Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Sound engineering by Mike Gentry
Suddenly, we're swept into a party where the cake's already been packed away - devoured, and all of the liquor is consumed, thrown back with abandon. The streamers are halfway still on the walls and halfway torn from the thresholds. The noisemakers are in all of the mouths - kazoos and such - making the evening a whistler. We're now inside a place that's starting to heat up, even as we lose people here and there, one-by-one to the hours getting longer and the morning's beckoning. Most everyone we can see is here for the night though. The dancing's getting more sensuous and strangers are beginning to explore the boundaries of other strangers who seem to be crushing a bit, who seem to be happily glassy, but still in control of some decision-making skills. These people will be sleeping on the floor, underneath the pool table - throwing up in the wastebasket if that's what they find first - and participating in slipperier behaviors. The clothing is starting to get more optional and the sexiness of everyone within eyeshot is improving exponentially. It's going to become that kind of party that we ask ourselves the following morning whether or not it had really happened the way we partially remembered it to have happened. It doesn't have to be a lost evening, but it's the kind of scenario that the sonic wildness and diversity of Kay Kay And His Weathered Underground tend to promote for the betterment of more than just one. The music on the Seattle band's self-titled debut album isn't out-of-control, but we hear it being played loudly in the latter parts of weekend nights when everyone's in the mood to just cut loose and do something they haven't done in a long time. They're trying to shake the rough stuff and Kay Kay lead singer Kirk Huffman casts out a versatile vocal that's ambitious in its range and we easily fall for its ability to sound ballad-like all the time, while still sounding like John Oates singing "Maneater." He sings about the tough times needing to be vanquished and of taking every opportunity to let in the rays, even if it's not at all lasting. The compositions that the ever-changing-sized band constructs are meant for headphone listening and for physical experience, with the many levels of musicality only adding to the whole. Every song feels like it's coming alive in the way that a flash mob does, adding to the scene and expanding the sensation until it feels like the slow-grinding party has a chance of never stopping.