BY REGAN KELLY

CHIP'S, FEB. 9 -- On the night King Johnson plays Chip's Grill and Bar -- the only game in Winder -- a hazy moon hangs in the tree branches and a warm, strange wind blows all night long. Inside, under the Christmas lights, the ceiling fans whir, necessary for the first time this year. And in the moment between winter's grip and spring's promise the band begins to do what they do best: create enough heat to fill up the dance floor in an instant.

King Johnson's blues-based, jazz-tinged, wild-ass funk is hot. After years' worth of touring and three CDs, there's no denying the groove the members of the band reach together. The band gives off such a collective confidence that everyone else catches it, too. There's rarely that awkward warm-up set when no one's up and moving. There's no need even to wait for everyone's end-of-the-week alcohol to kick in.

Towheaded frontman Oliver Wood sings and plays guitar, summoning grace or fire as needed. Drummer Greg Baba brings his distinctive, New Orleans-educated drumming. Besides the bass bottom, Chris Long adds a whiskey voice and the gut-busting lyrics of a redneck Confucius.

But the element that may best define King Johnson is its super-slick horn section -- made up of sax player Marcus James and trombone/tuba player Adam Mewherter. With sophisticated arrangements and no stinting on tricky syncopation, the horn section adds a flash and color rarely heard.

With chops that endure through last call, James and Mewherter hold forth at stage right, attacking intricate, unexpected passages with precision. Some degree of experimentation is encouraged, and almost always successful. It's clear that they're hauling bricks up there, but they still make it look like blowing bubbles.

Chip's Grill and Bar -- nestled in the rolling hills between Atlanta and Athens -- makes a suitable and familiar backdrop for the dance party that is a King Johnson show. Chip's started its life as a Citgo station, and its rusting sign still beckons to a lovefest sort of crowd.

Though the band's stuff is all original, a cover or two can still slip in now and again. One of Friday's highlights, in fact, was a dirty-sweet version of Bill Withers' "Use Me Up." But no matter whose song, everyone knows all the words and everyone sings, and it knits the room together.

The bar's owner mentions that "as good musicians as they are, they're better people. Man, they're just like family to us here." Wood acknowledges it, too, earnestly calling Chip's his favorite place to play. And then, moment over, he gives a yell, a new song kicks off and the party starts to roll.

King Johnson's considerable power comes at you like a wave of sound you couldn't escape if you wanted to (but why would you want to?). The funk works even on its purveyors; half the fun of a King Johnson show is watching the steady increase in the band's manic-ness. Their kind of stage silliness can only happen because the foundation is so solid; they're self-assured enough not to take themselves too seriously.

Beneath the playfulness is always a sense of purpose. And because they've mastered their craft, a certain musical fearlessness can continue to grow, as they become more and more what they already are: one hot act.