The humble indie discotheque, back in the early nineties, were dramatically different to the thousands that clog up every city centre currently. For a start, the cliental were a lot moodier, didn’t give a toss if the night was hosted in an office block and the DJ used physical vinyl instead of simply pressing play on a pre arranged Spotify list.

Now, these places are where trendy bell-ends go each week, take thousands of badly shot photos and pose in wacky positions to put on Facebook. Even the music doesn’t come as a surprise as they’ll be a retro segment, so-called “rave” selection, contemporary classics and songs illegally downloaded two hours before the laptop DJ’s set.

The Killers seem to unite everyone in unison. Couples snog over their so called “love song” and daft girls cry because of their worrying amounts of lust for Brandon Flowers – he’s the man who broke away from The Killers to make this solo album.

And we’ve listened to it, mainly so you don’t have to.

The Killers have made a career out of posing in videos, having a band name which doesn’t make anyone feel threatened in the slightest and have written lyrics that a seven-year-old would be proud of before receiving a gold pin on their jumper, bouncing up and down and patted on the head before being sent off for lunch.

Perhaps that is the strategy used by Brandon Flowers Management Company for him to spew out song after song of tripe that, when listened to, burns the ears worse than some sort of pre dated Aborigine torture.

Let’s look at the evidence shall we?

On the track ‘Human’, Flowers takes the award for stupidest lyric in a song. It’s as if the record company were going to master the album and twenty minutes before the deadline, the lyrics for “are we human, or are we dancer?” were chucked in, hoping that no-one would notice. Sounding like something a 1940’s robot would say, it’s the equivalent of us penning a dub jam with the lyrics “are we full of blood, or are we black pudding?”

God bless Brandon Flowers, he’s so popular, that the rest of his band suffer from U2, Muse, Coldplay and Snow Patrol syndrome. Everyone knows the name of the front man, but the rest of the band perish in to the background and are forced to play in the dark, aren’t allowed to take part in interviews and are only allowed to help themselves to the buffet once Flowers has fingered his way through the triangle sandwiches and crisps.

Here we go then.

‘Flamingo’ the debut album by the world’s most famous Mormon –Brandon Flowers (well, not including the more famous Mormons, The Osmonds – Ed.).

Initial single ‘Crossfire’ didn’t really need to be the first release from the album. Anything could have been brought out due to the absolute lack of emotion, energy or rock n roll on this dire excuse for an album, which seems increasingly like a desperate cash-in for the record label. After-all, Brandon Flowers equals hoards of fanboys and girls who’ll buy the shitty thing without reading accurate reviews like this.

People say “watching paint dry would be fun” in certain situations. This time, we’d rather cover ourselves with a tin of eggshell gloss where we blind ourselves with the chemicals, collapse and spasm off the solvent fumes or wait until the paint hardens over our ears so we never have to hear the utter shite that is ‘Flamingo’.

The ironically titled ‘On The Floor’ sounds like the soundtrack to a fucking funeral march down a street as a family of mourners turn already damp tissues in to a lump of paper mush. Christ, if ever anyone needed a night of excitement then Brandon Flowers is the man who needs to be shown either a night down the pub, a brief flash of genitals or the thrill of stealing a packet of crisps when a newsagents back is turned.

Thought it could get any worse? ‘The Clock Was Tickin’ descends in a full blown country & western anthem that will spur any inbred families in to creating a third generation backward children to be conceived in the muck of the farmer’s barn.

We don’t rate albums on a typical 0-10 scale, but given the chance, this one would be off the chart in terms of how we’d rate it, due to how appallingly crap it is. Typically jokes would be thrown in about how the CD could be alternatively used as a coaster or as a poor ninja death star. However, we wouldn’t even put our imitation store bought cola on this makeshift drinks mat.

Any remaining copies of this album should be flung in to a rocket, aimed towards the sun and given a sacrificial burning whilst monks give us all a blessing after its removal from the face of the earth.

Now the title of the album is ‘Flamingo’ which makes us wonder if this was an initial concept album about Flamingo Land in Malton, North Yorkshire. An insider tells us that the original deluxe fourteen track bilge fest was meant to be:

1 – Breaking Down On The Motorway
2 – Map? We Don’t Need A Fucking Map, GPS Is To Expensive
3 – A Merry Trip To The Service Station
4 – Christ On A Badger! They Still Have Wimpy Restaurants Here. Let’s Remortgage The House And Get One
5 – Fucksticks, The Discount Vouchers Have Expired
6 – No Johnny! Don’t Stroke That Flamingo’s Cock
7 – What’s This? The Fucking Queue For The Simulation Ride?
8 – I Wish My Child Was More Like His
9 – Two Minutes Of Fun
10 – Lost Property (Do I Really Have To Collect My Child?)
11 – This Ain’t No Alton Towers
12 – Overpriced Inferior Gift Shop Visitation Time
13 – Merry Arguments Home
14 – 365 Days Till The Next Family Fun Time Expedition

Anyway, in short – don’t buy this album. It’s crap.

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Look at the picture. Really look at it, drink it in. Go on, keep looking.

Look at Bono singing his heart out, look at Chris Martin putting effort into his performance. Jesus, look at Gary Barlow, he’s brought along some water. And who’s that on the right? It’s Brandon Flowers. He’s a Mormon or something. Look at him. Keep looking at him. Now look at all of them. Keep looking. It’s amazing. Now look away. Now look back. Now away. And back. Away. Back. Away. Back. Away. Back. Away. Away. Ha! Gotcha!

Now be sick.

Of course, after looking at the picture, you need to start questioning what it’s all about. Who could coordinate such a phenomenal collaboration? And, more the point, why? What’s wrong with them? Are they Osama Bin Laden?

Now, we’re not in the habit of sneering at things, but Jesus Christ, look at them! Four awful, awful human beings. We’re one Sting away from staring directly into the eyes of Satan. With that in mind, we decided to play a game we’ve christened ‘The One Bullet Conundrum’. Which of these guys would get it?

Chris Martin

Chris’ number one problem is that he’s a really big Coldplay fan. He loves them, he loves their music, at their gigs he’s always jumping up and down at the front, singing along with all the words. He also dresses like a total cock. The only thing saving Chris from a certain bullet is that there’s someone on stage who’s even more self-important and impossible to like. Chris, you got lucky this time.

Gary Barlow

Gary, for all his faults, seems alright. He’s a bit like an uncle who pops around over Christmas, tells you his boring stories, cracks a stupid joke about stuffing, and then leaves. The minute he disappears from your house, you forget him forever. He’s like a fart that doesn’t smell. An anodyne glass of water of a man, the bullet would probably miss him, because it’s like he’s not really there.

Brandon Flowers

Lots of people absolutely adore The Killers. These are the same people who think that Coldplay are magnificent, that U2 are GODS, and that Keane are this close to making their Joshua Tree. You know them, you might even be friends with them. But you’re not really friends with them are you? Secretly, you hate them, with their never-changing haircuts, and flat-pack girlfriends. They own a Faithless CD, for Christ’s sake. But, lucky for Brandon, this bullet doesn’t have his name on it…

Bono

… and that’s because Bono is there. Big bloody Bono, with his stupid whispering singing voice, and his breakfasts with people who are far more important than him. Bloody Bono. In fairness, the bullet never had a choice.

This was a guest blog by Josh Burt of Interestment. Hooray for bloody him, we say.

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