"You paint everything in colors instead of black and white," taunts Gil Cereso on the first track of Kinky's sophomore effort, Atlas. The song, titled "El Presidente", is meant as a jab at Mexican president Vicente Fox's noncommittal politics, but could easily apply to the band as well. Kinky refuse to define themselves by genre, generation, or nationality; with rash splashes of funk, electronica, batucada, and good, old-fashioned guitar rock, they throw a Technicolor tantrum that shows the up side of globalization. As the name implies, Kinky's swing isn't rough trade or edgy fetishism: Simply put, this five-piece out of Monterey-- Mexico's gritty, thriving industrial center-- make dancefloor ear candy balanced by a refreshingly giddy naivete and sophisticated, hip-shaking rhythmic approach. Though Atlas doesn't bring the same sexed-up potency as their self-titled debut, its No World Border pastiche pushes the band a step further on the international stage and proves these guys are serious about their fun.
Where their first album featured dense, sequenced keyboard textures, Atlas finds Kinky making electronic music that genuinely rocks, and like French house-funk outfit RixF4çérôse, they take up guitars as their weapon of choice. Producer Chris Allison (Beta Band, Coldplay) plays a major role in icing down the band's sound, never sapping the life from these snappy, crystal-clean barnburners. Lead guitarist Carlos Chaires gets substantial facetime on tracks like "Do U Like It?", a blazing instrumental propelled by timbale breakbeats, and "Salta-Lenin-El-Atlas", with its wicked Brazilian rhythm, vocoded chorus, and Cesar Pliego's fuzzy, distorted bass. Cake vocalist John McCrea makes an appearance as "The Headphonist", his straight-faced narrative backed by bright horn samples, swollen organ, and percussionist Omar Gongora's incessant cumbia beat. Suffice to say, Cake's funk-pop sensibility and ironic intellectual bent clearly rubbed off on Kinky during 2002's Unlimited Sunshine tour.
Opening with a radio rock riff and bouncy bass, "Airport Feelings" gets a trumpet treatment as Cereso croons, "Now your skin is my runway/ I'm ready for a landing." It's on these English-language songs that the band's youthful, wide-eyed charm renders some rather poetic concepts somewhat goofy and cloying. "My God Is So Quiet," goes one song, "that sometimes I can't hear him when he speaks loud." "Not Afraid" strings together stoneriffic musings like, "They say that rugs are just floor with overgrown hair/ And the broom is the comb/ The vacuum is the blow dryer." Cute and clever, if shallow, these lyrics might better be rendered in Spanish-- Cereso is far more articulate in his native tongue.
The two tracks with the sharpest melodic focus are standouts for both their uniqueness within the album's context and as truly memorable, progressive pop compositions: "Minotauro" bumps Far East tabla up against South-of-the-border rocanrol with humming synthlines, a hard-rock bridge, and a sunny, blissed-out chorus. Meanwhile, the album's closer, "Semillas De Menta", plays like a bossa nova lullaby, a total departure from the dancefloor dynamite which it follows.
A band with incredible talent and potential for mass appeal, Kinky is too infatuated with their multi-culti influences and all-inclusive musical ethic to pull together the cohesive, definitive opus they may be capable of. The relentless touring and explosive, sweat-drenched live shows they're known for should continue to refine their sound. Hopefully, it won't drain their machismo.
