The Kicks. Nashville knockouts with class, gods of harmony, humans with soul, this four piece band is eclectic, electric, and will rock and roll you for days. Go ahead and slap a MySpace tag on them like rock/indie/alternative. They'll only peel it off...
The Kicks. Nashville knockouts with class, gods of harmony, humans with soul, this four piece band is eclectic, electric, and will rock and roll you for days. Go ahead and slap a MySpace tag on them like rock/indie/alternative. They'll only peel it off and reinvent the genre. With influences from Paul McCartney and Rod Stewart to Pete Yorn and Tom Petty, The Kicks are salted with the South but still pop like soda.
The Kicks are fronted by Jordan Phillips (guitar) whose voice is so dangerously full you're tempted to kneel. The rasp of a chain smoker, the range of an Albatross, be warned - this isn't Hanson. On lead guitar is the face of heaven, Adam Stark. Strapped with a beard and fret-flying talent, Stark reminds listeners what it means to feel euphoria. Sure, he can pick apart a guitar like a DJ with vinyl, but he does it with taste. And his voice, his harmonies, pure honey. That pounding in your body right now, the one you mistake for a heartbeat - that's the sound of truth, of bass. And it usually wears a headband. Gabe Anderson somehow juxtaposes his ripe, high harmonies with a bass so low it feels undiscovered. And the ladies love him for it. But The Kicks wouldn't kick, the sun wouldn't rise, if it weren't for a little snare, a lot of toms, and a whole world of Lucas Cummins. He's the one sweating in the background, making you believe in rhythm.
Having worked with Grammy winners Mitch Dane (Jars of Clay) and Vance Powell (The Raconteurs, Kings of Leon, The White Stripes) on their first full length album “The Rise of King Richie”, The Kicks have managed to retain the integrity of sound that brought them together while revamping the quality of production to a level fit only for saints. If you aren't mesmerized by melodic ballads like "Good Morning" or fist-pumpers like "Sore Thumb," please call a doctor. But it might be too late. The only remedy is a magic-marker X on your iCal, for they tour frequently. From Minnesota to Georgia, New York to Alabama, they'll heal you with words, mend you with music, and all the while breathe a little life back into your lungs, a little love into your bones.