Black Keys simply spine-tingling
Dome was rocking like a roadhouse
The only stock market advice you need to know: Up is good. You’re welcome. Your portfolio is now solid and you’ll be ready to retire as soon as that idiot son ventures out of the basement in search of gainful employment and your golf game gets a little better.
Again, stock keeps rising, all is right in your fiscal world.
Perhaps now, then, would be as good a time as any to get in on the gold that is The Black Keys.
For the past decade, the Ohio duo of guitarist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney has been on an upward climb out of the clubs and obscurity, into the larger alt rock realm and, finally, into the bigger, broader world of Grammy wins, sold-out arenas and mainstream success.
And Friday night, in front of a sold-out crowd of 13,500 investors, the duo showed they are, without a doubt, the best, blue chip, blues-rock commodity that was first made marketable and bankable in recent years by their friends in The White Stripes — and with equal infinite potential for growth, both stylistically and popularity.
The Keys proved heavily, proudly, brashly and bullishly that the upward climb has not only been warranted, but it’s actually added to their value and made them that much better.
Last summer during their Corral show (down), the band fought and won the acoustic elements that barn provides with a pretty decent rock show.
But their latest album, El Camino, which arrived later in the year after that date, was an artistic spike that necessitated a move (up) to the bigger, more sonically forgiving and ROCK Show-worthy Saddledome.
And they grabbed it and ran with it, putting on yet one more early entry into gig of the year.
First off, while it’s always a pretty touch-and-go thing, the Dome has never, ever sounded as good as it did Friday night.
Simply immaculate. Simply spine-tingling, nipple-tweaking, head-smacking. Simply fantastic.
Which made the music’s impact that much more massive, that much more glorious to be pummelled by.
From the very first song, Howlin’ For You, every crystal clear note curled its fingers under the collar and shook, rattled and rolled the hell out of everyone in the makeshift roadhouse.
Muscling out the first quarter of the night with a backup band — glorious guttural versions of songs such as psychedelic metal header Next Girl, gospel-tinged newbie Run Right Back and hands-down highlight Gold On the Ceiling — they then shed the excess for a handful of tracks and showed it wasn’t really needed.
As a duo, they are every bit as powerful, with Auerbach blazing and wailing away, while Carney pounded the skins as if he was trying wake the dead, their children, their neighbours, their friends and everyone on the whole damn, dead block.
Your Touch, especially, in twopiece form, was white thunder and lightning, a blistering blues jam that rattled every filling in the room.
Even when they went the quiet route, with the pretty, pretty beginning to Little Black Submarines, it lost none of its power, bringing out the cellphones and lighters, before the backup band returned and those lights were smacked down and snuffed out with the force of a shack-levelling twister.
From there it was an endless pulsation of romper stompers, including Money Maker, Strange Times and a jaw-dropping version of Lonely Boy.
And the energy never waned, never dipped, helped by the perpetual motion of the capital “M” musicians onstage, a light show that was flashy and fittingly trippy, a stage that resembled the illumination department of Home Depot or a photography studio, and a backscreen that was used properly, only to enhance the mood and the music.
The most important commodity.
And one in which the only advice could be: buy, buy, buy.
As for openers Arctic Monkeys, despite celebrating 10 years and four studio albums, in these parts they’re still very much an uncertain investment for most.
The quartet headlines 60,000plus rock fests (high) in other parts of the world — including their U.K. homeland — but they’re relegated to opening spot here (low) or smaller venues (holding steady), such as Mac Hall, where they played last fall.
But, Friday, the Sheffield quartet that large, medium, small — whatever venue or expectations — they’ll perform the exact same way: Loud as all eff.
Led by frontman Alex Turner, they powered through a full hour set that allowed them to offer a pretty great cross-section of their material, from their brilliant jumping off point Whatever People Say That I Am, That’s What I’m Not — which was released when they were still but wee, cheeky teens — to last year’s Suck It And See.
But while those albums, and the two in between, showed off different sides of the act, and had them exploring, growing and evolving, their outing on this night was performed with a snotty, spittles oaked, punk-club freneticism that wonderfully homogenized their sound.
From earliest cuts such as I Bet You Look Good On the Dancefloor to newer track Don’t Sit Down Cause I’ve Moved Your Chair, it was all delivered in the same tireless, terrific pace that presumably earned them an entire new group of believers, those who will keep a close watch on their stock.