Depeche Mode makes self-destruction sound like falling through the clouds. One needs only revisit the morbid, deviant pleasures of “Master and Servant,” “Fly on the Windscreen,” “Blasphemous Rumours” or “Barrel of a Gun” for a glimpse into the harrowing worldviews of Dave Gahan, Martin Gore and Andrew Fletcher, who have spun a penchant for both futurism and perversion into sales of more than 90 million. Gahan & Co. have spent a career crafting a theater of cruelty for the masses, and if the masses didn’t always quite grasp the concepts—like, why does Gore always seem to be on stage in quasi-bondage gear?—they were lured by the colossal hooks and the seething sexuality, and they devoured it all like piranhas. The Killers, looming large among Depeche Mode’s numerous acolytes, are a peculiar case. Since rocketing to fame with their explosive 2004 debut Hot Fuss, they’ve craftily mated the outré glitz of Duran Duran with the visceral earnestness of U2, all the while reaching for nothing short of the megastardom of both those bands.
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