Lollapalooza: Black Keys Workin,’ Little Payoff

You know who the Black Keys are? They’re that band. They’re like Led Zeppelin after Jimmy Paige ripped off Jeff Beck’s solo album (Hey, it’s all fair in love and war, man). They sneak in with little bluesy-guitar solos, than smash away at their instruments, attempting prowess echoing as compellingly as that of Stevie Ray Vaughn. They’re pretty damn popular, at least in Lollapalooza-land, where some stages receive several hundred intent listeners, others several thousand. Yet they haven’t managed to bring anything innovative to their particular genre, nor are they catchy, nor can one dance to their music. They don’t really do much of anything to stand out. Hell with the Black Lips and the Black Kids, they don’t even have a catchy name.

I take it all back. I did notice they sweat. Profusely. As ex-frat boy numero uno behind me stated, “Those guys are all the way in fifth gear. You know, cause’ there’s five gears?” Superior. They don’t just fruitfully play their instruments; they bang upon them, harshly, ferociously, as if attempting to prove a point about masculine dominance. Or, at the very least, divert attention from the fact they’re, well, sweating a lot.

This may seem like an over-the-top rant; but, I will say, the audience never lies. Snapshots of the Black Keys’ crowd show a few bored fence-huggers, a few who seem to be in anguish, and even a couple of yawns. For all the energy the band exhibits the audience seems entirely lackadaisical. I guess we’ll blame the midafternoon heat. Because it simply can’t be that these gentlemen may actually suck…