The K-Holes speak at once of the mystic and the cosmopolitan, the primal and the urbane, the earthen elements and their synthesized cousins. But unlike their contemporaries, the K-Holes’ sound is not of the grinning, gregarious panderer. Nor is it of the bored or at-ease. Rather, it’s the sound of escape. Escape from the concrete scrabble of New York, that moneyed parking lot for the cynical and privileged; escape from the vulgar materialism sung from the metropolitan mouth; escape from the vacuous r’n‘r pantomime that smells of mere vaudevillian entertainment in any number of the city’s myriad dives. The K-Holes set these things afire, and in their stead, they proffer a wet hand, leading you, the listener, to another flame, a funereal white-hot pyre — one that promises more than sheer nihilism. One that promises freedom amongst cages of different shapes, sizes and colors. A way out. Their abdication follows a natural extension of the atrophied rock/roll ligament �...[more]