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	KINGS OF LEON NOT SO STONED

Kings of Leon’s songs are like mini-mysteries: three- or four-minute tableaux of guitars, chopping beats, and the urgent singing of Caleb Followill that add up to something usually interesting and possibly even important, but it’s never quite clear what. Most of the subterfuge comes from Caleb’s percussive delivery and allusive flash-card lyrics, which often spin couplets into non sequiturs like "Take off your overcoat, you’re staying for the weekend/And swaying like a smoky gray, a drink in the park," from the band’s new "King of the Rodeo."

His voice is Kings of Leon’s sonic surprise. Caleb sings straight from his throat, which sounds perpetually sore. It’s as if the words and tones he’s making were too large for their exit and get compressed as they scrape against his vocal cords and are forced out. It’s a great rock-and-roll voice — one of the signatures of this band of brothers and a cousin, all from Tennessee, who’ve been tapped to open this spring’s U2 tour.

This past Sunday, the Kings were in Boston on their own ticket, playing the Paradise in support of their new Aha Shake Heartbreak (RCA). The album — the follow-up to their debut, Youth and Young Manhood (RCA) — and their live show raised another mystery. Why are they so often compared with the early Rolling Stones? Sure, Caleb has his share of Jagger-like charisma, but when the group — brothers Caleb (guitar), Jared (bass), and Nathan (drums) and cousin Matthew Followill (lead guitar) — stoke their instruments, the only thing Stones-like that emerges is the occasional clanging chord.

Watching the Kings pound out their tunes, you can tell they’re punk-rockers at the core. If there’s another contemporary group they beg comparison with, it’s Clinic, thanks to their swaying lockstep beats, their two-note guitar-and-bass rhythmic figures, and a shared taste for vague lyrics. The difference — and it’s an important one — is that Clinic ate fish and chips and listened to Ennio Morricone and Joy Division. The Kings were raised on grits and cornbread and listened to gospel and the Velvet Underground and their offspring. The smart propulsion of Jared and Nathan sounds more like Pere Ubu’s Tony Maimone and Scott Krauss than Bill Wyman and Charlie Watts, especially in the punchy, visceral bass lines. And Matthew’s most arresting outbursts telegraph outfits like Wire and Television, even if they’re not as purely high-wire exciting and dangerous. That’s because Kings of Leon don’t play a note that doesn’t serve their songs. There’s no extended soloing; there are no jazz odysseys, no "Heartbreaker" jams, and most definitely no "Dazed and Confused" midsections. And when they’ve exhausted every breath and chord necessary to realize a tune, they drop it like a hot rivet. The only ’60s group they mirrored occasionally at the Paradise were the Yardbirds, especially when Caleb and Matthew furiously strummed and picked out terse, blaring melodies in a couple of brief guitar rave-ups.

Will Kings of Leon be the next great American rock band, writing songs that help define a nation as well as a generation, much the way Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band they’ve voiced admiration for, once did? Certainly there’s something intensely American about their passionate rumble and their unmistakable Southern accent, but what’s missing is genuine, focused storytelling. There’s no rush, though. Since they’re all in their late teens and early 20s and they sold out the Paradise, they’ve got the time and the support to grow their talent.