get more praise than Dubya on right-wing radio. So why not give them
Las Vegas City Life
BY JEFF INMAN
December 30, 2004
The Killers. The Killers. The Killers.
Everybody loves the Killers. Even God loves the Killers. The dude is
probably up there right now, his hair shaped like a "U," doing the
pogo to "Mr. Brightside" while Jesus stands in the corner pissed
because Dad won't listen to something more appropriate, like Michael
W. Smith. That's how loved the Killers are: They make God be
And why wouldn't he? The Killers are like the Cabbage Patch Kids of
2004: Everyone wants a piece of them. The group is a lust apex.
They're the quarterback at prom. They're the Donald at the
hairdresser. They're the porn star in a room full of computer nerds.
Little girls cover their mouths and giggle when they walk by. Big
girls think dirty thoughts. And critics actually faint, like they've
been overcome by something old-fashioned, like the vapors. Osama bin
Laden isn't that wanted.
Admittedly, we're a little surprised. Now don't get us wrong here;
we love the Killers, too. Not like we used to. We used to love them
like that girl Jenny in college, the one you could have great
conversations with over coffee but never had the nerve to ask home.
But that was before the whole supersizing thing when we had actual
face time. Now that the band is jet-setting around the globe like
trust-fund Eurotrash, popping up in fashionable magazines, doing
fabulous things with fabulous people and basically living the P.
Diddy life, we have to love them like a Jenna Jameson centerfold.
No, wait, that's gross. How about like fat Anna Nicole Smith?
Imperfect, but all ours. Oh, that sucks too. Screw it; you get the
But honestly, we didn't think it was going to be this way. Anybody
who saw the Killers slink through the Boston back in the day knew
that eventually the group would give more than a few music junkies
cardiac arrest. The band was built for that. The brooding songs. The
Bugs Bunny-clever androgynous lyrics. The not-so-subtle nod to "I
Love the '80s." It's the sonic equivalent of ingesting hot grease;
it can do some serious damage to those already in need of blood
It was just hard to image that they'd, you know, get Grammy
nominations. The Shortlist music prize thing, yeah, that makes
sense. That's like the Noble Prize for math, something handed out by
eggheads to other eggheads. Normal folks could give a shit about
that. But the Grammies? That means soccer moms who still think
they're cool listen to the Killers. That means teens who just gave
up their Barbies for a cellphone are listening to the Killers. For
Christ's sake, that means Republicans are listening to the Killers.
Nobody -- not even Nostradamus -- could have seen that one coming.
And while that confuses us like tax code -- mainly because we were
all sure we'd never be in league with the minivan set over anything
-- there's also a slight pang of pride for the boys. The Killers
achieved the dream. They did what every Las Vegas band strives for.
They topped Slaughter -- well, at least in the
cooler-than-liquid-hydrogen category, if not in album sales (but
even that seems possible now). If it weren't for the Crystal Method
hanging on to the claim that they're from Vegas -- hey guys, more
than a decade in L.A. makes Sin City a vacation spot again -- the
Killers would be the absolute, all-time, undisputed Kings of the
Valley. They'd be the benevolent sovereigns, the iron-willed
monarchs of cool.
As it stands, they're for sure the Crown Princes of Sin City. And
for that we will congratulate ourselves like we had something to do
with it and give random high-fives to tourists walking down the
Strip. We will back them up in bar fights, like a random ensign on
"Star Trek" heading toward doom. We will only make fun of frontman
Brandon Flowers when absolutely necessary -- or for wearing Moulin
Rouge lip gloss in the "Mr. Brightside" video.
Which ultimately means that, if God is up there, dancing around like
some Flock of Seagulls groupie, then we want in on the action too,
because, damn it, we love the Killers.