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With all the doom and gloom news about flat CD and concert ticket sales, maybe the most subtle indication of the music industry’s doldrums is the heap of praise lavished on U2’s How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb.

Mainstream music magazines consistently gave the album four-star reviews, and it’s safely ensconced in the upper echelon of critics lists and reader polls.

I don’t get it.

If How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is the best the music industry has to offer — and the best music audiences are willing to entertain — then perhaps I should just sit in the corner with my copy of Shiina Ringo’s Karuki Zaamen Kuri no Hana.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb is, by no means, a bad album. In fact, it deserves the good reviews it’s garnered so far.

“Vertigo” is U2’s grimiest song, surpassing even “The Fly” for pure grit. The swaggering shuffle of “Love or Peace or Else” makes it both alluring and untrustworthy, while “Miracle Drug” comes close to the pomp and circumstance of “Beautiful Day”.

“Crumbs From Your Table” has that nice drama reminiscent of Achtung Baby, while “Yahweh” almost feels pre-Joshua Tree.

Like All That You Can’t Leave Behind before it, How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb draws upon all eras of U2’s oeuvre to create its aural atmosphere — the bombast of its late-’80s work, the electronic effects of its ’90s output.

Problem is, U2 is responsible for a lot of “essential” moments in rock ‘n’ roll. Achtung Baby, The Joshua Tree, War (perhaps U2’s most overrated album) — the band has to compete with its own legacy.

And How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb achieves a very strange distinction — it is, by comparrison, a mediocre work.

Let’s face it — when U2 fuck up, these guys don’t pussyfoot. Rattle and Hum was just overblown, and Pop was just excessive.

How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb doesn’t reach that level abysmal, nor does it really feel like it a remarkably high point either.

It’s a good U2 album. But for a band that built a career on revelatory listening experiences, it doesn’t elevate.

The best thing is, U2 deserve to make this album — they proved their game in 25-plus years, so why should they top The Joshua Tree?

But How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb isn’t an album that should be adored the way it is.

The last time out, I spoke around the issue. I described Tift Merritt’s debut album as modest, a work to be appreciated indirectly.

But let’s be clear about it now — Bramble Rose was a bore. The performances were tepid, and Merritt sounded like she was trying too hard to be genteel.

And yet the press — Musicwhore.org included — compares Merritt to a young Emmylou Harris, which isn’t totally unwarranted.

So I was willing to give her second album, Tambourine, a shot.

When the first strums of “Stray Paper” started up, I thought, “Hmmm. Promising.” But when Merritt kicks it with “Wait It Out”, I thought, “Oh hell yeah!”

Tambourine is the proper introduction to Tift Merritt.

This time around, Merritt does her best to rock out. And even when she tones down or turns inward, she doesn’t let herself get weighed down.

“Laid a Highway” goes a long way in reinforcing those Emmylou Harris comparrisons, while “Plainest Thing” develops with a lot more momentum than similar songs on the last album.

Soul and blues have a significant presence on Tambourine. “Good Hearted Man” starts off with some soulful horns, while “Still Pretending” lilts with a Georgia blues rhythm. “I Am Your Tambourine”, meanwhile, goes to church, while “Your Love Made a U-Turn” goes for the funk.

Merritt sounds best, though, when she’s going full throtle. “Wait It Out” smashes through from start to finish, while the honky-tonk feel of “Shadow in the Way” wraps the album up just fine.

The confidence Merritt exudes is well deserved — the songs on Tambourine are all strong, and there’s hardly a dead spot on the album.

The album is such a contrast to her debut, it’s almost easy to think that last album was done by someone else entirely.

And in a way, it was.

With little more than a guitar as accompaniment, Merritt exudes a strong live presence. Her fans clamoured for an album for a long time, so Bramble Rose was greeted with far more enthusiasm than it was due.

Tambourine, on the other hand, captures that live essence, and it does her songwriting some justice.

At first, I made this snarky remark: “This band was more interesting when it was called Gang of Four”.

I didn’t go to Franz Ferdinand’s SXSW 2004 showcase — it was on the same night as Japan Nite. So I had no impression to inform me when the band’s self-titled debut album was released around the same time.

The Strokes had already worn out the novelty of aural photocopying, so when Franz Ferdinand compounded the antiquity of its ’80s sound with a lo-fi production quality, it came across as ungeniune.

But you got to hand it to these four lads — however much I loved to shite on their parade, I still kept spinning that album.

I justified the repeat listens as evaluation, careful studying to figure out what I was going to write, but really, it was writer’s block — something about the album impressed me even though this 20-year revival shtick doesn’t ring true with me.

Then I ran across the Killers.

When I figured out what made me get over my similar initial distate for the Killers — Oh, look! Analog synthesizers! How quaint! — I went back to Franz Ferdinand and finally put a finger to it.

And now I’m sorry I did miss that show because Franz Ferdinand sounds like they know how to fucking party.

That dull lo-fi finish on Franz Ferdinand, the album, cuts both ways.

On one hand, it’s a far more charming resurrection of a cheeky sound, and it’s way more convincing than the disconnected cool of The Strokes’ Is This It. (Man, I wish I could take back that review I wrote three years back.)

On the other hand, it doesn’t capture the full force of the band’s performances. That’s what was trying to reach out to me in all those spins.

