The Killers
– Pressure Machine
The Killers’ Pressure Machine is a deeply introspective and stripped-back departure from their signature anthemic rock. Released in 2021, the album offers a poignant, narrative-driven exploration of small-town life in Nephi, Utah, Brandon Flowers’ hometown. Its reflective tone and storytelling focus bring to light themes of isolation, loss, faith, and resilience, painting vivid, heartfelt portraits of the people and experiences that shaped Flowers’ upbringing.
Best of…
Musically, Pressure Machine leans into folk and Americana influences, eschewing the grandiosity of previous works for a more restrained, acoustic-driven sound. The integration of ambient sounds, such as train whistles and interviews with town residents, adds an immersive layer to the album, grounding its stories in an authentic sense of place.
This record stands out in The Killers’ discography for its raw vulnerability and cinematic approach to songwriting, showcasing a band willing to take risks and delve into new creative territories. Pressure Machine is a haunting, beautiful reflection on the complexities of small-town America, making it one of their most compelling works to date.
Choice Tracks
West Hills
Opens with a slow burn and doesn’t flinch. Flowers delivers his most subdued vocal in years, set against a backdrop that creaks like an old chapel. The track feels sun-bleached and hollowed, and that’s its strength.
Terrible Thing
A whisper of a song. Minimal and aching. A character study that stares directly at pain without dressing it up. The guitar barely breathes, and that restraint makes it land even harder.
In the Car Outside
Here, the band remembers how to shimmer without showing off. It sounds like neon through dust. There’s longing baked into the structure, and every beat feels like a clock ticking toward something unsaid.
Quiet Town
This track has a gentle lilt that masks its darkness. The melody is simple, almost nursery-rhyme sweet, but the lyrics pull you under. Flowers uses restraint as a weapon, and it cuts deep here.
Cody
Probably the album’s emotional center. It feels lived-in, like someone wrote it from a kitchen table at midnight. Flowers’ voice cracks just enough to feel real. It’s a song that doesn’t demand attention but ends up getting it anyway.
Pressure Machine swaps glitz for grit, giving The Killers their most grounded, soul-baring record yet. Through stories of dusty towns and bruised dreams, they find a quiet power in restraint, letting the songs breathe—and bruise—on their own terms.
Pressure Machine is a deeply introspective and stripped-back departure from their signature anthemic rock. The album offers a poignant, narrative-driven exploration of small-town life in Nephi, Utah, Brandon Flowers’ hometown. Its reflective tone and storytelling focus bring to light themes of isolation, loss, faith, and resilience, painting vivid, heartfelt portraits of the people and experiences that shaped Flowers’ upbringing.
You can hear the streetlights hum on this one. It’s the sound of Bruce Springsteen’s ghost hitching a ride through small-town Utah, only the ghost isn’t dead, just tired and telling the truth. Brandon Flowers trades in the sequins for soil, writing from a place that feels lived in, scraped down to essentials. This isn’t music for a packed stadium. It’s for the kind of silence that presses against your ears at 3 a.m. when the train doesn’t come and everyone’s asleep.
Each track moves like a short story told by someone who doesn’t quite know how to speak plainly, but means every word. There are cassette hisses, fragments of conversation, half-frozen prayers. The Killers take a step back from their usual bombast and stare at the static. Guitars don’t crash—they linger. Keys don’t shimmer—they flicker. There’s a gentleness in the way the album carries itself, like someone trying hard not to wake the neighbors while confessing something heavy.
And still, there’s weight here. Not drama. Weight. The kind that comes from knowing your hometown’s best days might’ve already happened, and your dad still keeps working anyway. Flowers doesn’t sing like he’s escaping anymore. He sings like someone who’s already escaped and isn’t sure it made a difference. The whole record feels haunted—not by ghosts, but by expectations, regrets, and maybe a bit of love that never had a chance to stretch its legs.