FINDING OUT TRUE LOVE IS DEAF

We need to talk.

I like Louis XIV.

Now, stop, let me finish. I’m not the only one. I’ve turned on a few friends who are secretly obsessed just like I am, well not obsessed, but at least listening to this goddamn record, which after a night spent listening to it end to end on headphones had me not only putting it on repeat but making sure I put it on for my friends when we were hanging out smoking and having it seep into their subconscious too. We put on T. Rex – it is summer, you know – but sometimes I want a little kick and I want to shake up these indie kids a little and I’ll stick The Best Little Secrets Are Kept on iTunes and by now I get a few familiar groans and but also a few shared secret shameful smiles. But that’s not how I want to look at this, I want to go back to first impressions.

My first impression, like yours or anyone else who knows the band’s music, was the single “Finding Out True Love is Blind”, where we find out very little about True Love and a lot more about Jason Hill’s Casual Misogyny™ with violent sneer to boot. The kicker for me was not the listing of every kind of gurl he wants to bone (nor the use of an actual piano in a modern rock tune) but when I tried to sing along one day when it came on the radio (we were in a car) and found myself shouting along for the “FINDING OUT TRUE LOVE IS BLIIIEEEND” part of the, erm, verse/chorus, and it made me stop and go “what the fuck?” Here we are in the middle of this modern rock song, already set up to be a one hit wonder by the rock press’s easy opening of exploitation in the “sexist” lyrics, and all that’s going is a little bit of a drum-machine-like drum beat (they insist it’s live) and a touch of guitar and these guys are just SHOUTING right into the mic. A relatively quiet song with plenty of restraint except for these bleeding vocals that just get let out over and over again like it was nothing. A little something that makes you stop and go What the Fuck. Which is entirely necessary nowadays.

The problem with rock and roll (and I mean rock and roll as popular music, entertainment, I’m not talking about the Xiu Xius or tee aych ohm Yorkes) is that there’s so little What the Fuck. Maybe this has been an ever-present problem (debatable), but that doesn’t make it unworthy of addressing.

What the Fuck (if it’s good) translates to excitement which means good rock and roll, particularly evident in this retro/revival/garage etc. movement. The Strokes had What the Fuck (what the fuck is with his voice, what the fuck is with this video are they lip-syncing), Yeah Yeah Yeahs had What the Fuck (what the fuck is this chick’s problem), at least outside of “Maps”, the White Stripes had What the Fuck (and actually still do, I mean, What the Fuck is up with Jack White?). Despite hype from all the wrong places (read: music critic oriented media, or: not actual people), and even while recognizing that the band is cashing in on a definite trend (“New Rock Revolution!”, albeit the less-mined revival of glam rock), Louis XIV have What the Fuck in a good way. As such: What the Fuck are these strings, What the Fuck is this guy’s accent/affect, What the Fuck is this sex, What the Fuck does this sound like a Sgt. Pepper’s outtake, What the Fuck is this slide geetar, etc.

And these What the Fucks get answered in ways that make for a good, not boring rock record. Answered: The band was formed to record an album about a guy who thinks he’s a modern day Louis XIV. They are not (necessarily) being sincere, this is entertainment, they are becoming characters. The record tells a story, albeit one heavily comprised of sex, but rock and roll is supposed to be about sex (and if Eric Cartman can say “shit” on Comedy Central, what’s the big deal about singing “Hey carrot juice I want to squeeze you away until you bleed”?). And it makes for an interesting story. Using hooks and arrangements I haven’t heard in this particular fashion since last pulling out Sgt. Pepper’s (a long time), you hear all about the sexual obsessions of Louis XIV in a very good rock and roll way.

