This is a Blog About The Black Keys

I know this is not about the Jesus & Mary Chain. I know I told you it would be. I'm a fucking liar. Deal with it.

This is about my new loves, my new obsession. Since of Montreal seems to be out frolicking in commercial-ville, not to mention the conspicuous lack of a certain James Husband, I need a new sonic crush. Enter Mr. Dan Auerbach and Mr. Patrick Carney, with soulful (especially for white dudes) lyrics and hilarious music videos, I'm smitten.

Now, I'm a little embarrassed by how long it took me to get on the Black Keys soul train (I randomly picked up Brothers at an indie record store in Philly over July 4th weekend, mostly due to the packaging), but I now consider myself a fan. A blubbering, starry-eyed fan. I'm so much a fan that I spent most of tonight screaming "I LOVE YOU PATRICK!!" at the bespectacled percussionist of this Akron duo, whilst peering over the stage that came up to my nose. The set-list was a beautiful marriage of old and new, with the old being all the songs I didn't know but still enjoyed. Every song was sexy and stirring, and when Dan began Everlasting Light in that perfect falsetto of his, you could practically hear the panties sliding to the floor.

As for the album itself, I love it. Brothers is the first album I've been able to listen to, straight through without skipping a single song, in I don't know how long. The use of actual musical instruments is frankly refreshing, as is the return to the roots of American Rock and Blues. The Black Keys manage to be reminiscent of The Velvet Underground (on the track Howling for You) and good ol' Sly and the Family Stone ( see: Tighten Up) without sounding like rip-offs. The whole album feels older than it is, yet it's completely original - save of course, for the cover of Jerry Butler's Never Gonna Give You Up.

I could be over-hyping it, but I don't think I am. I rarely over-hype. I'm super excited about The Black Keys. So excited I can't sleep.

I know this wasn't about The Jesus & Mary Chain, but you'll get over. You know why? Because you're going to go buy Brothers, and you're going to love it. Then you'll say, "I forgive Claire for lying to me, because this album is so great." I recommend buying the CD, because the packaging is so awesome. The disc goes from black to white when it heats up!

You're welcome.

Happy 67th Birthday Mick Jagger.

I love you.

No Song Left Behind, or "How to Keep iTunes From Ruining Your Life"

When I was about 15, I had to listen to Sticky Fingers in its entirety in order to fall asleep. Now, while Brown Sugar and Bitch aren't exactly lullabies, by the time I got to the end of Moonlight Mile (you know, the part with the violins), I was dead asleep. Eventually, I was able to shorten my routine to tracks 7-10, occasionally skipping Sister Morphine (which isn't a true Stones song anyway), and, if I was really tired, I could cut straight to Moonlight Mile and zonk out.

I don't think this precious routine would have ever existed if I had grown up with an iPod. Instead, I would have made sleepytime playlists with soothing songs from various artists, never availing myself of the surprising comforting powers of Dead Flowers. Obviously, this would have been tragic.

Which is why I am pleased to announce my new project: No Song Left Behind. I plan to go through my iTunes and listen to albums in their entirety, giving those neglected tracks a chance to shine. The "pick and choose" iTunes mentality must be destroyed.

I'm starting with The Jesus & Mary Chain's Psychocandy; I bought this album for Just Like Honey and never listened to the other potentially fantastic tracks. They may all suck. We'll see. At least I'll be able to sleep at night.

And Now For Something Completely Different.

Last New Year's eve, myself, Sean and our good friends John and Danielle spent the holiday in St. Augustine. Dinner was at a lovely local restaurant, I had the duck, a bellini, shared a bottle of wine with Sean and finished off Danielle's portion of her shared bottle of wine.

Now, Danielle didn't finish her wine because she doesn't like wine. Well, she likes some wine, but not a lot. She was trying to branch out, which I appreciate, but that particular Sauvignon Blanc wasn't cutting it. Since I had recommended that particular bottle to her, I felt bad and so felt compelled to finish it for her. I'm not sure how this logic worked either, so don't spend too much time dwelling on it.

Anyway, Sean and John had also brought four bottles of champagne to the B&B, which in retrospect makes no sense at all. Sean doesn't like champagne (though he will, and did drink it), Danielle doesn't like champagne, John sorta tolerates champagne, and I love champagne. Needless to say, I ended up with the largest share, though Sean definitely pulled his weight. Oh, what a night.

Fast forward to a Philly bar yesterday ( I can't remember the name but it is really close to Pat's and Geno's) and Sean and I are to be found drinking Hitachino Nest White and Rogue Dead Guy, respectively. I'm talking to Rocco, a bearded fellow who regales me with tales of Athens, GA and Derek Almstead. Rocco likes his iPhone, but hates iPads and loves Terrapin Hopsecutioner and Bell's Two Hearted Ale. His friend's name is also Sean. To which my Sean replies, "There can be only one!"

Suddenly, the bartender produces what he is calling "champagne beer". I suspect Miller and muster up the strength to begin a tirade, but am surprised to see that he is holding a champagne bottle. Wtf?

Enter my new favorite thing, as well as the answer to beer vs. champagne wedding reception question. Being primarily beer drinkers, Sean and I were planning on skipping the champagne aspect of the champagne toast. But this changes everything. It's called Deus Brut Des Flandres and I'm not sure how they do it, but this is both champagne and Belgian beer. Danielle still won't like it (she doesn't drink beer) but that just means I can drink hers.

Oh, Make Me Feel Good Rock 'n' Roll Band; I'm your biggest fan. Or, "Why I'm Worried About False Priest".