The abandon of “This Fire”, the grandeur of “Darts of Pleasure”, the baudy lust of “Michael”, which actually convinced me to give the band another chance. (Because how cool is it for a band of straight guys to capture the essence of a night at a gay bar.)

There’s an atom bomb’s worth of energy on all of these tracks, but it’s all compacted.

But once the aurally picky can get past that wall, here be treasures waiting.

And even if Franz Ferdinand dips too deeply into the same well from which Gang of Four drank, the band knows how to write a damn catchy tune.

The moral of this story being: if you’re still on the fence about Franz Ferdinand, go back to them after you’ve experienced the Killers.

A little less specifically, Franz Ferdinand shares with the Killers the kind of palpable chemistry that powered the music of two decades ago. If they sound like their predecessors, it’s because they play the hell out of their instruments just like them.

I think I get it now, this whole ’80s revival thing.

Because, really — what incentive do I have to listen to a band that sounds like Duran Duran when I can, well, listen to Duran Duran?

Bands such as Interpol, Longwave and the Stills may be reviving the sonic atmosphere of two decades previous, but I seldom get the sense these bands are adding anything to it.

(At least a band like Number Girl, while obviously influenced by the Pixies and Sonic Youth, sound very much like Number Girl.)

The first time I played the Killers’ Hot Fuss, it was the same reaction — it’s nice that they’ve got disco beats and shiny guitars, but man, that’s been done before.

It wasn’t until half-way through the second listen that it became obvious. These guys would probably kick much ass live.

And that was the epiphany.

What separates the Killers from all the other bands apeing the Smiths and Joy Division — these guys have managed to recapture the energy of those early bands.

Beneath the antiquated synthesizer effects, bassist Mark Stoermer’s hero worship of John Taylor and Peter Hook and Brandon Flowers’ faux-British singing accent, there’s a chemistry.

It’s the same chemistry that gave U2 its longevity and spurred the original line-up of Duran Duran to cash in on the nostalgia market. And it’s a chemistry that comes through each song, in addition to or in spite of the slick production.

“Mr. Brightside” isn’t just a rock song with a good dance beat — it’s a ballbuster of a performance. “Somebody Told Me” updates Blur’s own homage to the ’80s, “Girls & Boys”, with twice the energy and none of the irony.

“Midnight Show” is the most refreshing use of Chic in a rock song in, well, 20 years, while “Smile Like You Mean It” has one of those choruses that would feel communal during a concert.

The UK pressing of Hot Fuss does the US version one better with the inclusion of “Glamorous Indie Rock ‘n’ Roll”. It’s placed at a moment on the album that needed a big, suspenseful break.

Even without the energy, the songs on Hot Fuss are painstaking recreations of ’80s post-punk. The sound quality is certainly a lot more up-front, but the near-orchestral attention to detail is admirable.

And yeah — they’ve got good melodies and good choruses.

I’m even humming “Believe Me Natalie”, and that song doesn’t have the same level of hooks as “Andy, You’re a Star” or “All These Things That I’ve Done”.

So, thank you, Killers. I know what to look for the next time some band decides they want to sound like New Order.

And if they don’t get it, I’ll just go and listen to some New Order.

I like this album, but I’m having a hard time writing about it.

There are many levels on which Worlds Apart is disorienting, even for an … And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead album.

It’s anamolous compared to the band’s previous work. The blistering punk rock, screaming vocals and flying expletives have given way to a polished, epic sound.

At first, it’s something of a let-down not to hear Conrad Keely or Jason Reese tear their vocal cords out, but then the album makes up for that loss in numerous weird ways that it’s easy to forgive.

The opening “Overture” features a crowd chanting the names of Egyptian gods before a woman’s scream begins the album proper. A group of children cheer at the end of “Will You Smile Again”, to which Conrad Keely replies, “Hey, fuck you, man.” And the children giggle.

And those are the moments between songs.

“Will You Smile Again” starts off loud, then crashes to a near-halt. Over the course of 7-minutes, the song slowly builds up again with an incessant beat, finishing as loudly as it started.

“Summer of ’91” begins as a piano ballad, but when the rest of the band crashes in, the song heads to a foregone loud conclusion. Midway through “Classic Arts Showcase”, a chorus of female soul singers provide the foundation for an odd mix of strings, guitars and drums.

Of course, … Trail of Dead have always written songs that feel large for their size, but this time, the album is threaded with a sense of narrative.

Songs segue into each other, often blurring the distinction between tracks. “Summer of ’91” ends on a hanging note, which “And the Rest Will Follow” picks up afterward. “Let It Dive” begins right before “Classic Arts Showcase” fades out.

Then there are the moments that just plain, “What the fuck?”

Like the instrumental “To Russia My Homeland”, which is reminiscent of the French accordion player that served as an interlude on Source Code and Tags. Or the following “All White”, which sounds like Elton John. No, really.

And at the end of “The Best”, a woman wails a plea, “Don’t go!”, while a distant chorus sings portions of “And the Rest Will Follow”.

I’m not even going to bother explicating the lyrics.

Worlds Apart may sound like … Trail of Dead’s cleanest album on the surface, but there’s a sense of ambition and focus that makes all the strange elements feel structurally sound.

It’s a disorienting album that feels incredibly grounded and knows where the fuck it’s going.

This instance is truly an example where writing about music is like dancing about architecture.