Dad Rock
Legions took solitary walks in the woods. Multitudes baked bread. But when COVID hit Birmingham, five suburban guys formed a band. Meet the Kensingtons.
Trials and tribulations forged some of world’s greatest rock bands. Syd Barrett lost his mind to psychedelic drugs in 1968, forcing Pink Floyd to reinvent itself. Duane Allman wrecked his motorcycle in 1971, leaving the Allman Brothers Band to endure without him. Bon Scott died of alcohol poisoning in 1980, thus delivering the lead vocal gig for AC/DC to Brian Johnson.
Nothing similar can be said of The Kensingtons. A catastrophe did not define this Alabama rock band. But a disaster—COVID-19—created them.
The Kensingtons play no original songs. They have never played an arena. And even though they sometimes dress up like KISS or ZZ Top, The Kensingtons are not one of the world’s greatest rock bands.
The Kensingtons are, instead, a cover band in Homewood, Alabama, comprised of a retired PR guy, a physical therapist, a neonatologist, an IT director, and a commercial banker, ranging in age from late thirties to being eligible for Medicare, who all live on Kensington Road. They had no grand plan: a half-joking idea from an at least half-buzzed brain was its impetus. In the beginning, there was only one truly experienced musician in the bunch; a few of the members had to relearn instruments they’d relegated to the backs of closets years ago. The Kensingtons found their lead vocalist when another member was applying for a Paycheck Protection Program loan for his shuttered business.
And yet, three years later, The Kensingtons are preparing for a paid gig in another city, miles away from the neighborhood where they first played for a handful of adults and a yard full of kids.
I visit the band on a Tuesday evening in the neonatologist’s garage, where they practice their set list of classic, alt and modern rock—nothing too heavy, nothing too soft. Amp cords snake among storage containers and landscape tools, guitar riffs reverberate off gas cans, bikes, and the beer fridge.
The Kensingtons came together in early 2020, during the beginning of the pandemic, when people around the country were searching for ways to wring some happiness out of days dominated by scary news and bleak outlooks. Some became passionate about pickleball. Others took to the woods, hiking and mountain biking. And then there were the blossoming bakers with their fermenting sourdough starters and their mountains of banana bread.
But in Homewood, Bob Blalock, Dr. Sam Gentle, Chris Horwedel, Ben Leach, and Ethan White turned to music.
“We were holding these outdoor, socially distanced happy hours, and some of us just got to talking about favorite music,” says Bob, the retired PR guy who plays bass. Then Ethan White, the physical therapist and rhythm guitarist, had an idea: “I don't know that I was serious when I said, ‘Let's form a band.’ But we had gotten to know each other; we were having fun; and we’d had a few drinks.”
After a string of front-lawn get-togethers, usually with drinks in hand, these neighbors realized they shared more than an affection for well-aged bourbon. They also loved music. A lot. And they needed a distraction from the deepening realization that the coronavirus would not go away any time soon.
“We were holding these outdoor, socially distanced happy hours, and some of us just got to talking about favorite music,” says Bob, the retired PR guy who plays bass. Then Ethan White, the physical therapist and rhythm guitarist, had an idea: “I don't know that I was serious when I said, ‘Let's form a band.’ But we had gotten to know each other; we were having fun; and we’d had a few drinks.” Bob and Dr. Sam, the neonatologist, agreed.
Then came some serendipity. Ben Leach, lead singer and the banker, had lived on Kensington Road for years, yet had never met the other members. Ben saw Ethan’s Kensington Road address on his PPP loan application for his physical therapy business, and they realized they were neighbors. At Ethan’s invitation, Ben came to the next neighborhood happy hour, where his wife volunteered he was once the front man of a band in college. The band had its lead vocalist.
After its first neighborhood show, the band got the last piece of its puzzle, Chris Horwedel. He’s an IT director and the current lead guitarist. He knocked Bob out of that spot, much to Bob’s relief.
After the band finishes a run through Jimmy Eat World’s “The Middle,” Bob and Chris explain how the Kensingtons became a two-guitar band.
“He comes to our first show, and he just says, ‘I think I could help y’all out,’” Bob recalls.
Chris protests. “I was talking about helping y’all round out your sound,” he says.
“Whatever,” Bob replies. “He saved me from having to be lead guitar, and I say saved, because I am not a great guitar player.”
Bob then picked up a bass for the first time in his life, and the lineup was set.
