Gig review: Kings of Leon at First Direct Bank Arena

The last time Kings of Leon visited Leeds two years ago, a nation found itself caught in the grip of prime ministerial hustings and football-tournament fever, trapped in a stress-burn spin cycle that seemed to stretch all summer long.

Somebody in the back office should think twice as they take a glance at their diaries; the Tennessee rockers return to the First Direct Bank Arena with England once again swept up in the double-bind thrall of a 10 Downing Street reshuffle and Jude Bellingham’s acts of chest-beating abandon, beamed from Mexico in a beery twilight haze.

The mood is less virulently bruised this time though, with the Mount Juliet band’s muscular type of whiskey-drowned guitar anthems and alt-south balladry not so much the bedrock of escapism as it is the curtain of dirty-fun diversion.

It makes for an ultimately less cathartic experience on the whole - but still one that offers consummate riffage and the chance for chunky singalongs, in what amounts to a brief greatest hits run before a European finale at Spain’s Mad Cool Festival.

A couple of decades on from their breakthrough - the band famously cracked British markets before striking gold stateside - there is a matured variety to the manner in which Kings of Leon deploy their varied flavours.

Frontman Caleb Followill, once both characterised and chastised in measure for his taciturn presence, still sings with gravel lodged in his larynx, but the rest of their palate - conducted by brothers Jared and Nathan, and cousin Matthew - comes with invigorating depth, from the dustland throttle that powers opener Find Me to the shimmering psych coda that illuminates Seen.

Manhattan, with its speakeasy melancholy, feels amorphous and ageless in a manner that emboldens their retro-seventies appeal without sidestepping into pure hokum too.

There’s a boldness to their order of play too; Use Somebody’s skyscraper chorus and Waste a Moment’s propulsive rush are both dispatched well within the first half-hour.

Followill too finds himself a little misty-eyed at moments, dedicating Fans and its bouncy sequencer skip to those who have followed them across the country on this brief run.

“It’s our last show in England for a little while,” he says between Supersoaker’s Springsteen-esque wash and My Party’s ferocious blues-funk. “But don’t worry, we’ll be back.”

As Sex on Fire delivers a natural climax, Leeds will hold them to that promise.