TIME WARPED RECORDS

most of the album’s tracks were their respective songs’ initial demos, preserved for the sake of their “spontaneity.” quired to find their “voice,” a consistent well of tones and themes they can reliably draw from. To produce a first work that instantly defines an artist’s voice is no less of an effort than working a miracle — and “Hot Fuss,” the 2004 debut album of The Killers, is one such miracle.

Born from the Las Vegas bars and clubs where the band’s members first cut their teeth, “Hot Fuss” makes a strong impression by wholeheartedly embracing the roughness and uncertainty of a debut album, and building its identity around that. The lo-fi buzz and heavy impact of the album’s instrumentation gives it the appearance of being unrefined, but it still has an underlying thematic completeness in how natural the overall composition and structure feels. It’s easy to be reminded of a confident but knowledgeable student turning in their first draft as a final product, which is actually not too far from the truth: Frontman Brandon Flowers later revealed that

It’s through the lyrics, though, that The Killers make “Hot Fuss” truly shine, allowing their hazy soundscape to feed into a pervasive state of emotional turmoil. Consider, for example, the album’s breakout hit “Mr. Brightside”: Over an arsenal of churning guitars and synths, Flowers’s rampant suspicions of a cheating girlfriend (“Now they’re going to bed / And my stomach is sick / And it’s all in my head / But she’s touching his chest now…”) open up an implied world of jealousy, paranoia, and self-loathing, with the coda’s indirect evocation of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” becoming the irony-laced cherry on a sundae of sardonicism. It’s a total encapsulation of the feeling of being young and newly in the world, and believing that somehow, in a way you can’t fully understand, you’re doing everything wrong.

Admittedly, “Hot Fuss” is at its best when it chooses to express its anguish as loudly and boldly as possible, which results in a somewhat front-loaded album. After a mas- terful first half (culminating in the somber “All These Things That I’ve Done”), Flowers and company take a more meditative turn: The music becomes more poppy, the emotions expressed seem less extreme, and the edge feels comparably dulled. Still, the insecurity of that first half remains present, albeit in more subtle ways such as the overprojected cockiness of “On Top,” before eventually receiving catharsis on the frantic, harrowing penultimate track, “Midnight Show,” a fantastic climax that brings the album full circle to the roughness where it began.

“Hot Fuss” may not have a particularly complex vision in terms of sound or themes, but it doesn’t need to. The fact that The Killers were able to produce such an effective rock album on their first try, with a memorable examination of the anxieties of young adulthood to boot, makes it truly worthy of its central role in the band’s legacy as one of the foremost rock acts of the 21st century. Interestingly, though, in spite of my love for this album, I find myself stepping away from it with no interest to find out anything more about The Killers and their later works. There is, to me, a perfection in “Hot Fuss” that I don’t ever want to tarnish.