Kings of Leon
Brixton Academy, London SW9
Scientists have devised computer programmes to plot the potential spread of bird influenza. Motorway managers have algorithms that can explain the wave patterns in bumper-to-bumper traffic. How is it, then, that no one has yet invented software with which to graph the spread of fandom? A calculator screen filled with small coloured spores - in the style of Andrew Marr's Britain From Above, say - would unwrap the progress of the Nashville-based Kings of Leon as an unpromising minuscule cluster shooting out provisionary, spidery beams
of light, and then culminating in a firework display.
Tonight's baying crowd finds the objects of their affections equanimous to go solar. There's Nathan Followill, the eldest brother, senior high school up on a drum riser, his long hair tickling his beefy shoulders. From behind, Nathan could be a hippie Lothario version of Olympic man-dolphin Michael Phelps. Unlike near drummers, Nathan takes nigh equal spotlight billing to singer Caleb Followill. In turn, Caleb thwarts the clich�s around frontmen organism show-offs and more charismatic than the rest of the band.
Having done away with the preposterous Nigel Tufnel haircut he was sporting earlier this summer, Caleb's pared-back hair's-breadth mirrors a quiet confidence. During the encore he gets the crowd to continue intonation the 'oh woah ohs' of 'Knocked Up' with just one tiny thumb gesture. Savouring the moment, he wiggles his hips. That is the extent of his stagecraft. He used to sing like his trouser seams were cleaving his groin into steaks just now there's more guts to his voice, unmangling his delivery a small. Either side of Caleb are Followills Matthew and Jared, on lead guitar and freshwater bass respectively. The directional hair and rocking out falls mostly to them.
Behind Kings of Leon lies a successful Friday dark headline touch at Glastonbury, when this notorious band of brothers-and-a-cousin officially revealed themselves to be one of Britain's favourite bands. Not unsound for a bunch of chancers raised in the church gayly unaware of all stone music, world Health Organization came into fashion in the wake of the Strokes.
Ahead of the Kings rises a weekend at the V Festival, culminating in their Chelmsford set tonight . Consolidation is a departed conclusion. Against the betting odds, the Followills have proven they have got substance as well as stylists. Each album has seen their musicianship doggedly flower and absorb influences as ravenously as a Venus flytrap. The moustaches that suggested some phylogenetic relation with Southern rock inheritance are long since shaven off. They are now pulling ahead of their peers the Killers, some other American stadium indie band whose heartland examinations ar more popular over here than over there. The Strokes could well end up supporting them in the future.
There are more than changes. On the Kings' recent circle of US gigs, girlfriends were on their tourbus, a change from the bacchanal of powders and STDs that characterised the band's early blossoming. Undeterred, Caleb blows kisses at the audience tonight and howls his way through the speed-country thump of 'Black Thumbnail', a rousing song nearly loveless sexual urge and 'picking up speed'. At the other end of the set, 'Pistol of Fire' closes the tracklist with an extended, pared-back version of a previously forgettable song. You almost blank out that the Kings ar using a laughably simple metaphor for their penises here.
In a month's clock time Kings of Leon testament release their fourth work, Only By The Night. Its title unwittingly apes Oasis (the lumpy syntax) but it sounds not too far off U2 in places. If all goes to plan, this light-greedy isthmus are fix to play under even brighter rigs. Tonight's relatively intimate Brixton gig sold out in three minutes. Their forthcoming O2 gig in December sold forbidden in less than an hour. They've added another date at Wembley. More than 60,000 people downloaded a freebie of a fresh track when it was made available a brace of weeks ago.
That new track, 'Crawl', kicks off the put with a vibrant growl, taking Kings of Leon's trademark jitter-rock down to a threatening brood. There's a throwaway line in it about 'a crucified USA' - the jumping-off point for a hobble theory that Only By The Night might be Kings of Leon's 'political' album. The notion that the Kings notice very much about the world beyond the end of their members is amusing, given the content of their three albums thus far. Albums one and iI were all about girls and hard partying. Album three covered girls, partying, heartbreak and (on 'Knocked Up') eloping with a bun in the oven. Politics? They aren't U2 - at least not yet.
Indeed, there's little book of facts to the African HIV/Aids crisis in another standout new sung dynasty, 'Sex on Fire'. As the claim suggests, Kings of Leon haven't finished with their favourite field quite until now. Perhaps it's down to little more than the title, simply there ar hints here of Bruce Springsteen's 'I'm On Fire', and of a leaning toward widescreen anthems. 'Manhattan', meanwhile, is equable and consolatory, sounding nothing like them - which is always a useful skill to have in reserve.
As 'Charmer' - their Pixies tribute - swaps places with the deceptively wellbeing jangle of 'Slow Nights, So Long', the point is unquestionably a success. But how is it that a band so unforthcoming onstage as Kings of Leon have arenas on their itinerary? How is it that a frontman as uncharismatic as Caleb Followill is so adored? Perhaps it is the direction he picks up his water bottleful to walk offstage, and then, stopping to wave at fans, pops it quite innocently between his legs, where it ceases to look like a water bottle, reminding everyone what their favourite dance orchestra is all about.
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