The Killers are responsible for one of the greatest fluff albums in rock history. 2004’s Hot Fuss was vapid, over-the-top and little more than a collection of songs without a hint of truth, sincerity or cohesion. But at least half the songs were so deliriously fun that only the coldest-hearted listeners would take the time to strip them bare to see every derivative new wave rock cliché and each ludicrously clueless phrase for what they were. I liked Hot Fuss an inordinately large amount, but it is by no stretch of the imagination a sensibly great record.
Nevertheless, expectations were fairly high for their followup effort. But when Sam’s Town arrived, no one seemed to get what they wanted. If you wanted more of the same, hearing something new and different was a disappointment. If you wanted something different, the sub-par results were even more of a disappointment. Anyone could have told Brandon Flowers and company that their only selling point was irresistible pop hooks, so stripping them of their punchy gleam in favor of white-washed Americana and blue-collar bluster couldn’t have worked even with the experience and mindset needed to present them lucidly. Vegas is a long way from Jersey, and as suggested by their home city, they’re better suited at shiny but hollow musical tricks with dimly routine sentiment.
But after selling some twelve million records worldwide, why change what’s worked for you so far? And thus, the Killers’ third LP, Day & Age, is something of an amalgam of their last two, and continuing the trend of exponentially expanding each time. They return to the all-surface charm of their new wave pop roots but keep the insipid, store-bought posturing. But instead of the pulsating beats and seesaw rhythms of new wave’s finest moments, the Killers aim to soup up every song they can get their sweaty hands on. Ever artificial, this is a band that either needs to drop their emotional outpour or leave things raw and bare for true honesty (judging by their banal lyrical output, I strongly suggest the former).
“Losing Touch” kicks things off in Bowie dance/glam mode, but they seem to ignore the no-bullshit specialty that the Thin White Duke brought to club raves. Yes, they were as superficial as anyone else’s dance tracks, but his arrangements were too tinny to be overwrought, his words merely get-up-and-go flavoring to the limber beats. But Flowers’ “You made your home and you made your way back home/Like a roving vagabond I'm losing touch,” is too trite and gloomy an outlook for music designed for parties.
After that come the first two singles, “Human” and “Spaceman.” As expected, they’re as inane and unwieldy as any other, but when taken on surface level, they do deliver the frills-and-all big sound/bigger hooks goods. On “Human,” I can’t figure out if Flowers is asking, “Are we human or are we denser,” or, “dancer?” If the first, it’s pallid psychology at best; if the latter, it’s simply laughable. But the way the song is assembled can’t be faulted for gut-level precision. Ditto for “Spaceman,” a widescreen anthem propped up by prancing synth keys and driving, piston-popping guitars. But Flowers fills the bridge void with the head-slappingly enigmatic statement, “My global position systems are vocally addressed/They say the Nile used to run from east to west.” He really should just get out of the way of his band’s deliriously goofy big rockers.
But after that, the Killers refuse to let up, throwing us one soaring, overstuffed song after another. And instead of settling on the simple thrills they wrested from the 80s on Hot Fuss, they pluck any trick they can find from better inspirations. “Joy Ride” unites Brian Ferry/David Byrne with the Clash’s white man reggae/funk. The cloying mendaciousness of “The World We Live In” comes courtesy of “heartfelt” opinion given the sort of glossy treatment that would actually dare to multi-track Flowers’ voice in a manner reminiscent of the Moody Blues’ “Gemini Dream.” The Springsteen-esque filler-writ-large, “A Dustland Fairytale,” begins with flimsy keyboards and then swells huge with sweeping cello strokes, neon guitar thrashing and vocals all aquiver. Tribal chants and a looping harpsichord open up “This Is Your Life” before a chorus dripping with echo guitars and puckish keyboards throws it to the stratosphere. Perhaps the most ridiculous of all is “I Can’t Stay.” Driving the Caribbean-sparkled bossa nova melody are an acoustic guitar, a saxophone, a harp, violins and steel drums; by itself, that doesn’t read too bad, but in the midst of the overblown productions that can’t be avoided on this album, it sits their turgidly, begging for a more uncluttered and quieter treatment.
Then we have the closing track, a near-seven-minute faux-dark journey called “Goodnight, Travel Well.” In comparison with the nine songs that preceded it, the first three minutes are like a cool shower to wash away the glitter and grease...until the second half kicks in. There’s a nocturnal rumble and gentle tick-tock percussion that eventually gives way to the most enormously dramatic moment on the entire record. Where Failure knew how to do a violent terror descent on their masterful “The Nurse Who Loved Me,” the Killers just go for a crushing upsurge with an artillery battery of cymbals, impenetrable guitar sizzle and Flowers howling clunkers like, “Stay, don’t leave me, the stars can’t wait for you!”
Indeed, Flowers’ lyrics are the chief blame for this album’s inadequacy. Who can sell bloated declarations like, “The unknown distance to the great beyond/Stares back at my grieving frame/To cast my shadow by the holy sun/My spirit moans with a sacred pain?” Or how about the groan-worthy, ”Bless your body, bless your soul/Pray for peace and self-control?” He takes a few detours into smaller tales (think: the Boss’ weary observations, then add sex) but too often he waxes about the fundamental big questions without a shred of gravitas or context. Suddenly, the band’s comparably intimate “Mr. Brightside” seems like it might actually be as good as most claimed.
And somehow the whole thing comes together as an opus entwined in the dual identity of indefensible trash and nerve-jolting melodrama. Where they attempted (and delivered) a series of fine singles on Hot Fuss, they at least had the good sense to not make them all the same. “All These Things I’ve Said” and “Somebody Told Me” are from two different radio-ready schools even though they share many similar traits. But even when the Killers adds different inflections on almost every track, by the time the choruses arrive, the depressing sameness bogs down mightily over the course of the ten tracks. Discotheques churn out the same old thing, but so long as they keep you dancing, no one complains much. But Day & Age’s impressionable attempts for emotional authenticity prove that they want to do more than get your hips swinging. But if they want us to think and feel, they have a lot of growing up to do.
It is entirely possible that one day this record could emerge as one of the biggest guilty pleasures of the year. Individually, most of these songs are dumb but catchy enough to eventually wear down anyone’s defense. It’s just way too much all at once; the mawkishness is barely even noticeable on the first and second listen because you can’t make sense out of everything that’s rattling around inside your eardrums. But without a better-than-serviceable single at their disposal, they’re still treading water while waiting for an inspiration more divine than bigger-is-better—we know they can’t make a whole worthwhile long player. Day & Age continues this year’s trend of big-selling, new-ish bands landing their new arena-friendly material with a doomful thud. It seems that everyone wants to be the next U2, even though today’s U2 seems just as hopeless as their followers. You might declare this to be one helluva glorious mess (which it may very well be) but a mess it still is.
"Day & Age" is on sale November 24, 2008 from Island.
