enough to know how to savor a moment.

The thrill is in the groove. Some of the time that means jacked-up garage punk, as the group tumbles down a "Spiral Staircase" and greets the "Red Morning Light" with bloodshot conviction. But the Kings are also a Southern rhythm section to their core: They know when to lay back and let things simmer, and when to jump up and testify with tambourines banging. Guitar-playing in this band is not about Southern-rock virtuosity in the Allmans mold but about staggering-drunk solos that suggest calamity is just around the corner (dig that firecracker dance in "Happy Alone") or ooze blues slop until it melts into feedback ("Dusty").

Leadman Caleb Followill doesn't sing so much as slouch into his narratives of waywardness. On "Trani," he sounds so busted up he can barely hold a conversation, and it only magnifies the sense of dissolution. Most of the time, every slur and mumble sounds as if he's either just had sex or is dreaming about it, never more so than on "Molly's Chambers." Mannish boys, they do grow up fast.

GREG KOT
(RS 930, September 4, 2003)