The Singles Jukebox

A Singles Jukebox and a Pressure Machine walk into a bar (in a small town, no doubt)…

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[5.73]

Claire Biddles: The first 45 seconds left me absolutely breathless with excitement: the small-town setting, that spoken intro, those swirling synths, like a combination of the drama of Hot Fuss, the Americana myth-making of Wonderful Wonderful, and the sonic palette of Brandon Flowers’ (still hugely underrated) solo album The Desired Effect. Surely the absolute platonic ideal Killers song, for me anyway. But the half-hearted, mid-tempo story of doomed kids and opioids that follows, while well-intentioned, isn’t nearly as engaging as it should be. The Killers have earned their place as successors to Springsteen’s soaring American rock’n’roll, but this pastiche demeans their position.
[5]

Will Adams: I doubt that the number of people who’re interested to hear what Brandon Flowers has to say about the opioid crisis is anywhere above “zero,” but “Quiet Town” carries charms typical of most Killers songs: guitars that gleam like late afternoon sun, Flowers’ quaver and lyrics that sketch his vision of the heartland.
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Alfred Soto: A bright hook, Brandon Flowers sings in that patented alert-child yelp, but the lyrics read like an abstract to a paper for which he’s about to ask an extension from his professor. 
[7]

Ian Mathers: This is why lyrics are important; musically it’s a weirdly little pleasant melange, but there are near-toxic levels of bullshit wafting off of it, and it mostly just makes me want to go listen to a much better song about the way drugs and the drug war ruins lives.
[4]

Edward Okulicz: Unsure of which Springsteen song they wanted to caricature, the Killers take on about six of them at once. I’m not entirely sure that the big ’80s pop drums, the harmonica, Brandon Flowers’ bright delivery and the ostensibly slightly dark subject matter even work by themselves, let alone when put together like this. Peak Bruce’s songs were far catchier too.
[4]

Jeffrey Brister: It’s good, but it’s not good enough. The E Street Band sound is competently executed; the arrangement is lush and full and packed with detail. But while the lyrics have the basic idea down, they lack truly vivid detail. Springsteen wrote about big, universal emotions, yes, but his best work was always grounded with specificity. There’s not much of that here. And Brandon Flowers’ blasé, monochromatic performance drags the whole thing down, turning something that could have been stark black and white into a smear of indistinct grey tones.
[5]

Juana Giaimo: “Quiet Town” is too quiet for a Killers song. We’re used to Brandon Flowers’ trembling vocals joined by a tight beat that leads to an emotional explosion, but here they have completely changed the formula to a new one that lacks strength. His vocals seem completely lost — there is even some phrasing that sounds strange, like when he quickly rushes into “Parents wept through daddy’s girl eulogies” and then changes to a higher melody in the next line. Musically, the ’80s synth-pop doesn’t blend so well with the folk instrumentation — especially the harmonica. Brandon Flowers has created lots of characters throughout his career, but the ones here are empty archetypes. As a big fan of every single song on Imploding the Mirage, this was a little disappointing, and maybe it’s exactly because I miss the implosion.
[5]

Andy Hutchins: 20 years on, when it comes time to sing of America, it’s still a Springsteen impression that the Killers do (and Brandon Flowers very specifically does) more often than not. But it’s always been a good Springsteen impression, at least, and they could obviously be ripping off far worse source material. They’ve also gotten better at blending what goes beyond Bruce with what could have come from his pen — I would have won so much money betting on “pouring rain” being the rhyme in that first verse — and his lips. “Quiet Town” sounds a little wistful and a little prideful, but it’s also from an album that I think aspires to be a distillation of thought for this band akin to what Nebraska was to Bruce, and thus it’s still just a touch cynical (“Somebody’s been keepin’ secrets”) and dance-y in a way that has always been the Killers’ own, part and parcel of an era when confronting the sincerity of the day is scary as hell. It’s both better for it and better than the album’s actual Springsteen feature as a result.
[7]

Nortey Dowuona: The glam rock drums that thud against the floor and threaten Brandon Flowers’ voice, a errant harmonica and loping synths are so strong the hopelessness in the strung up guitars and humming bass and in Flowers’ voice doesn’t crush it. They roll on by through Brandon’s home, spreading joy and love to each grieving family, enlivening a dying home…
[9]

John S. Quinn-Puerta: Flowers is somewhere between Springsteen anld Mellencamp on this attempt to contend with the opioid crisis and its impact on small-town America. While it’s a solid effort that conveys pain and hope, which seems to be the intent, touches like the mandolin and harmonica veer it closer to cosplay. 
[6]

Austin Nguyen: The indomitable idealism of Our Town‘s final monologue, but rendered by John Green: a knot of mystery (“Somebody’s been keeping secrets”), vague undercurrents of adventure (tambourine jangles and electric guitar riffs restless for the open road), YA-quirked phrasing that makes some words feel like they’re being plucked from crinkled saran wrap. I’ll continue taking Rayanne over Raymond.
[5]