“Mommy, my fame hurts!” Kings of Leon laid it on thick at the Fillmore on Thursday. Photos by Laurie Scavo.

Ominous starts are always good. “It was a dark and stormy night” is neither appropriate nor fresh, so let’s try: “It was a predictably dark night, and somewhere in Denver, a band that had cut off most of their hair was about to play.”

Kings of Leon either share my lust for macabre introductions or they have a sense of humor about the state of their music; that’s why they opened their Thursday show at the Fillmore Auditorium with Mozart’s “Requiem in D Minor.”

Ahh, the Fillmore. It felt weird to be back; it’s where I’ve seen some of the most lackluster shows of my life. Interpol, while sounding great, seemed like someone had wound a key in their backs and arranged them onstage. Modest Mouse, after going through the motions, left their fans without a word and without an encore. My M.O. has become, after a few years: Arrive skeptical. And when I pair that feeling with the idea of my ribcage being pressed cruelly into the guard rails, a mild surge of social anxiety, and a feeble body from a long workday on my feet, I trot up the stairs and squirrel myself away in the nose-bleediest section you can manage at the Fillmore… so I can sit.

I could see a kick drum with “KoL” on it, black skinny jeans and tiny heads. When the music starts, I immediately thought, Oh Caleb, did you quit smoking? His old voice, if it was a smell, would be burnt hair. He must have contracted a case of the Fourth Album Gloss. I furrowed my brow, patient, and was rewarded by the familiar hiccup of “Razz.”

Up until this point, I’d felt like an old geezer crouching diabolically on a porch, waiting to be offended. Any strains of “Aha Shake Heartbreak” loosened me up to wave my cane around and smile. I don’t ever want a band to be my monkey, safely trotting out old favorites in succession, but it always warms my icy heart. Let me talk to you young’uns about the days of yore, when a band like Kings of Leon used to play warm, more intimate songs that belonged in the dingy pool room of a small bar. They played the sound of itchy skin — perhaps the skin of a dog resting uncomfortably under a blanket of flies.

Now, the jocular, brassy guitars that benefitted them so well in the past drown under the big-gig bass, and I come to the terrifying realization that no, Caleb Followill hasn’t been laying off the cigarettes. He’s just excited to test out the training wheels on his new Michael Bolton bike.

Ew. What for? Pride? (Yes.) Money? (Yes.) Bono’s blessing? (Oh, dear god, yes.) KoL have made it no secret that they’re interested in fame, the fatty kind, bone-in with all the drippings; they bring it up in almost every interview. And I guess they know what they’re doing, because the Fillmore show was sold out. But ticket sales do not a legend make; that’s why nobody likes watching the Grammys. I never would have guessed that it would happen, but this band traded in their calling card for something simpler and more dependable, and I know it ain’t by accident — during the set, Caleb’s vocal styles moved quite dramatically from gnarly to light adult contemporary, depending on which album he’s pulling from.

I managed to get through the concert with a 70 percent satisfaction rate, due to the strict “Aha” diet of “Taper Jean Girl,” “Four Kicks,” “The Bucket” and “Slow Night, So Long,” but I reached a new ire when Caleb kept tossing shit at the crowd with a “Yep, everybody wants my shit,” kind of feeling. It reminded me of a laughing nobleman on horseback throwing coins to serfs on his way through the village.

No thanks, I don’t want your nobleman cooties, or your horse’s. But I was the Scrooge in a happy crowd that knew all the words and coerced an encore, and I’m pretty sure that any first dates went home and got to have sex. All requiems be damned, I guess. Good night, sweet princes.

Alex Edgeworth is a Denver freelance writer and regular Reverb contributor.

Laurie Scavo is a Denver freelance photographer and regular Reverb contributor.

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