I could give or take the Killers - that "boyfriend/girlfriend" song has its fleeting charm - but this new Rattle and Hum-era Bono schtick has got to stop. We don't need another John Cougar Mellencamp, sincere or ironic.
And to be totally clear, this Slate review is shite too. When Jonah Weiner writes, "there's something a bit silly, and obnoxious, about such naked rock ambition, but the Killers didn't annoy anyone when they were obsessed with David Bowie and Robert Smith," he's absolutely wrong: there's enough of us that are completely tired of superficial glam/New Wave re-treading. I'm absolutely fine with mining Americana - what I'm not fine with is the martyrdom the Killers have associated with it (when Flowers whines about their treatment in Europe because of American foreign policy, bejeezus...). When he concludes that "the band's great talent is that, despite their style juggling, they don't come off like smirking ironists or glib dilettantes," he's forgetting that they do come across as third-tier Brit-pop melodramatics. When you trade in image like the Killers do, at least own up to it - the sensitive every-man song and dance is as much hooey as the eyeliner.