrangements to suit their new tone. The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage (luckily, their new songs have normal-person-legth titles) is less shrill and more ironic. That’s not to say that it doesn’t turn the screaming crowd into a bouncing mass, but one can’t help but feel that the kids are missing the joke. The trademark intro to I Write Sins Not Tragedies is actually missed by most, as Urie trades plucked violin for an acoustic guitar and creates a really interesting mix for the now decidedly more alt-country favourite.

That Green Gentleman, another top track, showcases the boys’ fantastic knack for a harmony and, in particular, Urie’s showstealing voice. Throughout the set, he’s genuinely astonishing as he plays with his amazing and sparingly employed vocal reach, effortlessly jumping from a romantic growl to heights unachievable by most mere mortals.

Next, it’s time for Behind the Sea, replete with bubbles and blue wash, as Panic do their best impersonation of a McCartney rock ballad (now it’s clear why Abbey Road was playing before they came on). Dropping the Odd part, the Pretty shines through on Northern Downpour, as does a subtle vulnerability. Folkin’ Around provides, true to its name, a soulful folk ditty as a little bit of Dylan and Neil Young can be heard and are more than welcome.

After a short dash off stage and the requisite encore, the show closes with Mad As Rabbits, which tonight is a melodic and sweeping epic. Drummer Spencer Smith’s appreciation for a tom-tom fill is admirable, as he shades with tone instead of a manic snare/hi-hat interplay. Being one of the 5 people over 18 in the whole place, it feels like this reviewer was one of the few who appreciated the musical development of the band – a continuation of the sardonic irony of their debut would have grated, despite its quality – but the obviously loyal fans certainly have something substantial to grasp to now, beyond the usual teen fare of nervous dates and misunderstood youth.