“I moved here from a quiet town in Utah when I was just 16 years old,” The Killers‘ frontman Brandon Flowers tells a sold-out crowd in Las Vegas, Nevada. “I had big dreams as a busboy working right here in Ceasars Palace. And I bet my life on three men I hardly knew,” he adds, as the Coliseum burst into cheers at the acknowledgment of his bandmates of more than two decades: drummer Ronnie Vannucci Jr., bassist Mark Stoermer and guitarist Dave Keuning.

“Some people come to Vegas, and they lose everything; that’s just the way it goes,” Flowers says. “But let tonight serve as a reminder: Sometimes it goes the other way, too.”

On a stage set to mirror the Vegas sign, with bright bulbs and massive screens that give the performance the air of a ‘60s late-night show, The Killers, a band that got their start in 2001 practicing in garages and playing in Sin City dive bars, paid homage to Hot Fuss, the seismic album that put them on the map. Back then, people assumed they were a British band because of Flowers’ affectation in tracks like the salacious synth track “Somebody Told Me,” but they were a rare breed of Southwest-born indie rockers with dreams bigger than the two-star town they grew up in. “I don’t know what you dreamed about when you were young,” Flowers tells the audience towards the end of the set, “but we dreamed about this!”

In a blur of golden confetti, familiar and staggering guitar solos, and die-hard fans screaming the words to every song, The Killers played Hot Fuss front to back, even placing their typically only encore-worthy world record-breaking track “Mr. Brightside” near the top of the setlist. For my part, I was more eager to hear songs I’d only heard live once — like the anthemic queer love song “Andy You’re A Star” or at the closing post-punk lullaby “Everything Will Be Alright,” which gave me chills. Their latest, track, a gospel-tinged Americana jam called “Bright Lights,” goes off like a firework on the massive stage

The first article I ever got commissioned to write was a live review of The Killers. I was covering the Decennial celebration of their initially critically panned and eventual cult favorite sophomore album, Sam’s Town. The show took place in the casino that shares its name with the album, a little vintage, a bit kitschy, off the Vegas strip spot ornamented with animatronic animals and complete with a cheap Mexican restaurant that sells margaritas as big as your head. I wrote the show review on the plane ride back home, feverishly attempting to pull together everything I’d seen and heard, bolstered by free in-flight drinks.

“Nobody is going to call Vegas the birthplace of reality, but that doesn’t mean the Killers are counterfeit,” I wrote about that gig nearly eight years ago. Walking from Ceasars Palace, a little older, a little wiser (a little), and still unjaded by the band that started it all for me, I can confirm that amid the bright lights, even with the polish of a Vegas residency, it still feels real.

Photography: Chris Phelps