‘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.
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