"Rubber Factory" by Black Keys (2004)
Artist: |
Black Keys |
Album: |
Rubber Factory |
Released In: |
2004 |
Reviewed By: |
Jeff Hubbard |
Grade: |
4.5 |
Wow, here's something that doesn't happen every day: within the space of three or four concentrated listens, I've gone from finding the Black Keys new Rubber Factory competent blooze rock revivalism (something that, in its truest form is already rare enough these days) to being almost certain that this is the most exciting rock release of the year, bar none. Foregoing the realistic possibility that Interpol significantly trump their debut, or that the forthcoming, posthumous Elliott Smith record makes me weep like "Either/Or," I don't expect to alter that conclusion. (Though one of my colleagues is sure to attempt to alter it for me.)
For me, personally, this album had two serious perception problems to overcome. First, there's the bass-less format, of which I've pointedly been a non-fan. The White Stripes (how could I not invoke them at some point in this review - the similarities are too obvious to ignore) have never really moved me like I wish they could, and I've always suspected that the lack of propulsion that a good bass player can bring to the table was at the heart of the problem. Second, this album practically revels in the sort of self-consciously retro production that I normally feel serves no purpose other than to obscure weak song-writing, or lack of a distinctive band identity. Let's put it this way - my least favorite thing about the Strokes, an otherwise solid band, continues to be the distorted, "we had a mega-budget but chose to sound lo-fi" vocal distortion. In short, on first listen, I felt like these guys had something to hide.
However, after closer examination - I have to admit that I was dead wrong. These songs could bear up to smothering by Mutt Lange if Mssrs. Auerbach and Carney felt the inclination. Lyrics are hardly the point, here, but they do bear scrutiny, rest assured. Functioning like some sort of elegant-but-raw rock Haikus, there's nary an embarrassing sentiment to be found (much as I love Free, whom the Keys often strongly resemble, their content was often macho posturing of the most ridiculous sort). And, if the lyrics ever approach the non-descript, oh, how the riffs come to the rescue.
In fact, it needs to be mentioned that the lyrics, riffs, and production here form something of a lattice-work, and as such, are never less than indelible. And, joy of all joys, the singing and playing sport a strength and flat-out excellence that one normally associates with the big money world of classic rock, while never feeling glossy, safe or corporate for even a nanosecond. This is truly the alt-blues-garage album for your favorite Zeppelin fan. It's all in the spirit of the thing.
If one song points up this visceral album's accomplishment, ironically, it's the lone true ballad, "The Lengths." Here, the band, and especially Auerbach's singing, achieve a subtlety that makes what might've been a repetitive dirge in the hands of lesser talents, a touching triumph. Time and again on Rubber Factory, performance, composition and production result in a level of craft that one rarely sees in popular music any more - and it all rocks like mad.
In this age of retro-genre pillaging, music has become very transparent. Style exercises can be initially inviting, sonically, but quickly start to feel like a dead end, with repeated exposure. That the Black Keys have managed to create such a substantial, gratifying album from within that world is therefore all the more impressive. "Substance" will kick "Style's" ass every time they step in the ring, but when the two set aside their differencesÂ… well, let's just say I'm a lover, not a fighter.
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