Having already cleaved the gristle of rock ’n’ roll right down to the bone, The Black Keys don’t want any dead weight added to their primal, sludgy growl. For drummer Patrick Carney and guitarist/vocalist Dan Auerbach, two is the magic number.
“We started off just playing as a two-piece, because we didn’t know anybody that played bass,” Carney says. “Then we did try to incorporate a third person. It just never worked, and I think part of that reason is because we both play together in a certain way. We’re tight, like relatively tight. But if you add somebody else, it just throws off the chemistry or something.”
The same apparently goes for letting anyone else get behind the production controls. “We fired the person that was pushing us to do that,” he deadpans.
Earlier this year, the Keys recorded Magic Potion, their fourth full-length, in Carney’s new and improved basement studio, the Audio Eagle Nest. Then they made the significant leap from Mississippi-based indie Fat Possum to Warner imprint Nonesuch. The order of events—get the album done, then sign with a major—was apropos for a band that doesn’t take kindly to being told what to do.
“The only way to do stuff like that and not feel kind of grossed out is to make sure every single thing that you do, you actually did,” Carney says.
The Keys show a similar hardheaded pragmatism in their insistence on staying in Akron, Ohio—even after attaining international success—rather than moving to a more urbane location. Their hometown’s tough, industrial ethos—as highlighted on 2004’s Rubber Factory, recorded in one of Akron’s many abandoned tire factories—holds a no-frills appeal.
“After going to most cities in the U.S. and a lot of cities throughout the world—I don’t know—I mean, all cities are pretty much the same,” Carney reflects. “It’s just some cities have more restaurants than others and more people, you know. I’m OK with living in a city that has few restaurants. Akron’s kind of an underdog city, and I like siding with the underdog. I think Akron actually is probably one of the most unpretentious cities in the fucking world really. If you even wear, like, a jacket that’s too hip, you will get your balls busted beyond belief.”
Magic Potion has the Keys’ trademark greasy, visceral economy. Auerbach’s buzz saw guitar scrapes, churns and wails, his pained vocal crying out, then settling into a slurred nonchalance, while Carney thrashes out a mighty, lumbering pulse on the drums. The sound is thick and primal, the song tempos relatively slow and leaden.
“Things usually speed up drastically live, but when I listen to the recorded versions they seem a lot slower than they do live,” Carney says. “I think maybe it’s just because when you’re pretty relaxed and recording in your basement, you’re going to kind of turn out more of a mellow performance. I don’t think it’s conscious. In fact, maybe we need to write some faster songs.”
Much to the Keys’ chagrin, the fact that their potent, narcotic sound is haunted by the specters of Junior Kimbrough and other raw, electric Delta bluesmen—not to mention the fact that they reprise six of Kimbrough’s songs on the Chulahoma EP—has meant frequent pigeonholing as a blues band. It also doesn’t hurt that they were signed to a label primarily known for blues acts.
“I mean, that was a big concern when we first signed to Fat Possum,” Carney says. “The blues label is sort of attached to us, but it’s kind of ridiculous—we’re just a rock band.”
The Keys have a uniquely parallel style of musical interaction. Carney constructs his drum parts almost as jagged guitar rhythms, responding closely to Auerbach’s playing. “I try to play what I think of as a riff on the drums,” Carney says.
This—among many other things—is what sets the Keys apart from another well-known two-member band with a simple, color-themed moniker. “You know, the comparisons to the White Stripes are really annoying,” he complains. “It’s been going on since we started. I can see why it happens, but it’s still like, you know.…I mean, we’re completely different bands—we sound completely different. It’s obviously just lazy shit. I mean, I think they’re a good band for sure, but being compared to the same band constantly when the only similarity is that there’s like two people in both bands is a little bit annoying.”
Other than a few bothersome descriptions at the hands of music critics and a muddled album title on a Japanese tour (“They just made up their own name”), the Keys have more or less exerted complete control over their own musical destiny.
“I mean, that’s the most important thing—it is our band.”
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