The Killers, Sawdust (Thoughts)

I must preface this by stating that I am, unapologetically, a total Killers homer, despite lead singer Brandon Flowers's often cliche-ridden lyrics (Sam's Town appears to be written by a sentimental eighth grader), said lead singer's lack of vocal range (but, boy, does his voice feel right; seriously, as a -- contrary to popular belief -- heterosexual male, I have to admit my raging man crush; and, yes, I'm holding my arms above my head in the shape of a heart right now), and the fact that -- the truth is rarely spoken and barely heard -- my affection for the band stems from a (perhaps) unhealthy tendency to see grandiose in pretension*. So if all those commas, parentheses, and dashes haven't already killed you, I would like to invite you, Constant Retard, to read my impression of the band's recently-released collection of b-sides, covers, rareties, and I got a free designer jacket. Ah, indulgence.

Tranquilize

Brandon Flowers, Lou Reed, singing children, and the war in Iraq is fucked up. Ah, indulgence. This is the rock equivalent of a Carl's Jr. meal. I. Am. Not. Complaining. By the way, as someone who has no gift for singing (and that's being conservative; I sing like Von Dutch caps are cool), Reed's "Perfect Day" is my ace in the hole during late-night noraebang sessions.

Shadowplay

I like Joy Division. I also like it when you tighten your vagina during intercourse. Clearly, I like a lot of things.

All the Pretty Faces

Why this wasn't included on Hot Fuss is a question for the ages. Seriously, are you telling me that replacing the universally awful "Everything Will Be Alright" with this outstanding track wouldn't have made an awesome album 100 times more awesomer? I certainly hope you're not telling me that. Fun fact: substitute Flower's "I spent 2 long years in a strange, strange land" with the number seven and you pretty much have my biography, at least as it relates to the last year and a half. Eerie. Brandon Flowers is the new Miami Heat.

Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf

There are so few song trilogies in music these days, which fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. However, it's pretty easy to understand why this -- part the first -- song about the elusive Jennifer was left to marinate while "Jenny was a Friend of Mine" and "Midnight Show" were served to the masses (word to Soylent Green). It's a fantastic song (in fact, I believe it recently stopped genocide in Darfur and resuscitated Emilio Estevez's career), but it lacks foreshadowing. It's like Certz without the retsyn, or Kraft Dinner without the I got a free designer jacket.

Sweet Talk

Contra 4 is harder than a motherfucker. To the heads at Konami: there's a big difference between making a game challenging and making it so frustratingly difficult that one contemplates randomly firebombing various heavily populated locales. To put a finer point on it, Konami, I'm blaming the next large-scale terrorist attack (my magic 8-ball says a week from next Tuesday) on you. History will prove me right.

Under the Gun

Remember when, in Superman III (the third greatest Christopher Reeve film), Supes goes bad and starts drinking and shit? That -- coupled with Flintstones Vitamins-sprinkled Rice Crispies -- sorta fucked me up as a kid. Is "Under the Gun" a good song? Indeed. Is it derivative of The Strokes? Unquestionably. Did I empty my cache of porn and clear my site viewing history before you came over? Oh shit.

Where the White Boys Dance

I am supremely nonplussed. This isn't a cover? Wow. I mean, really, wow. I will make it my duty to make love while this song plays. Soon.

Show You How

The Killers are so hip-hop and they don't even know it. By the way, I'm starting a podcast sometime (soon). I'm pretty sure it will rock your world and stop genocide in Darfur. Look out for the innaugural broadcast in which KMart and I discuss the pros and cons of (among other relevant topics) moving to Tahiti, wearing an apron while eating samgyeopsal (pro: no grease on your shirt and pants, con: you look like a fairy), and the quantifiable hotness of watching Japanese lesbians tongue kiss on YouTube.

Move Away

The Killers are so U2 and they don't even know it.

Glamourous Indie Rock & Roll

A rerecorded version of the Hot Fuss UK-release bonus track. Flowers pulls a Kobe, mailing in the vocals. It's as though he's singing a karaoke rendition of his own song and purposefully trying to murder it. The original had a certain amount of satire, but here he swings for the bleachers. Genius is rarely appreciated.

Who Let You Go?

I am officially making this the new "Walking to the Subway on Your Way to Work" song. Considering past honorees ("Planet Telex" by Radiohead and The Verve's hall-of-fame "Bitter Sweet Symphony"**), it is evident that we are indeed in esteemed company.

The Ballad of Michael Valentine

Again, this isn't a cover? Ah, ambition. By the way, why do songs these days that are blatantly aimed at homosexuals have to contain the name Michael? Since when did Michael become the new Bruce? Get creative! Throw some Ians and Garys in the mix.

Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town

Like Rocky V, steroids in baseball, and the Holocaust, let's pretend this didn't happen, okay?

Daddy's Eyes

I had the most remarkable tonkatsu today. In a word, it was really very tasty. What can I say, I like crushing up sesame seeds with a pestle. Only winning the NBA Finals MVP and co-starring in a movie with Owen Wilson can, I am confident, compare.

Sam's Town (Abbey Road Version)

Remember that time we made a really fantastic song? I do. So, here's my idea: we do it again, only this time I play the piano and sing waveringly, sort of as a way to underline just how fucking incredible the song is. It doesn't matter that I have a cold. Makes me sound weathered. And, yeah, immediately after you're going to want to listen to the original version. That's the whole point. I truly lament the loss of my jacket to you. It cost like two hundred dollars.

Romeo and Juliet

I am Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, and that guy from Blues Traveler who had a gastric bypass. I am Legion, for we are many. Stay tuned: I plan to massacre Sultans of Swing sometime in the near future.

Change Your Mind

Out again. A siren screams at half past ten, and you won't let go. While I ignore that we both felt like this before, it starts to show. So if I have a chance, would you let me know? (Honestly, I have shivers listening to this; word to the Miami Heat -- 3 and 10, as of this writing -- and angels sent from Heaven.)

Mr. Brightside (Jacques Lu Cont's Thin White Duke Remix)/Questions with the Captain

Is it redundantly hyperbolic to call something both goosebump-inducing and a shattering orgasm of sound? I hope not.

Final thought: In the cupboard underneath my sink I have plastic bags, some black, others white. I really can't say why I keep them. Perhaps someday I will need them, I dunno. I don't have a toilet plunger or a screwdriver, but I do have roughly eighty plastic bags of various persuasions sleeping gently beneath my sink. I have considered naming them individually, but so far that is a border between eccentricity and madness that I am unwilling to traverse.

I got a free designer jacket. By the way.


* Sam's Town is a phenomenal album, and anyone who says different is obviously a replicant from Mars sent to first infiltrate then later collapse the structure of intellectual society.

** That song will outlast humankind, I am certain.