When they first appeared, Nashville’s Kings Of Leon were heralded as a hairier version of The Strokes, conceived at a hootenanny. Not unreasonable, given the blend of urgent, full-tilt pop, country twang and Southern boogie that constituted their much lauded debut LP, “Youth And Young Manhood”.
Their hybrid sound may not have been totally successful, but their shtick certainly was. The three Followill brothers (joined later by their cousin) were originally from Tennessee and claimed to have spent their formative years driving around America with their father, Leon, an evangelical preacher who was subsequently defrocked. As spin goes, Kings Of Leon’s story spun.
Whatever their provenance, once the initial adoration wore off, the Kings had to defend their crown. It met with a mixed reception, but the conceptual daring and astringent strangeness of 2004’s sophomore effort, “Aha Shake Heartbreak” actually set it head and shoulders above their derivative and hammy debut and tonight the Kings’ court is clearly in worshipful mood.
They swing in with "Happy Alone", which proves that the nexus of Strokes’ cool grows ever stronger. If some of that band’s gold dust has rubbed off, however, then so has their inability to work a big venue. Kings Of Leon’s sound was made for the kind of down-home bars where tequila shots are being slammed and pool balls pocketed and, although it’s hardly their fault that that’s no longer an option, it is their problem. They may have unit-shifting clout, but they have little charisma. At least, not from 50 rows back, they don’t.
Still, the Kings’ set is peppered with enough perky tunes to help camouflage the sag and Caleb’s voice – a cross between a drawl and a croaky yowl that renders every line indecipherable – is oddly engaging. The highlights? “King Of The Rodeo”, which has more than a whiff of The Strokes’ “Last Night” about it, but is given a white reggae twist. There’s a groovily noir-ish dash of Dick Dale to “Four Kicks” and the spiky “Razz” is great, too - like a punk rock Allman Brothers - but “The Bucket” and “Slow Night, So Long” (bewilderingly, saved for the encore) dish out so much sexless, indie-rock gruel you suspect Nashville might have kick-started a Wedding Present revival. Luckily, the familiar tang of “California Waiting” obliterates the memory of both.
Where the Followill clan is headed now is anyone’s guess. One thing’s for certain – it ain’t home to Tennessee. New kingdoms – and an assuredly difficult third album – beckon.
