“We’ve always hated the rock star term and all the cliché bullshit that comes with it. You guys have to have people want to buy your papers or your magazines, so they’re never going to just say, ‘They played a good show’; they’re going to say, ‘They were whisked away by gorgeous women on the cocaine train.'” — Caleb Followill, Kings of Leon
“Kings of Leon excite fans of the Southern, the primitive, the trad, the blues-based, and their backstory — in which the home-schooled sons of an itinerant Pentecostal preacher are saved from a life of virtue by rock and roll. This is rock’s starter myth, irresistible for anyone oppressed firsthand by the culture of rectitude. But a thousand bad bands with their dicks in their hands have made millions turning it into organized irreligion, and Kings of Leon didn’t reinvent its clichés.” — Robert Christgau, 2003 Village Voice Pazz & Jop critic poll
Kings of Leon have been called the “Southern Strokes” by some, heirs to the Southern Rock throne by others. They’ve been feted like F.D.R. in Great Britain, and while their stateside reception has been considerably less — well, less laughably over-the-top — the Kings still find themselves getting great reviews from our Yank scribes. Yet, Kings of Leon still struggle to move big-time units here in America, especially on their home turf. As a lifelong Southerner, I think I understand the reason why:
We’ve already heard Molly Hatchet and have long since moved on.
About the aforementioned backstory: Three transient brothers (Caleb, Jared and Nathan Followill, along with Matthew Followill, a “firscousin”) are raised equally on church music and the rock & roll they hear on the car radio, while their preacher father’s busy tending to the flock. (It’s a wonder they never died of carbon monoxide poisoning.) The boys soon learn to tend to their burgeoning locks instead. They also outfit themselves just like fellow Southern tricksters Jim “Dandy” Mangrum and Black Oak Arkansas (Google that shit if you don’t believe me). After a coupla bumps — both the “in the road” variety and the powdered stuff — the Kings put out a 15-minute, fire-and-brimstone sermon of down-and-dirty rock & roll called Holy Roller Novocain.
Like many sermons of the type, it was long on energy and a little short on coherence and direction. Which is to say, it does rock. About what? That’s still open to interpretation, but a quick scan of Caleb Followill’s lyrics dredges up the usual suspects: pussy, pot and partyin’.
But back to the backstory: Simultaneously recalling the maps and legends of Robert Johnson, Elvis and countless other Southern (read: authentic, at least in crit-speak) artists, the Kings’ story is damn near genius in its construction. Whether or not it’s true is almost beside the point. As the famous mythologist Joseph Campbell notes, the specific construction and origin of a myth is sometimes irrelevant: It’s the fact that people find some sort of relief and redemption in it that matters.
To many “Leonites” on either side of the Atlantic, the myth centers on the fact that the American South remains the world’s foremost fertile musical delta — and for good reason, as rock & roll, the blues, country and jazz all trace their origins here. The Followills’ clothing (so tight as to see their lemons, to use old-blues terminology), hair (artfully mussed, scattered and smothered), and use of vintage equipment are all really teases embellishing this myth. As any publisher knows, if you want anyone to pick up the book, you make the cover as striking as possible while remaining true to the message of the text.
It’s the message of Kings’ text that is most problematic. With all the thrift store/PBR tallboy trappings, you’d expect more than, “I’m passed out in your garden. . .I’d pop myself in your body/ I’d come into your party but I’m soft” (from their latest album, Aha Shake Heartbreak). Delivered by Caleb Followill in his mannered mumble, the songs all sound good enough, especially tracks like “Red Morning Light” and “Molly’s Chambers,” on Youth and Young Manhood. Not that anyone one expects the young quartet to be Lynyrd Skynyrd or even the Drive-By Truckers, telling stories of time and place in a simple, straightforward man-of-the-soil fashion that indicates a depth of wisdom rare in any genre.
Much in the way the Strokes managed to move a couple million units rehashing the Velvet Underground, Kings of Leon’s M.O. can be broken down thusly: add one part vague ennui and two parts self-assurance, then stir with a big ol’, dirty-ass rock & roll hook. It’s music as reality TV: pretend like the cameras aren’t there, act as naturally as possible and everything’ll come out fine. If it doesn’t, you can always fix it in the editing room. And just as everyone on reality TV plays a part based on everything they’ve ever seen anyone do on TV before, the Kings’ sense of gritty authenticity is similarly contrived. Just look at them! They’re authentic, goddamnit! Can’t you tell by the clothes they wear? Can’t you just hear them guitars “rang”?
Musically, Aha Shake Heartbreak is a major step forward from Youth — more urgent in its delivery, more diverse in its presentation. And yet, on many levels, it’s just as unsatisfying once the record’s done playing. The disc consists of little more than dog-tired meta-commentary on the Followills’ own partying, road-warrior status, their skirt-chasing, their. . . rawkin!
You could make the argument that most rock & roll of this type tends to veer in this direction, and you’d probably be right. Most of it also usually sucks eggs — AC/DC, The Hives, The Faces and White Stripes being notable exceptions. A little (deviled) egg is just fine every now and then, but unless you’re Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke, it ain’t nothing to base a healthy musical diet on.
Kings of Leon play the Neighborhood Theatre on Monday, Oct. 10. The Like opens. Tickets are $20. Call 704-358-9298 or go to www.neighborhoodtheatre.com.
This article appears in Oct 5-11, 2005.
