Part of celebrity syndrome is that when you actually meet one, their larger than life status immediately dwindles into a clump of dull, unenchanted humanness. Your daydreams of sharing a rare connection with them over a cocktail backstage amidst the clamor of the opening act is crushed when you find yourself corralled with a thousand other blathering fans who have all had that same vision. Music is largely fantasy; what we imagine coupled with how it makes us feel becomes the music and the musicians themselves fall away, or at least manifest into a mere vacant spectacle. I haggled with the old idea of separating the art from the artist while watching the Black Keys play the other night. The Black Keys, though, have a strange relation to this idea – they are the abstraction and the feeling, but their immense fame has perhaps put the heart of their music at risk of being overlooked. I discovered that in this case, it's best to keep imagination and reality separate.
The reality of their performance that night was less an experience and more of a demonstrative tutorial on how to do a rock show.
1. Dramatic entry complete with darkness and heavenly spotlight to glorify the lead singer
2. Long wait between them and the opening act
3. Unceremonious transitions from one song to another
4. A funny story from lead singer
5. Band’s name lit up real big behind stage
Oh, yes. There was an opener. Nicole Atkins and The Black Sea, who boast an impressive resume including collaborations with Feist, a couple appearances on David Letterman, and an agreeable list of influences like David Lynch, Robert Plant, and Wilco, though upon first listen these legendary artists failed to be summoned. I couldn’t help but think of Jenny Lewis (sans brilliant lyrics) and Morningwood (sans idiot lead singer). Atkins has a powerful voice; dark and dramatic, vaguely reminiscent of the lower side of Stevie Nicks’ vocal range; mix that with 1950’s doo-wop tinged pop-rock and the woman is destined for midstream (not mainstream) fame. Her live performance that night was lackluster and her album is one notch below Lily Allen on the “please stop, you’re annoying me” scale. Their second song of the night, “Cry Cry Cry” was the most radio-friendly of all. If this band had any intriguing style it was too cloaked in gloss and thick instrumentation to succeed as anything but an edgy soundtrack for a Disney movie about hot moms who bring their thirteen year-old daughters to rock shows so they can feel at once nostalgic and in-touch with “the scene.”
Then there was a long, long intermission which gave me a chance to observe the herd. Flannel and plaid button-ups abounded, and a whole mess of old and young Black Keys fans who undoubtedly bought their tickets three months ago. Again, it’s hard to accept that the fans of your favorite band are not all beautiful and impossibly cavalier like you’d imagined them. Most are tubby with bad posture and bad haircuts to match. They are awkward and “don’t usually go to rock concerts … especially not on a Tuesday!” They barrel through the crowd, knocking drinks and cameras onto the floor when their favorite song is played, and they love the bouncy floor at the Crystal Ballroom and will take every opportunity to test its flexibility while you are in the middle of an otherwise un-bouncy conversation.
Eventually the Black Keys stumbled onto the stage, cast in complete darkness until the moment when Auerbach is suddenly showered with heavenly light like some Broadway actor ready to deliver a crucial monologue. They positioned themselves, coyly acknowledging the mass of doting fans as the stage lights came on slowly, and promptly began the set with “Thickfreakness.” This being the second of two back-to-back sold-out shows at the Crystal Ballroom, they were markedly drained; preserving their energy, it seemed, only for extended jam sessions. There were very short breaks between songs, and only before (appropriately) playing “Breaks” did Dan impart some storytelling to the crowd. Apparently, a show they played years ago at the Satyricon with a death metal headliner gave them their first impression of Portland. While waiting in their van after the show, they saw the lead singer of said death metal band purchase crack from a bum, disappear into the bushes, reappear a moment later, then suddenly approach the van and inform the spooked Midwesterners that they sucked. “That night we played this song to about two people,” says Auerbach.
As always, it’s charming to hear the “before I made it big” stories from musicians whose every song is a hit. And due to the level of blind enthusiasm that occurred when they started playing “Stack Shot Billy,” I assume this is somewhere in the top five. Also amongst these is “Howlin’ for You” – and I can only imagine, sadly, it’s because of the “d-da d-da da, d-da d-da da” part during which the crowd sang along, loudly, and made me feel altogether embarrassed. I’ll be the first to deem myself jaded partially because I did not feel the camaraderie I should have felt with my fellow fans at this point in the night, and partially because I instinctively feel this mass-appeal demonstration just sort of cheapened the whole experience. Alas, the sexiness and the loneliness inherent in blues music was concentrated in one spot – Dan Auerbach, as he basically made love to the microphone under the bright blue spotlight with his shampoo-commercial-quality hair sliding across his cheek. So, in an attempt to make peace with the onslaught of un-sexiness going on in all areas outside Dan’s beautiful glowing orb that night, I focused on him during the encore and let everything else fall away. "And I guess that’s why they call it the blues."
Now, true to rock-concert format, throwing in a “happy song” is necessary to boost the spirit of the audience before all the gloomy, jaded, down-tempo songs start to wear on them. So here’s my happy song – it’s called, Dan Auerbach’s Beautiful Hair. I suppose you can bounce to it, if you must.
His love is gone
But you don’t know
He’s playin’ you
For the fool
Let it go
His golden hair
Walk out that door
I’m gonna set it free
Dan’s hair
Dan’s soft hair
It’s been wrong to me
Now you know
It’ll tear you down
Treat you wrong
Then it’s gone
Let it go
Dan’s soft hair
It’ll walk out your door
I’m gonna set it free
Dan’s hair.
Just want to feel Dan’s hair
His soft, soft hair.
Don’t let it go.
Don’t set it free.
Keep it long.
Just for me.
Dan’s hair.
D-da d-da da …
