Pitchfork

The Kings of Leon have some sort of mythical backstory that I'm contractually obligated to relate: they're all brothers (except for the one that's a cousin), raised by a Pentecostal preacher who traveled the South feeding them roots-rock and the Lord's word in equal measure. It's the sort of tale that many in the music press lap up because it plays into rock's need for a linear history, and because it has roots in the history of rock, blues, country and many of America's established musical legends. So next to Jack White's anti-technology screeds, Kings of Leon have the rock press' most beloved non-image image. They so come across like a fictionalized version of What Rock Is Supposed To Be circa 1973 that they could pass for Stillwater.

Kings of Leon can't be faulted for their reviews, nor should they be judged by their appearance. Hell, rock needs more characters and personalities. It needs more people who aren't afraid to look foolish or to reach for greatness and potentially fail. The willingness to take chances and to do something truly different has been slowly bled out of rock by safe careerism. Most bands get one shot in the studio every two years to maintain or grow their fanbase, and too often seem reluctant to confound expectations. It's frustrating, then, that Kings of Leon's debut, Youth and Young Manhood, seems to be about removing any possibility that the band could put a wrong foot forward. Their bar band approach sounds as if they've taken a book of rock history and, dutifully following along, bookmarked some of the most unremarkable passages.

Their music is often referred to as Southern Rock, although it doesn't rock at all-- it lacks force, velocity, and power. It also has little in common with a lot of what of the best Southern Rock had; it doesn't display the craftsmanship and technical proficiency of the Allman Brothers, the anthemism and storytelling of Lynyrd Skynyrd, nor the eccentricity of Little Feet. More accurately, Kings of Leon sound as if they're aiming more to ape the blues-inflected Rolling Stones, The Faces, or early Bob Seger. Unfortunately, without the dexterity or ferocity of any of them, they end up closer to the likes of Foghat, Black Oak Arkansas, or The Doobie Brothers.

It's all very disappointing, because blues-rock can still be powerful when its purveyors demonstrate charisma, quirk, muscle, and a penchant for hooks. Youth and Young Manhood's opener, "Red Morning Light", with its gritty, minimalist stomp, could pass for the White Stripes, but elsewhere, Kings of Leon stagger from CBGB junkie blues ("Trani") to Led Zeppelin-lite ("Joe's Head") to a muddy, sluggish take on AC/DC ("Spiral Staircase"). "Happy Alone" is the album's strongest track and-- thanks to the clipped guitar and singer Calen Followill's garbled, slow drawl and indecipherable lyrics-- the one that most justifies all of the "Southern Strokes" tags. Followill's voice has an element of gravely confidence, yet it off-puttingly carries the ugly sense of entitlement of young machismo.

Like Fountains of Wayne or The Stereophonics, Kings of Leon aim to meet your every expectation to a T, and nothing more, making music that's seemingly bulletproof simply because it's built on the foundation of the way things were done in the good ol' days. Which is much of this band's problem: Kings of Leon attempt to substitute their supposed possession of "honesty," "purity," "realism," "history" and "authenticity" for ideas, hooks and songs. And like so many bands touted as bearing these intangible, inaudible sensations, they simply aim for pantomime, careful not to reach for anything other than the tried-and-true simply because that's perceived as the "right" way to do things.