Have you heard the new Killers album, Day and Age? Because, seriously, stop reading now and go out and buy it and then listen to it all the way through, and then listen to it again because it’s AWESOME. Seriously, AWESOME, with a capital A (or, in the case of a blog post where the HTML has gotten slack enough for me to hold down the shift key instead of italicizing, AWESOME is in ALL CAPS). Really, go buy it and upload it to iTunes and go to the gym with it or listen to it in bed as you’re drifting to sleep or brushing your teeth or something. I’ll wait.
Still waiting.
Okay, by now I assume you’ve listened to it nine or ten times like I have since getting it for Christmas. (Here I am also assuming that you are hyped up on Red Bulls and Bawls and eggnog chai from Starbucks, because this is how everyone wakes up, right? Right?)
Let’s start with the first single, “Human,” which I purchased from iTunes after I saw The Killers on Saturday Night Live a few months back and which I have since done a near-pitch-perfect version of at karaoke. (Seriously, I know when I’ve fucked up at the karaoke. Note: Alanis’s “Thank U” is not my song.) The song’s chorus has stirred some controversy – not from religious groups or from concerned parents, as most rock and roll does, but from staunch grammarians. The verbal disagreement in the line, “Are we human / or are we dancer?” has caused what can only be deemed a hilarious uproar. According to singer Brandon Flowers, the line is a paraphrase from Hunter S. Thompson … which makes the whole thing a little bit more understandable.
Regardless of all that, the song is full-textured KICK, with a side of RAWK and BITCHIN. Does it make any real sense? Of course it doesn’t. It’s The Killers, the band who made famous the line, “I’ve got soul / but I’m not a soldier.” But there’s an earnestness to Flowers’ singing, especially when he asks, “Will your system be all right / when you dream of home tonight?” As on the genius album Sam’s Town, The Killers make mythic the themes of home and youth and lost love. Nostalgia isn’t passive; it’s vibrant and sometimes violent.
That’s not to say the album is dire. After their glam-pop debut of Hot Fuss and their bid for epic Americana on Sam’s Town, they have figured out how to merge the two sounds on “Day and Age.” (This reminds me of how U2 found a way to merge the electronica of Pop and Zooropa with the soaring, ambitious rock and roll of their early albums on “All That You Can’t Leave Behind.” Except Day and Age is just a little bit better than that.) Their obsession with Bruce Springsteen – an obsession I fully endorse – is on full display here (especially on the absolutely perfect “A Dustland Fairytale,” which seems like a New Wave take on something from the Boss’s “The Wild, The Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle,” and “Losing Touch,” which could have been on Springsteen’s newest effort, “Magic.”) But there’s also some Elton John and David Bowie on “Spaceman,” early Blondie on “This is Your Life,” and “Joy Ride” is the most Duran Duran the Killers can possibly be without becoming a straight-up cover band. It’s eclectic all the way through, in ways that neither Hot Fuss nor Sam’s Town were, and that’s this album’s greatest strength.
The album isn’t without flaws. It’s a little unfortunate that the album’s final two songs – “The World We Live In” and “Goodnight, Travel Well,” are its weakest. It’s not for lack of trying, though: the former has a full string section and its lyrics strive for depth, and the latter is a brooding, spooky closer that weirdly recalls Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” By the end, when the drums and synths kick in big time and try to bring the song (and album) to a rousing close, they fall just a little short. Flowers tries to sound mournful but often comes across a little bored. It’s a terrific title, though.
But focusing on the shortfalls is a disservice to Day and Age, which is a really fantastic record. I honestly can’t get over how amazing “A Dustland Fairytale” is – especially some of Flowers’ more interesting vocal inflections, which manage to break out of his “bombast AND NOW MORE BOMBAST!” mode more than ever. And I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t mention the fantastic “Neon Tiger,” which seems to be told from the point of view of a, um, neon tiger, looking out over the Killers’ beloved/hated Las Vegas. Lyrics you don’t expect keep popping up, keeping us all on our toes. It’s exciting and fun, which are words that can be used to describe most of Day and Age. This is the perfect third album for The Killers, and I can’t wait to see what they do next.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
The "Bad Romance" Exegesis
Lady GaGa's "Bad Romance" starts off wordlessly, and the opening “oh-oh-oh-oh-OH” soars, seemingly hopeful. But at once, words contradict the good feeling being generated: “caught in a bad romance” brings in stark reality, even as the music thumps electronically to life behind it. We’re less than fifteen seconds into the song, and the boomeranging isn’t done yet. Suddenly, Lady GaGa launches into a recitation of sounds that almost make sense – rah-rah, Roma, GaGa, oo-la-la – which seem at first to exist solely for purposes of rhyming, but on closer examination seem almost willfully self-aggrandizing. She’s cheering herself on, rah-rah, oo-la-la: look at me, I’m Lady GaGa. She’s apparently also in Rome, but that might be beside the point. This rhythmic quartet opens the song proper, repeated twice, and crops up throughout as a way of dividing “Bad Romance” into distinct chapters, and introducing each.
