PureVolume

The Feds are a loud, hard rock band. At a time when the hard rock genre is becoming more and more formulaic. The Feds prove that you can still create rock interesting and daring enough to make you put up the devil horns and slam a shot of Jim Beam without feeling like an idiot. These Kansas City, MO., transplants landed in Denton, TX, a few years ago, bringing with them the blistering rhythms their hometown is known for - think Season to Risk, think Shiner. But don't be mistaken. These guys mesh their smart edgy guitars and blasting bass with big melodic choruses belted out by a front man with the charisma of a young David Lee Roth who connects with "the kids". The combination is a sound that rock radio has been starving for ever since Creed ruined the entire format.


The night was like this: late summer, four Texas rock bands, and a sold out crowd at the old Granada Theater. On the bill were The Feds, a rock quintet originally from Kansas City, Missouri. They weren't the headliner, and they certainly didn't mean to do it, but it ended up being unavoidable: They stole the show.

"You guys ready to get rowdy?" shouted Matt Slider, one arm raised. Without waiting for an answer, he and the band launched into a 60-minute set that demonstrated exactly what it means to be a modern rock band - not "modern rock" the genre, but a contemporary rock machine, embracing all of the great classic rituals with such freshness and enthusiasm that it all seemed brand new.

Following in the great tradition of KC rock bands such as Shiner, Molly McGuire, and Season to Risk. The Feds' blistering rock had brains and heart - blending rock splendor of Velvet Revolver and Jane's Addiction with the classic sensibilities of early Van Halen and Guns 'n Roses.

"Euphoria" showed off the hometown sound better than any other, with Slider's searing vocals sounding like tantrums, backed by chiming guitar and masterfully precise drums.

Slider was confident but never cocky, whether hitting the high notes on "No Matter What" or scrambling to the top of a speaker six feet high, as if the stage were not tall enough to handle his enthusiasm. Prowling the stage in tattoos and tight pants, he was lean and wiry, with a likeable charm that brought to mind Sugar Ray's Mark McGrath.

More eye candy came via guitarist Wright, whose biceps seemed carved from stone. On "Whiskey Sour Kiss," he and guitarist Jason Jones deployed a round of chords so big that you felt strapped into the seat of a jumbo jet about to ascend. With the guitars winding in and around Slider's vocals, it felt like the three were having a conversation.

Chillingly precise, Jones ignited "Housefire" with an urgent set of notes that could've been mistaken for a phone off the hook or maybe Morse code. "I've got all this time to watch it burn!" screamed Slider, rasping like he'd slugged battery acid, instead of the whiskey shots that fans brought to the edge of the stage. Jeffries walloped the drums with good-natured fury; Chris Brown fell to his knees as he played. With the whole thing crashing to a close, Slider gleefully brandished metal salutes to the roaring crowd.

It all got down to the spirit, and The Feds had it exactly right: no pretense, just a purity of focus and energy that comes only when you're doing exactly what you're put on this earth to do. Which in the case of The Feds is just one thing: to rock.

-Teresa Gubbins (Dallas Morning News- music critic)