The enduring quality of the record in not just rock and roll fun but rock and roll feelings is shown in the glimpses we get of the person behind the obsessions, and is not understood until listening to the whole thing. Strings introduce the very first track, and Louis sneers the chorus of the title track sarcastically, “Me me me me is all you think that I care about…” The sarcasm indicates that he really does only think about himself, which is what you would think from listening to the sex escapades… but maybe he IS being serious. Maybe he does care more. The occasional slide acoustic guitar interlude appears between tracks, as well as the sorrowful, White Album-ish “All the Little Pieces”, inducing mystery before revealing its origin in the last track. It’s Louis in the studio, alone with the producer, cutting a private track (the band and orchestra maybe come in for overdubs later). “Ball of Twine” cuts to Louis lamenting the loss of real rock and roll, the What the Fuck of the Kinks and the Big Pinks, finally showing some human emotion besides lust: real emptiness, an emptiness that fuels all of his meaningless sexual conquests that just lead to more emptiness – a vicious cycle. And the song devolves to a beating pattern of riffs and waves of instruments before breaking against the rocks and revealing the very string part that begins the record, completing the circle.

All this is going through my head after the first time I hear the album, and I’m like (you guessed it) What the Fuck. Louis XIV. Whodathunkit.

LOUIS XIV PHOTOS

Perhaps I’m giving the band too much credit. Their live performance on Tuesday says that I am. The show was loud and fun, guitars and sneering and suits, but took out the nuances of the record without substituting any glam showmanship for it, only self-congratulatory remarks and motions, making it a bit dull. I wasn’t expecting much from a band who has gone relatively quickly from small San Fran club dates to large St. Paul Rivercentres without much hassle or need to differentiate themselves. But it was more gripping and far more entertaining than the Grammy winning double platinum Morrisey-for-crackheads Duranisms of headliners the Killers.

I recently read that the problem with rock and roll criticism is that no one fantasizes anymore. So before tearing the Killers apart limb by tuxedoed limb, let’s fantasize. The Killers at their best would run with their hype, encompassing the Las Vegas glitz to the hilt, hopping from club to club across the country, Brandon Flowers moaning and whoa-oh-ohing like a Morrissey who listened to synth-pop, telling tales of murder and heartbreak and blah blah blah with a capable band following his every whim and driving the crowds wild. Early tunes showed promise, with titles like “The Ballad of Michael Valentine”, “Who Let You Go?”, and lyrics like “kill me now kill me now kill me now kill ME now.” Plenty of What the Fuck and a lot of fun.

The Killers’ album Hot Fuss has exactly two and a half really good songs spread out among its eleven tracks, most of it appearing in the moodiness of “Jenny Was A Friend of Mine” and the propulsive catchiness of “Mr. Brightside”, the first two tracks. “Smile Like You Mean It” tries to cop Morrisey and is semi-succesful but ends up getting bogged down in it. “Somebody Told Me” has a chorus that whips around a good vocal rhythm but whines itself to a stop at the bridge. “On Top” catches a little groove but never rides it as far as it could. The What the Fuck comes almost entirely in the production, as in What the Fuck is making that noise, What the Fuck kind of effects can make such little substance sound so ooey gooey good, What the Fuck am I still listening to this.

There was plenty of What the Fuck at the Killers concert, and not in a good way. What the Fuck can’t this guy even carry a fucking tune, What the Fuck does the guitarist have the Edge’s effects box up there, What the Fuck is the bassist even doing on stage if you can’t hear him. The most What the Fuck came from the crowd. What the Fuck are you exploding in cheers for if they come back after a one minute break in between songs. What the Fuck are you jumping up and down with devil horns in the air for “Smile Like You Mean It”. Mostly What the Fuck are you doing at a concert if you don’t like music. And, of course, What the Fuck makes RCA push this crap to the masses with incredible amounts of marketing dollars and exposure.

Let’s say the folks at the Killers show had never heard of the Killers. If you had played Hot Fuss for them with no prior exposure to the band, a few might like it, but I would say just as many, if not more, would be bored to death with it. They like the band because they see them, because their friends are aware they exist, because the CD is cheaper than the other ones at Best Buy. But WHY THIS BAND. It’s completely arbitrary. A band with little to no talent, a few okay hooks, and a passable image is absorbed completely by the masses. It just blows my mind. They could have pushed the New Pornographers like this (maybe), or the Strokes, or even Louis XIV. But no, the Killers sell out Roy Wilkins, get people wearing their t-shirts to their own concerts, and get the people of the Twin Cities cheering hysterically at their every single move on stage. The Killers are the luckiest guys in the world. I want to be in the Killers. Give me money for putting on eyeliner and singing shitty new wave (but not decent glam revival). What the Fuck.