Suddenly, Panic at the Disco is a really good band.

I mean, they were alright before, when their name was the punctuation-friendly Panic! At the Disco. I even got their album “A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out” for Christmas, gave it a quick listen, nodded appreciatively, and forgot all about it.

At the time, there was no need to get invested. Panic! At The Disco sounded exactly like Fall Out Boy, the band that discovered them: Same intensely theatrical singing; same walls of electric guitar; same lengthy song titles that are just so freaking clever you want poke someone with your guyliner brush. (All I can say is, “Nails For Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks.” And then I start gagging.)

But here’s the thing: FOB is better at bratty pop-rock better than PATD. Their melodies are more inventive, and lead singer Patrick Stump is more technically accomplished.

So when I want to feel hip, I reach for Fall Out Boy. (Or when I want to run really fast. You should see how many times “This Ain’t a Scene, It’s an Arms Race” got played on my gym mix.)

However, if you pay attention to the group’s lyrics–written by their bassist Pete Wentz–the band becomes insufferable. Not even the world’s best hook can excuse the soul-sucking self-absorption of rockers who complain about how hard it is to be famous. And that’s the topic of almost every Fall Out Boy song. (This New Yorker review sums it right up.)

And you know why that irritates me? Because it implies that listeners give a damn. As though our own lives are boring compared to the oh-so-special problems of rock stars. Maybe some people feel that way, but not me.

To be extra phony about it, Fall Out Boy tries to act all ironic and sarcastic about the attention they get: They recreated the “Pete’s genitals” thing in a video. They recorded an ironic cover of “Beat It.” They go overboard saying they’re too cool for their own fame.

But you know what that is? That’s that kid in your middle school who desparately wanted you to like him, but knew it was lame to let you know it. So instead, he made this big show of being cooler than you. And when you paid attention to him, he got to revel in your gaze and act like you were a loser for even noticing his Smiths t-shirt.

And that’s basically what Panic At the Disco used to be. But no more! On their new album “Pretty. Odd.,” they’ve broken away from pop-punk to riff on the Beatles and the Beach Boys. Instead of fame, their subjects include love, self-doubt, and the joy of being alive.

The result is a sonically adventurous album that’s just as infectious as a Fall Out Boy record, but much more diverse and relatable. (It does have a few of those annoyingly clever song titles, but leopards can’t change all their spots at once.)

Listen to “She Had the World,” with its harpsichord and string section and lilting background vocals. It’s a vulnerable, beautiful reflection on failed love that sounds modern and sixties-retro at the same time.

The songs are full of rewards like that. Panic At the Disco seems more interested in making good music than in making sure we notice how talented and sensitive they are.

And the result, of course, is that it’s easier to appreciate them as a talented, sensitive band.