We all want to stay hip to the scene, but who has time to do all that work? We just hang out in Electric Fetus once a fortnight and eavesdrop, and this is how we heard about this amazing quartet of brothers (OK, one first cousin) from Tennessee. What the coeds in pigtails and hiphuggers didn’t say is that the Kings sound like what latter-day Butthole Surfers would have been if their muse had been Budweiser rather than peyote, or Jon Spencer if he’d majored in car repair. It’s raunchy and mumbling, with a lilting pop beat that we hereby dub “Heated Garage Rock.”
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