The first time I met K.S. Rhoads was in Nashville, TN, at a hole in the wall coffee shop/exotic foods store.  I had been listening to his album Dead Language on repeat for about 3 days, researching this enigmatic artist, for whom I was asked to write a short biography. I had also read some reviews and seen pictures of him online, so I already had a pre-conceived notion of him in my mind. The timeless, dapper, vagabond poet. The self-taught maestro.  The gentleman in the singular grey fedora, beaten, discolored and worn.  His jacket, vest and tie, plaid pants, square jawline, and stunning blue eyes, all melding together to evoke a young man from an older era.  So, I wasn't surprised when he pulled into the parking lot in a black & white 1966 Ford Galaxie, with red flames on the side, as beaten and beautiful as his grey hat.

Here arrived an artist whose music ranges from the epic and grandiose, to the intimate and singular.  He is a singer, poet, multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, composer, and self-producer.  His debut album, entitled Dead Language, could be likened to a career overture for Mr. Rhoads.  It shows numerous sides to an artist, all of which will undoubtedly be expressed more attentively in albums to come.  A full listen to this record feels like a day of watching movies.  Musically, there are elements of Russian classical music, Southern Americana, A Fellini-esque film score, hip-hop, and 60's folk.  Lyrically it is more akin to reading F. Scott Fitzgerald or T.S. Eliot, than it is to listening to a pop songwriter. K.S. Rhoads has done a fine job of presenting himself as a composer/author, and less as a singer/songwriter.  His music is a mixture of high art and folk storytelling. Intelligent, but relatable. The songs are technically brilliant and complex, but with a strong notion of intimate simplicity.  He paints a fine juxtaposition of being the smartest one in the room, yet being the biggest fool of all.
 
The character I was now meeting was much different than whom I had imagined.  Though at times he was the pensive and mysterious eccentric I had been expecting, I was pleasantly surprised by the extroverted and comedic enthusiast before me.  Our conversation spanned entirely too many topics.  He spoke like an actor, in and out of various characters.  His train of thought ebbed and flowed, his wit and attention were little coffee-drenched monologues, a spitfire all too often steering the conversation away from his personal story and onto ideas and past or current events that would spontaneously pique his interest.
 
When I did entice him to divulge details about his personal life I learned these few things... That he was born in Tucson, AZ, and his father left the family when K.S. was but one month old.  Alone with his mother and older brother, he moved all over the United States. He lived in Denver, Albuquerque, Lansing, Chapel Hill, Ft. Myers, and Ft.Worth. In Denver, at age 3, he wandered out of the house, climbed a hill at a construction site, and jumped up and down, declaring "I defeated you!" to the Evil King that lived in the Mountain. A policeman found him, and took him home. His first time in the back of a squad. Age 3. In Lansing,  when he was 6, he began tinkering on his mothers upright piano.  A week later, he got lost and almost died in a snow drift.  His brother found him, and took him home. They then traversed the country for 4 months in a van with a sink and a stove.  They settled in Chapel Hill, NC. There, on the elementary school blacktop, he learned to beatbox and freestyle.  He would ride his bike to UNC campus, sneak into the symphony hall through a window in the basement,  and listen to the orchestra rehearse for hours.  He taught himself to play piano, guitar, bass, and various other instruments. His high school years were spent in Ft. Myers, FL, where he bought a 4 track recorder, and started making his own tape recordings. He studied theatre and religion, at college in Texas, then moved to Nashville, worked odd bartending jobs, recorded some songs in his living room, and was discovered by producers Robin Eaton and Lij Shaw, who then helped him transform those living room sessions into what is now Dead Language.
 
He is a young man with an old soul.  Equal parts Leonard Cohen, and Beck.  The marriage of a by-gone era and the MTV generation.  An introspective writer, and an extroverted performer. There is juxtaposition in his music, in his personality, and in his life.  When he has a full band his live show is epic.  A string section offering intricate melodies and counterpoint harmonies, a tribal-like drum section of beats and rhythm, and a grand vocal presence, ranging from one delicate, quiet vocal, to an entire stage of powerful singers.  The improvisational aspect of the show is stunning. Rhoads is known for writing songs on the spot and guiding the other musicians through his ideas, like a captain. Moreover, he almost always ends the show with some sort of free-styling, harmonica wielding jam, which seems as cathartic and necessary for him, as it is entertaining and inspiring for the audience.  When he does not have access to his full band he becomes a one man band by looping his beatbox, guitar, piano, and vocals, all live, and all by himself.
 
When not touring or writing, k.s. Rhoads is a producer, string-arranger, and a session musician, and also performs with other friends and artists, whom he says are "brilliant, generous, emotional and important." He is currently working on his first novel, and his second album. He presently resides in Nashville, TN.