Kings Of Leon album review: It’s a frustrating album, half lively and half limp

When You See Yourself by Kings Of Leon is a frustrating album, half lively and half limp… but it doesn’t mean guitar bands are over

Kings Of Leon                         When You See Yourself                        Out Friday

Rating:

Every so often in pop, somebody declares that guitar bands are over. One day they may be proved right, but so far this has always turned out to be nonsense. Just look at the career of Kings Of Leon.

Their last album, Walls (2016), was the first to top the chart in the US, while over here it became their fifth No 1 in a row. Since then, they have headlined both British Summer Time in Hyde Park and the Reading and Leeds festivals.

Kings Of Leon are the archetypal guitar band – a quartet, all male, all white, and based in Nashville, where the music is as traditional as fried chicken. To the faithful, the Followills (three brothers and their cousin, Matthew) are rock-solid; to the doubters, they’re a bit dull.

To the faithful, the Followills (three brothers, Nathan, Caleb and Jared, and their cousin, Matthew, above) are rock-solid; to the doubters, they’re a bit dull

To the faithful, the Followills (three brothers, Nathan, Caleb and Jared, and their cousin, Matthew, above) are rock-solid; to the doubters, they’re a bit dull

When You See Yourself, their eighth album, starts as if they’re itching to prove some people wrong. The opening salvo is the not-quite-title track, When You See Yourself, Are You Far Away. 

That’s a good, thought-provoking question, and it comes with all the right noises – a haunting guitar from Matthew Followill, a wiggly bassline from Jared, some crunchy drumming from Nathan and a heartfelt vocal from Caleb.

The next two tracks are just as likeable in different ways. The Bandit is classic Kings Of Leon, all about the riff, while 100,000 People is an 1980s-flavoured, synth-driven love song, bearing the stamp of their British producer, Markus Dravs. 

The title, which doesn’t appear in the lyrics, feels like a subconscious toast: to absent crowds.

But then things fall apart, with four tracks in a row that chug and chime without offering any cut and thrust. The album is shaping like a gig – the kind that sags in the middle.

Just as abruptly, it gets better again. A near-ballad, Supermarket, brings a strong hook and a strand of wistfulness. ‘I’m going nowhere, if you’ve got the time,’ murmurs Caleb, catching the mood of the moment. 

His voice, with its bruised quality, is built for a ballad, as he shows immediately on a wispy little number called Claire & Eddie.

A fast song is needed, and the Followills produce one in Echoing, a barnstorming blues that will one day persuade 100,000 people to play air guitar. There’s one track to go, and it’s another dud. 

This has been a frustrating album, half lively and half limp – but it doesn’t mean guitar bands are over.