The Southwestern Masquerade of the Killers Olivia Ho
Sports Arena Stadium, forever cemented in my memory as the monolithic monster whose concert-goers caused many traffic-filled afternoons of driving home from school, was about as devoid of windows as I had remembered. I can’t imagine that the 15,000-seat arena has changed much since its construction: the faded red and mustard stripes on the wall, obscured by a perpetual yet unidentifiable smokey haze, teleported me straight into 1960s San Diego. Somehow, it seems to me that a venue like Sports Arena that stands somewhat outside of time is the perfect place to see The Killers. The general admission crowd at the late-August show shared the same excitement almost bursting from my sister and me as we waited in line. From our vantage point on the arena floor, surrounded by now-vintage Killers t-shirts and stories of past shows, we could tell that this was not a show for casual listeners or half-interested fans. This was a show of a band in their golden years, where every listener knows every song, old and new, and shares a dedication only strengthened by time. The depth of my almost-frenzied elatedness from being at this show is difficult to imagine. The concert was—and I cannot stress this enough—a transformative experience, filled with a variety of emotion: I sobbed about being “On the corner of Main Street/Just tryna keep it in line,” as “Read My Mind” rung through the stadium, and my sister and I gripped each other with the panic of uncharacteristic hero-worship each time Brandon Flowers waltzed onto our side of the stage. The culmination of my joy came right at the encore, as the sleazy, opulent glamor of The Killer’s modern aesthetic was driven home by rotating images of Adonis during “The Man” (a personal favorite glitzy ode to masculinity and manliness off of 2017’s Wonderful Wonderful). The show ended as the crowd was pelted by dollar bills decorated with the bands’ faces. As we drove home, emotionally numb with ears ringing, my sister’s friend summed the experience up precisely: “Well, he doesn’t look a thing like Jesus.” I spent the majority of my elementary school years memorizing every lyric of each Killers’ song, Christmas special, and B-side—jealously watching as my sisters and mom jaunted off to concerts and returned with a deep analysis of the quality of Brandon Flowers’ hair or the trajectory of Ronnie Vannucci’s drum sticks. Because of my basically lifelong attachment, I tend to think of The Killers as my band, with a possessiveness completely unjustified for a group so popular and well-known. I can’t help but associate The Killers with my family and the place where I grew up. And, in a way that’s become more bittersweet and pertinent as I’ve left home, with how I conceptualize the Southwest—the sullen desert land that remains indescribably detached from the rest of the West. The Killers originated in Las Vegas, perhaps the most culturally potent city of the Southwest. The glitz and hopeless artifice of the oasis-like Strip has made its mark across their discography—in no NF011| 11