At first glance, the verses themselves seem like standard pop-dance fare, repeating “I want your love (love, love, love, I want your love)”. But the real story is darker, as she insists what she wants is mostly negative: ugly, disease, drama, horror. There’s a flirtation with S&M as she admits she craves “your leather-studded kiss in the sand,” conflating the positive aspects of kink-play with the larger “bad romance.” The bridge – in tone, music, and lyrics reminiscent of the Divynals’ “I Touch Myself,” perhaps ironically featuring a far more positive look at self-love – uses the words “want” and “need” in regards to romance, reinforcing the negative connotations of the verses.
The chorus, then, is a bit of a surprise; for the first time, we sense perhaps a different meaning in the phrase “bad romance.” Even as she sings the line, “I want your love and I want your revenge,” she follows it up by suggesting, “you and me could write a bad romance.” Here, the listener gets the sense that she means something along the lines of a trashy romance novel, one with a lot of softcore erotica and a happy ending. Her inflections support this thought, but that word “revenge” keeps appearing, contradicting the more positive readings. Illuminating the chorus is a revival of the first verse in the song: “caught in a bad romance.” The use of the past tense – in a song otherwise in the present-tense – is interesting, indicating that the things she craved were the wrong things, and now she’s stuck in something she only thought she wanted. It’s a bizarre reality check, even as that “oh-oh-oh-oh-OH” continues to paint verbal hopefulness in the background.
The second verse recalls a qualification of the first: earlier, she’d stated that she “want(s) your everything as long as it’s free”; now she warns that “you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine.” It’s as if she’s giving outs to her object of desire, subtly indicating that she’s willing to throw herself into a fantasy as long as it remains a fantasy. Dark desires have a way of turning into dark realities. To underscore this, GaGa name-checks three Alfred Hitchcock films – Psycho, Rear Window, and Vertigo (applying the appellation –stick to this latter title, recalling the disco-stick of her earlier hit “Love Games”; it’s still nonsensical, but at least its conjunction with Vertigo makes a bit more sense. In addition, the line “while you’re in my rear window, baby it’s sick” begs for a more lurid reading than mere allusion; the longer the song continues, the more pornographic and naked her desires become, even as she tries to repudiate them.)
Following another doubling of the “rah-rah” bridge, we enter into a bizarre subplot, which seems to feature GaGa onstage at a fashion show (could this be what she meant by “Roma”?) The vocal grows a bit more diffuse, standing in for a crowd watching her strut. Amid the standard “walk, walk fashion baby,” we get “work it, move, that bitch crazy.” The shift to second person (with GaGa looking in at herself) is fascinating, as if she knows that other people know something about her that she doesn’t; perhaps she is afraid of her “sick” intentions being brought to light, even as she wants them to. A defensive, “I’m a freak bitch, baby!” tries to sound like she’s owning it, but fails to convince. This dichotomy continues to define the song.
Something revealing happens by the next chorus: after the repetition that she wants both love and revenge, she states, “I don’t want to be friends.” It’s the first time in the song she nakedly states something she doesn’t want. It’s a brief moment of naked honesty, and GaGa immediately fears it. At once, she dives into French, as if backing off from this statement, baffling the listener away from truth.
Soon enough, though, she comes back to it, seeming to need to get it out. She repeats the line three times, and on the third repetition, she finally evinces emotion. Most of the song has been sung in an almost-monotone (with the exception of the chorus, whose vocal ranges from come-on to slight desperation). On the final, “I don’t want to be friends,” she actually shouts, underlining her entire intention of the song. She wants destructive love, but she doesn’t want to actually like this person. The whole song has led up to this moment, finally revealing GaGa’s true colors – she wants a theory of love tainted with versions of hate and pain. Real love, which requires you to be friends with the person you are in love with, is messier than her initial concepts of what makes romance “bad.” Immediately following this revelation, she falls back to her default position: “I want your bad romance.”
“Bad Romance” is a complicated, complex song, bursting with pop concepts that could have been the basis for four or five lesser songs. More, it’s deeper than it pretends to be; even flourishes like the way she slurs the word “hand” and the grunting sigh in the middle of the second verse are more interesting than they have any right to be. After the mediocre “Just Dance,” the trying-too-hard “Poker Face,” and the absolutely horrible “Love Games,” “Paparazzi” was a breath of fresh air. “Bad Romance” happily continues this trend. It’s not only Lady GaGa’s best single so far, it is also one of the best songs of the year.
