Now that The Black Keys have solidified themselves as ranking contenders in the garage-blues tag-team division (a recognized and surprisingly competitive weight class), they've got a whole field of challengers to fend off. I'm thinking primarily of me, the critic, looking to measure their latest effort against its vaunted predecessors, counting the faults, tallying the improvements, making a decision. But the band has garnered a sizable fanbase indifferent to prior allegiances-- mud-caked Bonnaroo jam fans, NPR-driven blues boosters, and fist-pumping hard rock loyalists have all been trampled under The Black Keys' roots-chewing corduroy stomp. So really, it makes little difference what I have to say; most of you have already decided these guys are the real deal. Those who haven't, however, can rest assured that, in judging The Black Keys' budding discography, Rubber Factory beats their previous two by TKO.
That's because it picks up right where Thickfreakness left off-- outside the bar in the gravel parking lot, swinging aggressively with Dan Auerbach's ferocious six-string and Patrick Carney's cymbal-and-snare seizures-- and brings the noise one step further. There's more of an album feel to Rubber Factory, a conscious song-by-song progression rather than the visceral, overwhelming vibe that forged their debut, The Big Come Up, into a seething wrecking ball. When Auerbach settles down with a lap steel on "The Lengths", it's no mere diversion-- there's true conviction behind his country blues balladry. In its rosy tenderness, "The Lengths" is the biggest departure from the band's studied template. Auerbach sings, "Please yourself/ You don't have to be afraid," and it seems obvious he's convincing himself that he and Carney have carved out a niche deep enough they can break out of it with confidence to deliver something totally unexpected and achingly sweet.
"The Lengths" isn't the album's only curveball-- The Kinks cover "Act Nice and Gentle" finds The Black Keys tuning into the FM side of the dial. Where Ray Davies' original is twangy, sugary pop, The Black Keys give it a honky-tonk swing, as Auerback plies the slide and Carney's fireworks fade to a gentle sizzle. "Grown So Ugly" is a tragic prison blues penned by Robert Pete Williams and covered in the 1970s by Captain Beefheart. Auerbach tears into the standard with typical grit, but halfway through, pulls back into a short-lived vocal break that merits his position in the Fat Possum pantheon.
Those three tunes stand out as impressive tangents that skillfully mediate the rest of the album's oldtime Black Keys thunder. Songs like "Stack Shot Billy" and "Girl Is on My Mind" show the memorable songwriting that made Thickfreakness a standout. "When the Lights Go Out" opens Rubber Factory with a Bonham-esque bass pulse and an ominously pealing guitar, while closer "Till I Get My Way" lays one line of primitive Auerbach distortion over another more genteel melody until the two eventually swim together beneath Carney's splashy cymbal work.
And then there's "10 A.M. Automatic", Rubber Factory's first single and easily one of the most radio-ready indie anthems of the year, next to Modest Mouse's "Float On". It's the song most likely to show up in a Guy Ritchie flick next summer, a cool-as-fuck, hormone-laced dose of rock 'n' roll ecstasy. Here, Auerbach's voice attains that archetypal blues fever that induced the birth of rock 50 years ago; melody and rhythm mesh into a primal force that's raw and pure.
The Black Keys have consistently sought to keep their distance from modern blues, calling themselves a rock band above anything else. But we all know the blues resides at the core of rock 'n' roll. Rubber Factory sways back and forth almost imperceptibly between the two idioms, revitalizing the essence of both.
