The Black Keys

In Ghost World, there's a scene in which the bookish Seymour and his existentially challenged friend Enid go see one of Seymour's heroes, an older bluesman named JJ "Bad Boy" Jones whose records Seymour collects.

Before Jones' set, there's a band of white guys called Blueshammer who play what they call "authentic blues," but what blues fan Seymour calls, well, a long list of profanities.

That's how I feel about The Black Keys, particularly the band's new record Rubber Factory.

It's cool sounding, maybe.

But it's still Blueshammer.

The Black Keys are a band that indie kids like.

The Keys play blues-rock, heavy on the fuzz and the field holler.

The one dude sings and plays guitar, and the other drums.

Yeah, so The Black Keys sound like The White Stripes, but that's an unfair comparison.

Jack White can at least write a great, original (if highly reverent) song every once in a while.

The Keys just want to play rip-off.

And, as with any good rip-off, the whole thing smacks of un-authenticity.

This is exceptionally weighty music, the blues, and The Black Keys can only dream of striking the emotional chord of a Howlin' Wolf or a Son House.

Amped-out guitars, moaning vocals, the dry thump of the drums; Rubber Factory sounds like the blues, but never truly makes it there.

You can barely hear the words (not good for an expressive music like this one), but it hardly matters, since most of the songs are just inane takes on preexisting standards.

There's actually an "I woke up this morning, I put on my shoes" track! Poseurs.

Muddy Waters is good. Listen to Muddy Waters.

-- by Paul Thompson