I really hate Rolling Stone magazine. Their reviews are predictable, their journalism a little too rabid and knee-jerk, and, if they simply cannot think of a new (usually Top 40) artist to interview, they just do another piece on The Beatles. Now, the only people I know who read Rolling Stone are those who receive it in the mail every month even though they have never ever subscribed to it.

Sean began receiving said publication a few months ago.

Sean: Should I throw it away? I feel bad having it in the house

Me: Nah, as long as you're not paying for it, I would like to see what they're droning on about.

Sean: Why? It will just make you angry.

Me: You know I like being critical.

Now, to be fair, not every single issue is completely awful. Sometimes there are pieces that I can read. I enjoy an occasional quip from Sir Mick Jagger, and sometimes there is a bit about an upcoming album I actually care about... Sometimes. But, I also freak out a little every time I see a band or artist I like featured in that magazine. I feel like being in Rolling Stone might lead somewhere dark and dank. Sure, some make it out alive, but I can't help but worry...

Which is why I'm fretting over of Montreal's False Priest. When Kevin Barnes was semi-interviewed for this piece I couldn't help but feel that Rolling Stone was using oM as some sort of anti-indie justification. Personally, I love the albums Kevin and company have "churned out in his spare bedroom" and never really had any complaints about sound quality. I'm no fidelity Luddite, but I do enjoy some "grittiness" every now and again. I'm all for oM using better equipment, it probably makes their job that much easier, but I don't appreciate RS comparing non-studio recording to laying down tracks "in a sweaty tube sock". Do I really need to mention Exile on Main Street?!?!?!? To tell you the truth, I haven't bought the reissue (though I probably will), but I almost wish they hadn't remastered it. Though the mixing wasn't great I enjoyed the muddy sound that was achieved by recording in a muggy French basement.

ANYWAY, I'm getting off on a tangent. Back to False Priest. I'm worried. I've only heard one song, which you can hear on their facebook page, and I didn't love it. Maybe this is me being a snobby little "purist" brat, but I don't think so...it just sounds too clean. The drums and guitar sound segmented, like they were recorded once and then dubbed into the "appropriate parts" of the song. Am I insane? Maybe. The guitars are fuzzy. But in a self-conscious way... Maybe this is all in my head and False Priest is going to be my favorite album of the year...but Rolling Stone has officially scared the shit out of me.

In other news: this is fucking awesome.

Don't Lie to Me Boy! Or, How Jersey Shore (and thus all paths) lead to Lynch.

A weekend at Jersey Shore, nice. And before everyone starts in on the Snooky/Situation jokes, no, I did not see them. I'm pretty sure they're in Miami. I did meet some Jersey boys I guess...They were boys and they were from Jersey. So...

Anyway, after a day of drinking fruity cocktails Franky so lovingly prepared, I was ready to argue the finer points of music and pop culture. I lectured Franky on how Altamont was the real death of the sixties (the destruction being on the hippies turf and dollar, well it was a free concert, so it was on the Stones dollar I guess), and he said a lot of things I don't remember about The Last Waltz. I don't remember them because I'm and asshole.

The other Jersey boy (I forget his name because, again, I'm an asshole) really had no clue what I was talking about 89.546% of the time. So I was forced to sing songs that he didn't know in an effort to propel the conversation. I really suck at singing. It's fine, I know this and it's funny. Anyway, JB said something to the effect of "You can sing well"... NO. I can't, and don't try to back pedal with a "I mean, at least you are hitting the right notes"...you've been caught in your lie, sir. I am now on-guard and suspect you of insincere flirtation.

Anyway, suspect Jersey boys aside, you know who else can't sing? Wayne Coyne. That's who. Now, before you get all ca-razy on me, you know that he fucking can't. Don't lie to yourself. Or me. Or your children. We all know that Wayne's vocals are weak. BUT! That doesn't fucking matter, because Wayne Coyne is an utterly brilliant performer/songwriter and quite possibly my 3rd favorite person in the world, depending on my mood. Which brings me to my first album review...Dark Night Of The Soul, by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse (tragic loss), with David Lynch thrown in for instant awesomeness - I love Lynch, he's one crazy motherfucker, but he...yeah, I dunno, I just love him.

The album starts off with my favorite man who can't sing, Mr. Coyne himself. It's a little ditty called "Revenge", and I'll be god-damned if it doesn't perfectly convey the vicious cycle of retaliation. It's like cheating on your significant other because he/she cheated on you, it just ricochets...

The album is a little dark and a lot brilliant, as one would expect from something Lynch is involved in. It's also a little spooky that not one, but two of the artists (Mark Linkous and Vic Chesnutt) involved committed suicide before the albums release. The tracks on which Linkous and Chesnutt sing (Daddy's Gone and Grim Augury, respectively) are both as haunting as one would expect, though Daddy's Gone is catchy in a way that is the exact opposite of how Lady Gaga is catchy. It can get stuck in your head and you don't feel guilty about it. Grim Augury however, is borderline creepy, and is more likely to get stuck in your nightmares than your dreams.

A myriad of other artists lend their talent to this album; Suzanne Vega, Gruff Rhys, Black Francis and Jason Lytle, to name a few. Even creepy old Lynch lends his creepy old voice to two tracks. All tracks are pretty awesome, with the only (slight) disappointment being Angel's Harp, the track featuring Black Francis of The Pixies.

I unfortunately haven't seen all the photos contributed by crazy-man-Lynch, but the ones I have see are pretty awesome, and I look forward to owning all 48 pages of theses surreal gems.

I recommend buying this album for that really annoying music snob or really awesome person in your life with a birthday coming up. Or just buy it for yourself. Or guilt someone into buying it for you. I think you'll agree that even though Coyne can't sing, his sexy yet weak vocals might just be one of the most beautifully haunting songs you'll hear this year.

You can listen to all tracks here. Enjoy.