![]() ![]() Rex’s “Jeepster,” while cribbing its city-razing, road-warrior manifesto from Grand Funk’s “We’re an American Band.” But even those lifts seem subtle next to “Baby I’m Coming Home,” where the Keys bank on the faint hope that the majority of their fanbase has never heard the Allman Brothers’ “Midnight Rider.” (Only in this case, the sense of familiarity is compounded by the fact the big chorus sounds like someone dialed up the Troggs’ “Wild Thing” at karaoke but were too drunk to remember the words and had to adlib their own.) A similar sense of going-through-the-motions afflicts “Burn the Damn Thing Down,” which runs a distant second in this band’s recent attempts to hotwire T. But, despite its tantalizing disco intro, the song simply ticks off all the boxes for a boilerplate Black Keys radio single, with a main guitar riff caked in enough studio-sculpted fuzz to sound like a horn section a huge shout-it-out hook that’ll give the band’s lighting tech ample opportunity to cue the crowd for a singalong and lusty lyrics that find Auerbach once again pining for some vaguely sketched unattainable girl. The opening track, “Wild Child,” was apparently kicking around for years until writing contributions from both Cartwright and Petraglia brought it to the finish line. ![]() ![]() However, in this case, a few drops of new blood here and there can’t keep the Keys from reverting to a lot of the same old same old. Certainly, the Black Keys are among the few bands on the planet with the both the star power and underground pedigree to corral garage-punk lifer Greg Cartwright (Oblivians, Reigning Sound), Nashville hitmaker Angelo Petraglia (Trisha Yearwood, Taylor Swift, Kings of Leon), and ZZ Top legend Billy Gibbons onto their record. Burnside’s backing bands for last year’s Mississippi-blues retreat Delta Kream, the Keys carried that collaborative spirit over to Dropout Boogie, opening up their creative process to a team of guest songwriters for the first time. Dropout Boogie may share its name with a classic Beefheart cut, but the good Captain’s corrupting influence doesn’t extend past the record spine-the Keys’ first album of originals since 2019’s “Let’s Rock” could’ve easily been titled “Let’s Roll.” After recruiting members of Junior Kimbrough and R.L. Now, after exhausting every play in the post-success playbook-the detour into cinematic psychedelia, the reactionary return to FM radio fundamentals, the covers album hat-tip to their roots-the Black Keys have finally achieved the ultimate marker of classic-rock sainthood: the luxury of coasting into middle age, coupled with the casual assurance that the arenas and amphitheaters will still be packed no matter what they put out.įittingly, the band’s 11th album arrives roughly at the same point in the Keys’ career as the Stones were at in the mid-’80s, when Mick and Keith became less concerned with chasing the zeitgeist and just settled into doing what comes naturally. With the wham-bam Grammy-scooping double shot of 2010’s Brothers and 2011’s El Camino, the Keys thoroughly rewired the sound of modern rock radio over the next decade, uniting wayward factions of 78-collecting blues traditionalists, frat boys, neosoul lovers, Southern rock die-hards, aging hipsters, and their teenage kids purchasing their first guitars. However, while those aforementioned acts succumbed to prolonged hiatuses, break-ups, or failed Pharrell collaborations, the Black Keys’ proverbial junkyard beater was gradually tricked out into an auto-show-worthy muscle car, complete with hydraulic wheels and neon under siding. ![]()
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