‘Butterflies and Hurricanes’ by Muse was on heavy rotation on MTV at a time, 15 years ago, when my infant son could be magically coaxed away from tears and back to sleep by pop videos. The only lasting effect of this proved to be my developing a deep and lasting aversion to Muse, because I saw that video what felt like 160 times a day for three months.
Having watched them at the O2, I wish to apologise. Muse, my disdain was misplaced. You really are terrific. I’m still not sure I would want to listen to an unadulterated diet of their albums — a Christmas dinner of prog, glam and metal, seasoned with quasi-classical interludes and attempts to sound like Prince — but I’d run, not walk, to see them again from a good seat in an arena.
A large chunk of that is down to the production, which is roughly what an eight-year-old would come up with if they were allowed to have a rock show for a birthday party. ‘Mum, can I have dancers with light sabres?’ Yes, dear. ‘And a giant inflatable killer robot with a champing jaw, that I get to fight with my guitar?’ Yes, dear. ‘And people in Terminator suits?’ Yes, dear. ‘And all of us going up and down through the stage on platforms all the time?’ Yes, dear. ‘And people hanging from the lights?’ Yes, dear.
‘And an arcade game on stage?’ Yes, dear. ‘And flashing lights all over the guitars?’ Yes dear. ‘And I want to wear glasses with flashing LED screens.’ Well, I’m not sure that’ll be good for your eyes. ‘BUT THAT’S WHAT I WANT!’ Yes, then, dear.
It was a feat of the imagination.
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