Vegas musician eats, sleeps and breathes rock ’n’ roll
There’s no instrument in his hands, and yet he plays.
“I don’t take off my guitar,” K. Kilfeather says while tracing some licks on an air version of the thing. “I might physically take it off and put it on the stand, but to me, I’m still moving my fingers, still hearing the melodies. Most people put down their guitar and they’re like, ‘OK, cool, I’ve got to get back to my life. I’ll be back.’ I can’t do that.”
He elaborates.
“It’s just been a part of me,” Kilfeather says of his near-constant urge to make music. He’s seated on his living room couch, which is brightened by a plush Wonder Woman blanket. “Every second of every day, whether I’m awake, whether I’m sleeping, whether I’m shaving, whether I’m raking the yard, it’s every day for me. I don’t write music. It just happens.”
And it happens a lot.
Vegas’ most prolific musician
Kilfeather, an ace guitar player and near-compulsive songwriter, has released five solo albums this year alone — he’s dropped 16 total in the past decade — as well as a record with riff rockers Strange Mistress, whom he fronts.
He’s arguably Vegas’ most prolific musician, recording his solo material on his own in the house — its walls lined with his paintings, which include portraits of a set of mandibles and a ghost with serrated teeth surrounded by hearts — while playing all the instruments himself, in most cases.
These aren’t half-baked, stream-of-consciousness recordings with Kilfeather tracking his every belch and branding it a song.
These albums are good.
Real good.
Kilfeather recently released two more records that he wrote and recorded in as many weeks: “Parasites: A Collection for Sore Eyes,” a psychedelic punk blues blast with songs about getting abducted by aliens and getting it on with the devil (who’s a woman, in this case) and a collaborative album of lyrically funereal, sonically feisty Americana, “Wildwood Nightmares,” where he was joined by a cast of local musicians.
“There’s nothing quite like letting go,” Kilfeather sings on “Nightmares’ ” opening song, “Haunted,” and it’s a telling lyric, one that informs most of his musical endeavors: This is the sound of doing just that.
“Just being free, that’s what I have to do musically. I have to be myself,” says Kilfeather, a shaggy dude who speaks of favorites like Jimi Hendrix and Frank Zappa in rapturous tones. “Most people can put on a suit and go to work, be a different person, then come home and unwind. I have to be me all the time. Music allows me to be comfortable with myself.”
Kilfeather’s been at it since he was a little boy, singing songs into a tape recorder his aunt gave him. He learned how to play guitar when he was in elementary school, and hasn’t stopped since.
“It just felt right. It felt like I was at home,” he says. “I didn’t have a great life growing up. I was alone a lot of the time, and the guitar would just fill me with presence. The guitar always just made me feel carefree. The guitar has always been there for me.”
A believer in DIY
Decades later, Kilfeather is doing his thing at a time when it’s never been easier for an artist like him to get his music out there. Thanks to a site like Bandcamp, where you can stream and buy all of his releases, Kilfeather can make his tunes available almost immediately after he finishes them.
You don’t need a label, studio time or any of the traditional machinations of the industry to be heard.
“The beauty of nowadays is: Be self-sufficient,” Kilfeather says. “Record a cellphone video. Do an album on your computer. Be creative.”
The doubled-edged sword of the Bandcamp era is that by enabling anyone to put out their own music, it’s created an ocean of releases that’s easy to drown in.
“You’re a needle in a stack of needles,” Kilfeather says.
Despite the struggles inherent in being a DIY musician — he’s certainly not going to get rich doing things this way — Kilfeather speaks like a true believer.
He shares an anecdote about working at a guitar store back in the day, encountering all walks of life, all types of musicians.
It gave him some perspective — on music, on himself.
“I learned after a while — with my boss playing Panic! at the Disco every hour — that just ’cause you don’t like something, doesn’t meant it ain’t cool, doesn’t mean it ain’t helping someone, doesn’t mean it ain’t making someone feel great, bringing people together. Let it be,” he says. “Music needs to be made.”
And so he makes it.
Contact Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0476. Follow @JasonBracelin on Twitter.