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One of the few peculiar things left about Kings Of Leon in the wake of the Top 40 top coat that has veneered them as of late is the fact that veteran fans still attest to their amazing live show. Whether or not this is an empty claim meant to justify their most recent and even emptier chart-topping album Only By The Night is debatable, but the quality of their performances is not: to any longtime follower expecting rowdy, rosy-cheeked hooligans stomping the stage ‘til the cows come home, the show will have certainly lost its luster.Reminiscing about “the good ol’ days” always feels indulgent, but in the case of Kings Of Leon, little is more accurate. Where once were chain-smoking Southern punks strutting around and erratically reeling to sloppy, raucous tunes are now four mindful rock stars, giving the crowd just what they want – nothing more, nothing less. Lead singer Caleb Followill’s once warbled and incoherent vocals damning boners-gone-soft and overzealous virgins have given way to hackneyed anthems about bone-rattling sex and the pangs of life on the road, fitted with epic harmonies and tasteful choreographed gyrations alike. And with the other three members – Matthew on licks, Jared on slaps, and Nathan on skins, all of the Followill clan – now playing second fiddle to Caleb, it’s no wonder that true fans prefer to speak of Kings Of Leon in past tense.

Fortunately, Kings Of Leon caters to their decidedly divided fan base in their own subtle ways, just wryly enough to careen over the heads of the unwitting newbies and under the radar of commercial scrutiny. After churning out the predictably powerful hit, “Sex On Fire” – and after the thunderous applause ended, of course – Caleb quipped that everyone who came to hear that song was free to leave. As always, they offered a set that was fair to both their discography and rival camps of fans, mashing recent favorites like “Ragoo” and “Use Somebody” together with the classics, from “Razz” to “Taper Jean Girl.”  And, even though the chance of rubbing elbows with one of the few true dwindles from show to show as the Family Followill makes its move from auditoriums to arenas, actually running into one of these fellow veterans makes it all strangely worthwhile. After all, there’s something to be said for the odd fan that waits a decade for their favorite band to be recognized in its own country.

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For a band that succinctly categorizes its record label as “unknown indie” on MySpace, The Books’s set at the equally unknown and indie St. Louis venue, The Luminary Center for the Arts, fit as snugly as its patrons’ cardigans. Having opened its doors in late 2007, The Luminary welcomed guests into a minimalist gallery space on Sunday, September 20^th for its second “Elevator Music Series” concert featuring Lymbyc Systym and The Books.

As a majority of the guests hunkered down on the floor in quiet anticipation, Brooklyn’s instrumental duo, Lymbyc Systym – here accompanied by an electric violinist – launched into a set marked by one epic sonic tidal wave after another. Their dizzying melodic swells recalled those of Explosions In The Sky, and the soothing drone of it all only opened the floodgates for The Books’s ensuing performance.

Though The Books’ instrumental creativity stands eye-to-eye with Lymbyc Systym’s, the projected footage swirling New Age TV hosts’ heads that opened their show immediately signaled another variety of performance altogether. Almost invisible while crouched on the ground in front of the screen, The Books – Nick Zammuto on acoustic guitar and vocals and Paul de Jong on electric cello – remained relatively inconspicuous throughout the show. Zammuto announced that they would be playing some new material, beginning the set without any hesitation. Thankfully, the audience quickly caught on to alternating images of children toting guns and “shake ya’ booty” slogans – in whatever way one can possibly “catch on to” these things – and the recording of a boy threatening “I’ll kill you, asshole” suddenly became less terrifying.

It was then that this bizarre introduction started to seem like nothing more than harmless shock value, opening the audience’s minds up to the band’s experimentation and greasing the wheels for the sights and sounds to follow. Whether recorded or performed live, Zammuto’s warm vocals and de Jong’s resonant strings never tire. Played in conjunction with otherwise mundane cultural footage, though, videos of two men practicing duck calls became profound and the anagrams of “meditation” – “I’d mate on it” – hilarious.

And, considering how objectively re-reading this review makes The Books’ performance seem better suited for remedial learning than musical dexterity, perhaps there’s a reason they’re still classified as “unknown indie” after a decade of playing together. But, if that’s what it takes to spend a night sitting Indian style while chuckling at fat kids eating watermelon and enjoying The Books’ delicate experimental music, then maybe it’s better to keep it that way.

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