The Killers - Day & Age reviews
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| Guardian |
 With his naked ambition, unfashionable political views, propensity to say unbelievably silly things and misguided trousers, Brandon Flowers makes for a brilliant pop star. Extraordinary and genuinely strange, he's exactly the kind of frontman whose band should be headlining Reading or selling out the O2 in hours; the Killers having gone from promising US Anglophiles to one of the UK's biggest draws in four years. It helps that they're preternaturally gifted at writing undeniable pop songs. Whether you're a fan or not, it would seem a biological impossibility to hear the melody to 'Somebody Told Me' or 'Read My Mind' without experiencing a minor endorphin rush....full text |
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| Ew |
For divas, crooners, and tiger tamers of a certain age, Las Vegas is the superlative third act in a long, sequined career. But what does the city mean to a band of sharply tailored twentysomethings whose musical heroes are more New Order than Wayne Newton? On their third album, Vegas-bred foursome the Killers have laid their fingers firmly on the neon-Neverland pulse of their hometown. Amid references to the Sierra Nevadas and ''the heat of the Southwest sun,'' singer Brandon Flowers and the band construct an album that is one-third Duran Duran glam (the go-to mode of the Killers' four-times-platinum debut, 2004's Hot Fuss), one-third Bono majestic (see slow-burning but surprisingly gratifying 2006 follow-up Sam's Town), and one-third fresh retro (shades of Roxy Music and Hunky Dory-era Bowie).
The epic, synth-framed first single, ''Human,'' is typically Flowers-y in its sometimes-shaky lyric reach, though his Bryan Ferry-esque vocals are gratifyingly supple and expressive. (Blog wars have already been waged over the song's referential chorus; for the record, it's ''Are we human/ Or are we dancer,'' not ''denser'' — via Hunter S. Thompson, that crazy coot.)...full text |
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| Uncut |
It tells you a lot about The Killers’ Anglophilia, that, having made the best Britpop record of the 21st century with Hot Fuss, they then tried to follow it up with an album of widescreen heartland American rock, and went it about in exactly the fashion of a British MTV band circa 1985: ditching the synths and eyeliner, cultivating comical facial hair and flying in Anton Corbijn to shoot them as existential desparados in cowboy hats.
The magnificent “When You Were Young” aside, Sam’s Town was a disappointment. Crucially it failed to convince the American audience they were so keen to court. So news that they had chosen to make their third album with Stuart Price – the go-to-guy for your 80s pop makeover – seemed like an admission of defeat, a retreat back to their comfort Eurozone....full text |
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