Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Josh Niles at Big Light, Nashville, Tennessee
I should keep this very simple.
k.s. Rhoads might not be a musician at all.
He's something more like a sorcerer. He could be some kind of alchemist, if that didn't imply that he was turning lesser things into gold. The thing is that my feeling is that all of the music that he makes, summons, whatever the hell it does to bring these animals to life, comes to him in a pretty special state already. He might very well have that ability to make a string dance or a rock talk. He might be able to domesticate muses. He might be able to not just get them to whisper to him, but he might be able to convince them to take their shirts off and join him in bed in some kind of unheard of orgy.
Rhoads is certainly a magician of some sort, making music that is unabashedly classical, beach-bum-y and wonderfully artsy without feeling forbidden. It takes you no time to hear that the man's talents are probably boundless, possibly given to him by some long-haired wizard who was at James Brown's famous Apollo show in 1968, at Woodstock the following year - taking whatever the next person handed him, took an unmanned flight to the moon and back and taught James Taylor everything he knew, somewhere along the way.