Finally finding its groove, the band was regularly jazzing up the neighborhood’s continuing (and continually expanding) lawn socials, now with a few dozen neighbors tapping their feet to the beat. Soon, their outdoor concerts were drawing more than 150 people.
“We all have non-neighborhood friends, and they all started showing up, so the crowd ballooned quickly,” Ethan says. He’d spray paint circles in the grass to help people stay six feet away from each other.
The Kensingtons brought more than beloved tunes to the folks who were walking across the street and driving across town to listen.
“The climate was obviously ripe for this. That’s the beauty of what this band has become,” Dr. Sam says. “Everybody was just looking for something to do together safely. And no one really knew what was coming next, and that brought us together.”
Neighbors and friends have routinely echoed Sam, he says.
“This is so nice.”
“This means so much.”
“We bonded as a band, we’ve bonded our street, and [we've bonded] our neighborhood. That’s what’s cool about the band beyond the music.”
“We’re so grateful for this reason to come together.”
“We’ve only gotten one noise complaint, so that says something, right?” Ethan says, laughing.
The Kensingtons improvised something meaningful out of the pandemic, creating connections and community. They’ve benefitted their wider community, too, moving from their namesake street to play at local fundraisers. They got their big break at the Homewood Public Library.
“How rock ’n’ roll is that?” Ethan says.
After that, requests for their presence sped up, and the band now asks for a small contribution to keep up their sound system and equipment, but that’s it.
The five members make up their own little community, too, one that Bob describes as an escape.
“The band is a sanctuary from so much outside noise, a safe space where all we do is play music and enjoy each other’s company,” he says.
Ben and Ethan agree. “Our practice time, it’s just two hours playing music with your buds. It melts away everything else,” Ben says.
“There’s so much joy in that garage; it’s addictive,” Ethan adds.
They don’t argue about religion or politics. They don’t talk about those things. They say they neither know nor care where other band members stand on any of the most pressing and important issues of the day.
“I don’t think it’s by design, but I don’t recall that we’ve ever talked about those things,” Bob says. “We talk about music a lot, and bourbon and beer and families and neighbors and community.”
The kinship formed around these shared passions sustains the harmony in the band. Yet, they are not always on the same page.
“Our tastes are pretty divergent. Our get-togethers where we decide new songs are always a challenge,” Bob says.
Everyone pitches in with their favorites, hoping they’ll make the set list.
“Except Ethan,” Dr. Sam says.
“Yep. The band has never played a song I want,” Ethan says. He grins. The others smile and nod to the truth of it. And then it’s back to practice. Ben starts bouncing, shaking out some energy before belting out the first lines of the Foo Fighters’ “Times Like These.”
A few days later, Bob sums up what The Kensingtons have given him. “One of my great joys is getting to know all these guys better,” he says. Ben echoes Bob. “We bonded as a band, we’ve bonded our street and our neighborhood,” he says. “That’s what’s cool about the band beyond the music.”
“If you’re on this street, you have to be a part of this, especially if you play an instrument. We need someone on keys, maybe a horn section.”
But the music is pretty cool, and the band actively drafts new neighbors. “We've had new folks move on to the street, and we’re like, ‘You have to come to a show!’” Ethan says “If you’re on this street, you have to be a part of this, especially if you play an instrument. We need someone on keys, maybe a horn section.”
Today, the band continues to play at fundraisers and at paying gigs around town and farther afield. On July 22, they’re playing the afterparty of a three-on-three basketball tournament called Mike Madness that raises money for Lewy Body Dementia research and awareness. But its lawn shows for neighbors always shine brightest.
“Providing this communal event where everyone can break out of their houses and be together was the driving force behind this,” Dr. Sam says. “And so the neighborhood shows, even with COVID looming, were and are my favorites.”
Jennifer Stewart Kornegay's magazine articles appear in local, regional and national magazines and websites including Garden & Gun, Southern Living, American Profile, The Local Palate, Conde Nast Traveler, Alabama magazine, Birmingham magazine, Paste magazine, thekitchn.com, travelandleisure.com, The Atlanta Journal Constitution, Alabama Living, Alabama Journey, okra magazine, Good Grit, Edible Lower Alabama, Southern Lady magazine, Georgia magazine, al.com, myscoop.com, rootsrated.com and more. She writes a monthly food column for Alabama Living magazine and is the managing editor of the Montgomery Business Journal.