Black Keys

Black Keys
The Paramount, Santa Fe, NM, Sept. 14, 2004
© September 2004 Michael Koster

Last Tuesday I expected to see 20 or 30 of the hardcore faithful standing around the mostly empty Paramount looking slightly dejected because sleepy Santa Fe had ignored yet another fine band — the same depressing weeknight scene I've witnessed at the club on many occasions over the years. But the decent-sized crowd of 100-150 that turned out for a night of greezy garage blues was surprisingly enthusiastic for a show that started well after 11 p.m.

Soulful though it may be, this ain't the blues your parents know and love. The Akron, Ohio-based twenty-something duo has absorbed more from the highly unpolished punk strains of the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion than the palatable sounds of, say, B.B. King. A lot can be explained by the fact that the band records for Fat Possum, a Mississippi-based label that specializes in older, grizzled bluesmen who play ultra-raw electric blues. Roughness is a virtue. And the Black Keys have managed to marry garage rock with groove-heavy Fat Possum blues to startling effect.

The band puts out a HUGE sound for just two guys on drums, guitar and vocals — no bass, no second guitar, no frills. And like Nigel Tufnel, the Black Keys are fond of volume, which they turned up to 11 that night.

Through thin wafts of smoke (dig that Paramount nicotine mist that burrows into your skin and hair, a noxious reminder of how hip it is to be young and a chainsmoker), you could make out the Kurt Cobain-like figure of Auerbach. Like his grungy blues heroes, Auerbach achieves a rough, muted tone by playing without a pick, whacking and pulling the strings with his callused fingers and a steel slide worn on his pinkie. His voice sounds like Bad Company's Paul Rodgers, and his vocal phrasing recalls Hendrix in the way it dips and soars in tandem with his guitar notes. While the duo played a few straight three-chord thrash tunes rather competently, Auerbach in particular excels when he hunkers down and focuses on simple, catchy grooves. Cases in point were "Just Couldn't Tie Me Down" and "Keep Me," typically robust numbers from their brand-new disc Rubber Factory, from which they drew heavily.

While Auerbach's fuzzy guitar and classic-rock voice are the musical nucleus of the Black Keys, drummer Patrick Carney's slightly inarticulate, loose, punish-the-skins-to the-max thumping is the high-octane that drives the band. It's a lot of fun to watch this super-tall, bone-thin, shaggy white boy from Akron (what's with the Quasimodo look on his face?) beat the living tar out of those drums. On "Everywhere I Go," the evening's closer, Carney actually swapped out his drumstick for a tambourine and tried to pulverize his cymbals — an interesting method to say the least.

Let's hope that next time the boys roll through, it's a weekend and the attendance doubles. More folks should witness the glorious noise of the Black Keys.