By The Killers
The Killers are probably the most aptly-named band around at the moment, after having whipped, bludgeoned and slayed their way across the British music scene with sharp ties and nicely-pressed trousers. Longing vocals, courtesy of (presumably) the most attractively-scented man in rock, Brandon Flowers, spread themselves like honey over piano and organ before a chiming guitar riff slices through the mood perfectly, making way for the stop-start stutterings of "You know, you know, no, you don't, you don't..." and the low, broody, "Yeah, you know you gotta help me out..."
Then it all gets so much better, in the following way:
1) Staccato clicks pour forth from Dave Keuning's electric guitar;
2) Quite a small, unassuming man starts to sing with the confidence of a foghorn;
3) Mr. Keuning with the guitar starts throwing about tantalising offbeat jerky bits;
4) A large collection of gospel singers join in with a chant which manages, miraculously, not to be annoying when blasted out on a rain-soaked campsite at 4am. If I do not stop announcing "I got soul, but I'm not a soldier" by the onset of 2005 I'm going to seek medical help.
The smart, sophisticated members of this Las Vegas clan have formed some sort of sect in which only the most infectious music known to man can be created and then unleashed upon the unsuspecting public. It's all a conspiracy, I tell you!