I’ll never forget the first time I heard the Killers. It was 2004, I was nine, sitting in the car outside JB Hi-Fi with my dad, a self-proclaimed new wave, post-punk tragic who had bought their debut album, Hot Fuss, after one review compared it to New Order. (It was no coincidence: the Killers were named after a fictional band in a New Order music video.)
Dad popped the CD in and Jenny Was a Friend of Mine began. With its surging synth, a bassline that could rival Peter Hook’s and Brandon Flowers’ brooding voice, we both knew we were hearing something special. Little did I know that, 20 years later, that album would still have pride of place in my own car, or that I’d be about to see them for the 10th time live.
After that first track, Mr Brightside, Smile Like You Mean It, Somebody Told Me and All These Things That I’ve Done followed, and my music education began. Every car trip, dad would play me bands he thought had influenced the Killers. New Order, yes, but also the Cure, the Smiths, Depeche Mode and the Pet Shop Boys. We also discovered new bands from the indie rock revival – Arctic Monkeys, Bloc Party, Franz Ferdinand, Interpol, the Strokes. (I’m aware this is now considered “dad music” but I swear at the time it wasn’t.) Music became our thing.
The first time I saw the Killers live was at a festival in 2009. By then I was 14 and boy-obsessed, despite having never actually spoken to one. If I’m honest, it wasn’t so much boys as it was Brandon Flowers: I had his photos everywhere, my teachers knew him by name and my friends had no choice but to listen to the Killers too.
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Despite the festival being restricted to over-18s, Dad and I bought tickets. I dressed how I thought an adult would: Doc Martens, a skull scarf and black eyeliner. I was convinced I looked like Alexa Chung. As they scanned our tickets, I kept my head down and we made it through. I’ve seen many bands since but none compare with the show the Killers put on that day. I was hooked.
For my 15th birthday, my parents planned a trip to Sydney to see the Killers at the Enmore theatre. The band were headlining the Good Vibrations festival but this was the only sideshow they were doing that was open to under-18s. We were driving to the airport when we found out the show had been cancelled due to a family illness. My plans for the weekend – mostly involving staking out the Intercontinental hotel in the hope of seeing Flowers – vanished in an instant.
When Good Vibrations made its way to Melbourne two weeks later, we thought we’d try our luck. But no dice: Mum and I were immediately knocked back. We went home, deflated – before we decided to drive back and try again. A different, more sympathetic security guard let us in. I’ll never forget running towards the stage, Mum at my side, as the Killers began to play Bling.
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Fast-forward to 2017: I was in my 20s and working my first job in journalism. A media alert: the Killers were holding a press conference at the MCG before the AFL grand final. Up until then, I was trying incredibly hard to prove myself as a mature, serious journalist. But 15-year-old me came out: I told my chief of staff that if he did not send me, my heart would break into a million pieces. He relented.
The next night I ended up sneaking my way into their secret show at Howler. I told myself I wouldn’t lie to get in but when someone wearing a lanyard asked, “Are you here to review the show?” I didn’t correct them. There were only about 300 people there. Add Richmond winning the premiership, the Killers at the MCG and their duet to Mr Brightside with Jack Riewoldt, and it became one of the best weekends of my life.
That night one of my best friends came with me. We had bonded at school over our shared love of the Killers (though some might say I’d practically forced their music on her). When they toured again in 2018, we went to see them twice, in Sydney and Melbourne. My partner came along too, to just one gig: it turned out he had memorised Hot Fuss after it was played on a family road trip. By now the Killers had graduated to confetti cannons, lasers and costume changes – they had grown up too.
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The last time I saw the Killers play was two years ago, again with my friend. Before the show I told her over a drink I had a feeling my partner would propose. She said I was overthinking it. Four days later he did. She had known the whole time.
What is it that I love about the Killers? Yes, they put on an unforgettable show, but it’s more than that. Maybe it’s because music from our teenage years becomes part of who we are (science backs this up). More likely, it’s because every time they come to Australia, I get to belt out their songs with those dearest to me.
As I head to Sydney for my 10th Killers show on Friday, I’m thinking about how this band has soundtracked my life. I think about how lucky I was to have a dad who saw something light up in me that day in the car and fostered it. How my mum didn’t say no to her underage daughter sneaking into festivals, who instead said, “Can I come too?” I think about how my best friend was always there listening along with me, how much we’ve both grown and how both our lives are changing. But as the Killers sing, “It doesn’t really matter, don’t you worry, it’ll all work out.”
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