CD reviews: Kings of Leon, Darius Rucker

Kings of Leon, "Come Around Sundown" (RCA)

Sons of a preacher man, the Kings of Leon are traditionalists, renovators of abandoned guitar lines from classic-rock radio, which they expertly refurbish into modern, stadium-ready anthems. For better or worse, they're like the Ikea of rock -- taking classic, clean designs and spitting out new versions that work for listeners who want to venture a bit afield but not too far.

At times, the Tennessee band's old-fashioned approach can be exactly the element that surprises. But that old-timey streak also gets them into trouble. Despite impressive energy, "Mary" is hampered by a preening guitar and a chorus that feels borrowed from a Monday night bar band.

It's that paradox that's most fascinating about the Kings of Leon: their weaknesses often sit in stark relief to their strengths, and sometimes the devil in their music does the Lord's work and vice versa. Case in point: The same impulse that wrecks "Mary" saves "Back Down South," a porch-ready sing-along for the country in us all.

The band also has a morose and thorny side -- but that's its biggest virtue. "The Immortals" revolves around an Andy Summers-like guitar line that's all distant swagger and don't-stand-so-close-to-me cool. With its redemptive sins, "Come Around Sundown" ends up being a portrait of light and dark worthy of the rock and roll bible.

MARGARET WAPPLER, LOS ANGELES TIMES

Darius Rucker, "Charleston, SC 1966"

Nothing gets Rucker more excited than the erotics of domesticity. "Might Get Lucky" is the most convincing song here, and the one that preaches the virtues of chores and child rearing as a means toward something a little naughtier.

Here the new country star hits all his marks: bemoaning the rigors of touring ("In a Big Way"); singing about ordering sweet tea in New York, then apologizing to the waitress ("Southern State of Mind"); rhyming Silverado with Colorado ("Things I'd Never Do"). This is only Rucker's second country album, but he's fluent in the modes and poses.

This album is in small ways slicker than his outstanding 2008 country debut, "Learn to Live," and less surprising. It's also spottier, though his voice, alternating between robust and genteel, saves him more often than not, especially when he taps into Hootie and the Blowfish-era resonance on the tragic "Whiskey and You."

But his approach to country still toes a sober line, as if he might get booted for insubordination at the slightest misstep. By that measure the riskiest song is "I Don't Care," a randy, awkward duet with Brad Paisley that celebrates beer and ogling women. Rucker shouldn't have to wait for company to expand his range.

JON CARAMANICA, NEW YORK TIMES