The best thing about British rock journalists is the way they get genuinely riled up, sometimes with little consideration for longevity, reason, or next week. Then, inevitably, people complain about investing their wads of hard- earned dollars on mediocre, wackily-hyped shit that, shockingly, doesn't live up to the quote-laden poster hyperbole decorating the concrete walls of their local record store. But there's still something kinda charming about occasionally overstated fervor, an intangible giddiness that's reminiscent of pure, unmitigated, guitar-inspired glee. NME might be completely insane, but it's packed with the kind of blind, unchecked excitement that a lot of other magazines have learned to haughtily avoid in favor of (yawn) detached objectivity.
England's awfully excited about the Kings of Leon this summer, and the Kings of Leon, it turns out, are just excited: hordes of gushing rock writers are stumbling around in a post-Glastonbury glow (the Kings boasted, apparently, a wild second stage set), gearing up to pronounce the Kings rock's new (cringe) royalty. Stateside, critical pants are still zipped, but the band's already garnered a fair amount of positive mumbling from a handful of journalists, and is tentatively scheduled to release a full-length on RCA in late July (which, in all likelihood, should get the Kings' U.S. publicity machine up and running). For now, there's Holy Roller Novocaine, a five-song EP; apparently, a fifteen-minute record is adequate evidence for mammoth hyping. This small offering of sincere, blues-based, anthemic Tennessee rock comes care of five guys with the same last name (three brothers-- sons of a Pentecostal preacher-- and one cousin), lots of hair, a couple of mustaches, and super-tight jeans. Prepare yourself for reading the phrase "southern-fried" several thousand times over the course of the summer: rawk has returned (again).
For all their throwback styling, the Kings of Leon are exceptionally twenty-first century. Contemporary music has, for the most part, become about ticking off impressive, heavily-annotated lists of influences, and squeezing old sounds into vaguely novel templates; the new game is how well you can pull off the pilfering-- how dynamic you can make a record's re- contextualization. Holy Roller's five songs mix late 60s garage/psychedelia with sprawling 70s guitar rock, and while the resulting sound is new enough, its underpants are still showing. It's not hard to see the colors of Kings past here: Steppenwolf, the Kinks, Neil Young, the Band, even skimpy traces of the Velvet Underground.
When the Kings deliberately channel ("Molly's Chambers" hosts a strategically placed, howl-'till-they-holler-"Freebird!" guitar solo), they sound more like a diluted Black Crowes than a squad of agile up-and-comers, but when they do edge into more innovative terrain: vocalist Caleb Followill has a rich, nimble rock yell, and lead guitarist Matthew spews the sort of feral wails that classic rock radio stations will shamelessly anoint. Mostly, though, however the Kings convince because they're just so obviously jazzed to be playing music.
"California Waiting" is Holy Roller's juicy center, the poppiest of the EP's five songs and a catchy (if comparably bland) piece of summertime Petty-pop. Its good-natured guitar, clean bass, and singalong, speeding-down-the-highway chorus become, after a few listens, a gooey, static reminder of how pop formula can go a little awry in the wrong hands. The song withers with your increasing attention, despite the band's quasi-noble attempts to inject it with energy. Happily, "Holy Roller Novocaine" is a far more dynamic, freaked-out track, buried in a raucous, semi-sinister fog of lecherous vocals; a thick, bouncy bassline dodges in and out of jangly guitar crashes and creepy lyrics ("Darling, you look lovely/ I've come to lay you down," or "You don't have much I can't take away"). Here, the Kings successfully pull off cocky posturing over bouncing rock throwdowns. "Wasted Time" is a quick, aggressive romp with darting guitars and mumbled vocals; "Wicker Chair" is a straightforward acoustic swansong, topped with careful cymbal brushes and lush strumming. As a quarter-hour buzz, it's all fine.
It's easy to get twitchy about the artfully achieved resurrection of past superheroes, until the recognition of derivation hits, splatters, and gets everything wet. Kings of Leon aren't nearly as dangerous or as innovative as their influences, but they're likable enough; more importantly, though, the Kings perform their stuff with the same kind of wound-up, unbridled abandon that marks their steamy UK press. And big, blind enthusiasm has its own sort of appeal: wouldn't you take excited and referential over apathetic and reserved?
