Science: if you accept the principle of infinity (go with
us here, because if you don’t you’re pretty much rubbishing every rule in the
known universe from ‘gravity’ to ‘people who wear scarves indoors being
idiots’) then, taken to its logical conclusion, every permutation of every
possibility will eventually happen. So it was only a matter of time before the
world of rock’n’roll threw up a band from Las Vegas (say it again – Las Vegas)
who wished beyond wishes that they’d been born into the rain-soaked drudgery of
1980s British indie. To the point where the four members used to race each
other to get the only two copies of this magazine that got stocked in Vegas. So
let’s not be under any illusions: The Killers are weird.
The first great thing about this band is that, after an
epoch in thrall to garage rock, they’re about to make U2 cool again. Better
still, they inhabit a world of snuff and nonsense where hermaphrodites dance in
casino halls and boyfriends murder girlfriends over bottles of bourbon; a stadium
rock ‘Baywatch Nights’ with morals and cumshots. They are a band of Smiths fans
from Las Vegas. Their singer is called Brandon Flowers. Their bass player looks
like Jesus… on paper, The Killers are fantastic, and live they’re even better.
So, naturally, we’ve been pretty excited about them for a while now. And half
of ‘Hot Fuss’ is just as good. This half: singles ‘Mr Brightside’ and ‘Somebody
Told Me’ (which you already know). ‘Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine’ (Duran Duran
with better basslines and dirtier hair), ‘All The Things That I’ve Done’ (for
its gospel catcall ”I’ve got soul but I’m not a soldier”) and ‘On Top’ (icy
synthtronica meets Springsteen) are all the equals of Bono or Le Bon. Then,
just like a Baywatch Nights episode, it all goes a bit “tits up”.
If it was just that the rest of the album was beige
filler, things would be simple. But it isn’t. There’s
a song toward the end of ‘Hot Fuss’ called ‘Glamorous
Indie Rock & Roll’, which is possibly the most teeth-grindingly
embarrassing thing you will hear in your entire life. Its chorus, and we’re not
lying, goes, “Its indie rock’n’roll for me!” Jesus, Brandon, people go into
rehab for less. But (and it’s a big but), being a band of Smiths fans from Las
Vegas, maybe it’s just excruciating because it’s honest, and maybe Mr Flowers
is no more smart or guilty than those loveable idiots who ring up Westwood
every weekend pretending to be black. And that’s before you realise that
‘Glamorous Indie Rock & Roll’ is actually a facsimile of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’,
and you realise that The Killers’ charm is to be clever and clueless both at
once. Still, hate the sin, love the sinner. And The Killers have made half of
the album of the year.
Dan Martin – N.M.E.