Pitchfork

The only difference between misogyny in run-of-the-mill rock songs, misogyny in hip-hop, and misogyny in run-of-the-mill emo songs is how far the singer's balls have dropped. All of it, however, is selling like hotcakes, and Panic's rise from Fall Out Boy's pet project to platinum-polishing boy toys is proof of that. They can swathe their broken hearts in pre-pubescent warbling and polysyllabic pretensions all they want. It won't change the fact that this woe-is-me story of a groom learning some dirt about his bride right before the wedding is just another stupid song about a dude getting screwed over by a girl performed by dudes that don't sound like they've ever screwed in a lightbulb, on an album full of the stuff. These kids should take their own advice: Face this sort of nonsense with a little poise and rationale, and leave the woman-hating for the booth-tanned grunge fucks.