Trying to understand Dierks Bentley; Black Keys rock
Posted: Friday, June 15, 2007 10:08 PM by John Roderick
Dierks Bentley with Sam Bush
Dierks is apparently a multi-platinum country artist. I was pleased to see that his band had actual “country-and-western” instruments, like a banjo and a mandolin, unlike most young country artists today who dress and sound like Winger in cowboy hats. (That said, the bass-player’s Mesa/Boogie rig looked like he borrowed it from Godsmack).
Associated Press |
They played inoffensive American country music that seemed to really connect with the flag-headband, straw-cowboy-hat set, and I was settling in for some fast-picking banjo solos when the lead singer sang, “I wish I was a slave, it wouldn’t matter what kind…” Yipes! I tried to discern what he was getting at, and it seemed to be something along the lines of wanting to yearn to be free, but it didn’t quite scan. The “slave” reference seemed like a tone-deaf attempt to forge some solidarity with African-Americans, although there were none visible in the audience, and I was suddenly unnerved by all the big, shaved-headed white dudes standing around.
It must be hard to try and say something “meaningful” in a country song, which is why most country artists don’t bother. I sort of wish Dierks hadn’t tried, and I moseyed off.
The Black Keys
The first time I saw the Black Keys, at the Sasquatch Festival a couple of years ago, I remarked that they sounded like the Jimi Hendrix Experience without Jimi Hendrix, which I meant as an insult. Today I realized that they are more like Cream without Eric Clapton, which I mean as a compliment. They absolutely murdered the crowd with industrial-strength swamp rock, eliciting some of the biggest cheers I’ve heard yet. Their fuzzy blues are totally infused with the urban rust and decay of Akron, Ohio, so that it feels contemporary and relevant even though every note of it was originally played fifty years ago in Chicago, and they own the stage without any histrionics or mugging. Just two dudes kicking out the jams, so real that you expect to see a wrench sticking out of their back pockets. It has to be even better in a packed clubs.
