L.A. WEEKLY ⁰

THE KING CHEETAH at the Echo, March 1

Though the King Cheetah have relocated to L.A., the English trio’s sound and demeanor remain proudly post-punk British. Black-clad and suede-headed, they exude a bristling disillusionment with, well, everything. Their attitude is more confrontational than wallowing, pumped with the fists-in-the-air optimism of a summer’s night riot and bathed in a rough-hewn workingman’s romanticism.

The flagship tune, “Six Inch Killaz,” hangs and harangues on Robin Holden’s stubbly Stranglers bass line, while hoarsely sensitive, alienated Psychedelic Furs verses bookend a lurching chorus that’s equal parts pop anthem and hooligan herd call. But there’s nothing moronic or morose here. The King Cheetah are masters of three-piece dynamics — each Cheetah knows when not to play, and they reserve the option of three-way vocal vitriol when points need hammering home. Robert Mune’s cultured rhythm-guitar playing is deceptively vital, segmented stop-start sections liberated with tumbling, fuzzy arpeggios. The angular Holden’s Bruce Foxton bass work is mobile, melodic and menacing, while Simon Hancock’s studied grooves lurk with intent before detonating beneath the big moments. The King Cheetah’s very manly frustrations are offset by a boyish, before-the-bedroom-mirror delight at just being onstage, at being able to vent in front of their mates, at being allowed to live their teen dream.

These rabble-rousing, blue-collar blokes nonetheless are unafraid to show a croaking, Bowie-esque sensitive side and, dare we say it, dabble with artiness. Like Paul Weller, whose stage rage he channels, Mune is both Doc Marten and paisley shirt, scribbled poetry and wall-daubed slogan. And the King Cheetah have the tunes to make us listen, never pandering, never carpet-bombing when squint-eyed sniping will suffice. Out of step with fashion’s hypnotized parade, the King Cheetah remind us that real men play whatever the fuck they want.

Reviewed by Paul Rogers
L.A. Weekly, Vol. 27, N° 17

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