The Killers get more praise than Dubya on right-wing radio. So why not give them some more?

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 naughty.

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 idea.

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 thinners.

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.

Just like everyone else