On the record store social ladder, tribute albums are firmly entrenched in the untouchable class, somewhere between interview picture discs and free record label samplers. In the days before file-sharing made cherry-picking your favorite band's every comp contribution wallet-free, tribute albums were certified quick buy-and-sell-back items (Sweet Relief, anyone?). But while the durability of such cover collections is questionable, tribute albums have a certain reference tool value, allowing listeners to suss out connections on rock 'n' roll's gigantic influence web.

In the case of the Kinks, this research is especially interesting, given that the Davies Bros. & cast have one of rock history's highest influence-to-sales ratios (in the colonies, at least). Were it not for MTV oddity "Come Dancing," the Kinks would rank as the most important sixties band my parents have never heard of, and Joe Middle America would probably think the masterpiece whine of "You Really Got Me" was by the same band that did "Wooly Bully." But as Britpop dance nights, Wes Anderson soundtracks and prep school blazer sales figures show, the Kinks legacy still maintains a subcutaneous legacy in the global music economy.

Add to that list of evidence This Is Where I Belong, which, with bands like Lambchop, Yo La Tengo, Jonathan Richman, and Josh Rouse all kissing the papal ring, has a hipster quotient through the roof. The collection also scores high on the stylistic variety scale, with bossa nova heiress Bebel Gilberto, soul-patch endorsers Queens of the Stone Age, and traditional bluegrass picker Tim O'Brien making their first and last unified appearance. All comers are subjected to the highly mathematical tribute album formula, as explained by guest commentator John Nash:

"How much their chosen cover (C) resembles the original (O) is directly proportional to the percentage of influence (I) the band-of-honor exerts over the artist. C/O=%I"

Thanks, John. Unsurprisingly, the people who score the highest on this formula (and, thus, are certified as the most notorious Kinks imitators), are America's power-pop elite: Fountains of Wayne, Matthew Sweet, The Minus 5, Fastball. All turn in barely altered takes on Kinks catalog items, adding little more than guitar volume to the original. It's pleasant to hear, as songs like "Big Sky" (Sweet) and "Better Things" (Fountains of Wayne) are like batting practice pitches to their cover artist, but the lack of tweakage makes for a rather inessential product. On the other hand, hearing Queens of the Stone Age turn in a note-perfect (down to the piano pounding) take on "Who'll Be the Next in Line" is more rewarding, given that it's completely unexpected from the stoner rock revivalists.

Even better are the more risky reimaginations of Klassik Kinks by bands whose admiration for Davies is kept separate from any significant sonic influence upon their own aesthetic. Lambchop's choice of the creepy 80s pedophile tale "Art Lover" falls right in place with Wagner's trademark lyrical oddness, but it's given the sleepy quasi-lounge lushness of the band's pre-Is a Woman work. Also choosing atmosphere over skinny-tie attitude are Yo La Tengo (longtime Davies' worshipers) who craft a psychedelic haze around early artifact "Fancy," and Josh Rouse, whose "Well Respected Man" is nicely lacquered with the Chicago sound.

Then you've got the gimmicky stuff, like the endorsements of Kinks genre explorations by authentic practitioners (Gilberto's "No Return," O'Brien's "Muswell Hillbilly") and the big finale appearance of the honoree himself, alongside Kinks Fan Club President Damon Albarn. All told, it's a stout compilation-- the only real stinker of the group is Cracker horribly mauling "Victoria" with their American accents-- but with the general handicap of all tribute albums (the scale only goes up to 7 for 'em), it's still nowhere near essential. Worst of all, given recent RIAA action, Lambchop and Fastball archivists might just have to buy the darn thing. The horror... the horror!

-Rob Mitchum, July 5th, 2002