Illustration by Mark Pernice

Published in the February 2014 issue

Until it became too obvious, Kenny Chesney would have roadies smuggle him through the audience in a road case. This way he could start the show from the crowd and then fly onto the stage. Dan Reynolds is playing many of the same arenas right now, only he could probably escort himself to the third row undetected, share a beer or three with the guy sitting next to him, and start the show from there.

Dan Reynolds is the frontman for Imagine Dragons, and as hard as it might be to wrap your head around the fact that Imagine Dragons are playing arenas, ponder this: Imagine Dragons have sold more than a million records, scored three radio hits, and spent 66 weeks on the charts. And this is probably the first time you've heard Dan Reynolds's name. His band will play 22 arena dates in February and March, venues accustomed to hosting Elton, Prince, Bruce—one-name entities, not no-name entities. It's time to ask if rock stars who can hide in plain sight are really rock stars.

In marketing, Q Scores measure the familiarity people have with brands, and I've got to believe there are Colorado Rockies relief pitchers with higher Q Scores than whoever sings for OneRepublic or the Fray. If the Head and the Heart and the Lumineers pulled the Folgers switch and showed up for one another's gigs, what percentage of the audience would know?

Until now, the link between music and mythology has been inextricable: The path to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is paved with depravity, arrest records, addiction, bitter feuds, and premature death. Rock stars used to be not just bigger than life; they actually lived bigger lives: Hammer of the Gods was as important to Led Zeppelin's legacy as Physical Graffiti. But this year's rock stars are nameless and faceless because now they're just part of the noise—we don't need their take on delayed flights, lost luggage, and the best 24/7 diner in Portland. Today, every band brings a camera crew to the studio and on tour as if they were shooting a 60 Minutes profile. Not once has one of these videos produced a revelation. Rock stars have taken publicity into their own hands, yet it was never merely publicity that made rock stars; it was mystery.

Jay Z is still a rock star, because for as much as we know, there's so much we don't: How he's held so close to the vest the details of his marriage with Beyoncé—another bona fide rock star—is one of modern media's great mysteries. But with so many rock stars talking and so little time, we've collectively made a knee-jerk decision to tune all of 'em out. It's not even Imagine Dragons' fault they're so anonymous—truthfully, they rank low on the list of shameless oversharers. It's Wayne Coyne's fault. It's Questlove's fault. It's Tyler, the Creator's fault. Because of them, we've thrown the baby out with the bathwater.

I've got a friend who takes recommendations, downloads albums, and intentionally puts on blinders from there—he doesn't follow the bands on Twitter, read their blogs, or watch their videos. He doesn't want to know anything that would ruin the album for him. He wants to build his own mythology. And I envy him. "Shut up and sing" is the shittiest thing you can say to a musician—it suggests their worldview, their motivation as people, isn't important. And it's what got the Dixie Chicks basically deported. But maybe it's time more rock stars shut up and sang. We want great songs. That's why we love music. But we want a little bit of mystery, too. Dan Reynolds is what happens when all the mystery is gone.

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