At first glance, the verses themselves seem like standard pop-dance fare, repeating “I want your love (love, love, love, I want your love)”. But the real story is darker, as she insists what she wants is mostly negative: ugly, disease, drama, horror. There’s a flirtation with S&M as she admits she craves “your leather-studded kiss in the sand,” conflating the positive aspects of kink-play with the larger “bad romance.” The bridge – in tone, music, and lyrics reminiscent of the Divynals’ “I Touch Myself,” perhaps ironically featuring a far more positive look at self-love – uses the words “want” and “need” in regards to romance, reinforcing the negative connotations of the verses.
The chorus, then, is a bit of a surprise; for the first time, we sense perhaps a different meaning in the phrase “bad romance.” Even as she sings the line, “I want your love and I want your revenge,” she follows it up by suggesting, “you and me could write a bad romance.” Here, the listener gets the sense that she means something along the lines of a trashy romance novel, one with a lot of softcore erotica and a happy ending. Her inflections support this thought, but that word “revenge” keeps appearing, contradicting the more positive readings. Illuminating the chorus is a revival of the first verse in the song: “caught in a bad romance.” The use of the past tense – in a song otherwise in the present-tense – is interesting, indicating that the things she craved were the wrong things, and now she’s stuck in something she only thought she wanted. It’s a bizarre reality check, even as that “oh-oh-oh-oh-OH” continues to paint verbal hopefulness in the background.
The second verse recalls a qualification of the first: earlier, she’d stated that she “want(s) your everything as long as it’s free”; now she warns that “you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine.” It’s as if she’s giving outs to her object of desire, subtly indicating that she’s willing to throw herself into a fantasy as long as it remains a fantasy. Dark desires have a way of turning into dark realities. To underscore this, GaGa name-checks three Alfred Hitchcock films – Psycho, Rear Window, and Vertigo (applying the appellation –stick to this latter title, recalling the disco-stick of her earlier hit “Love Games”; it’s still nonsensical, but at least its conjunction with Vertigo makes a bit more sense. In addition, the line “while you’re in my rear window, baby it’s sick” begs for a more lurid reading than mere allusion; the longer the song continues, the more pornographic and naked her desires become, even as she tries to repudiate them.)
Following another doubling of the “rah-rah” bridge, we enter into a bizarre subplot, which seems to feature GaGa onstage at a fashion show (could this be what she meant by “Roma”?) The vocal grows a bit more diffuse, standing in for a crowd watching her strut. Amid the standard “walk, walk fashion baby,” we get “work it, move, that bitch crazy.” The shift to second person (with GaGa looking in at herself) is fascinating, as if she knows that other people know something about her that she doesn’t; perhaps she is afraid of her “sick” intentions being brought to light, even as she wants them to. A defensive, “I’m a freak bitch, baby!” tries to sound like she’s owning it, but fails to convince. This dichotomy continues to define the song.
Something revealing happens by the next chorus: after the repetition that she wants both love and revenge, she states, “I don’t want to be friends.” It’s the first time in the song she nakedly states something she doesn’t want. It’s a brief moment of naked honesty, and GaGa immediately fears it. At once, she dives into French, as if backing off from this statement, baffling the listener away from truth.
Soon enough, though, she comes back to it, seeming to need to get it out. She repeats the line three times, and on the third repetition, she finally evinces emotion. Most of the song has been sung in an almost-monotone (with the exception of the chorus, whose vocal ranges from come-on to slight desperation). On the final, “I don’t want to be friends,” she actually shouts, underlining her entire intention of the song. She wants destructive love, but she doesn’t want to actually like this person. The whole song has led up to this moment, finally revealing GaGa’s true colors – she wants a theory of love tainted with versions of hate and pain. Real love, which requires you to be friends with the person you are in love with, is messier than her initial concepts of what makes romance “bad.” Immediately following this revelation, she falls back to her default position: “I want your bad romance.”
“Bad Romance” is a complicated, complex song, bursting with pop concepts that could have been the basis for four or five lesser songs. More, it’s deeper than it pretends to be; even flourishes like the way she slurs the word “hand” and the grunting sigh in the middle of the second verse are more interesting than they have any right to be. After the mediocre “Just Dance,” the trying-too-hard “Poker Face,” and the absolutely horrible “Love Games,” “Paparazzi” was a breath of fresh air. “Bad Romance” happily continues this trend. It’s not only Lady GaGa’s best single so far, it is also one of the best songs of the year.
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