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The Akron, Ohio-based duo The Black Keys is well known for its
concentrated, hermetic approach to recording, hunkering down with rudimentary
equipment in an unfinished basement or commandeering the floor of a vacant
local rubber factory to create terse but soulful rock that seems to have
time-traveled into the pair's amps from some long-ago radio show. But
guitarist-vocalist Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney now admit they
were ready for a change of scene-as well as some company. So when they
got the opportunity to work with Grammy Award-nominated producer-musician-provocateur
Danger Mouse, a/k/a Brian Burton (Gnarls Barkley, Gorillaz, The Grey Album),
they agreed, for the first time, to leave their familiar environs. They
weren't quite willing to cross state lines yet, though.
The Black Keys had originally been approached by Danger Mouse to write
songs for an album he was developing with Grammy Award-winning R&B
legend Ike Turner, who, in recent years, had been recognized more for
his contribution to the birth of rock & roll than for the time he'd
spent in the tabloids. That project would never be completed, however,
and the 76 year-old Turner passed away unexpectedly in December.
As the pair were composing and sending tracks out to Danger Mouse in
Los Angeles earlier last year, ostensibly for Ike, they realized they
were also instinctively laying the groundwork for a new album of their
own. So when Patrick went to L.A. to visit his wife's family, he called
up Danger Mouse to go out for drinks and, he says, "I asked him straight
up if he wanted to produce our record. He said yeah, and we made a plan.
Nothing was set in stone until about a week before we went in to record
in August. I think Dan and I were intrigued to work with somebody as a
producer because we both realized we couldn't teach ourselves anything
more, and it was best to start learning from other people. When we were,
like, 22, we didn't have the money to do this; by the time we were 24,
maybe we thought we knew more than we actually did. Now, at 27, we maybe
just realized we had stopped being broke, and stopped being dip-shits,
and we could learn from other people who make records."
"After doing four albums in the basement, we were ready to go somewhere
else," Dan confesses, "but it couldn't just be anywhere. Brian
suggested L.A., but we said no way. We still wanted to do it in Ohio.
There's this guy named Paul Hamann, who has a studio outside Cleveland
called Suma. I'd done a bunch of projects with him before, bands that
I've recorded on the side. He's done some mastering and cut some vinyl
for me. In fact, he's got one of the only studios in the world where they
still cut their own vinyl. So we said we wanted to go there, and Brian
said, 'Whatever you guys want.'"
The legacy, the hand-built recording console, and the engineering skills
of Hamann were undoubtedly attractive to The Black Keys, but perhaps it
was the ambience of the place that really sealed the deal. As Patrick
explains, with genuine affection, "The place is covered with dust,
it smells like a moldy cabin, and it looks like a haunted house. It was
fitting for our first time of going into a real studio-basically being
in
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a haunted house
that hasn't been updated since 1973." Dan continues, "A big
part of the sound of this record is the studio and having somebody like
Paul, who is an old pro, recording us and helping us get the right sound.
Having him there meant that we were free to jump on any instruments we
wanted to add stuff. If I wanted to play organ, I could jump on it and
just record it; if I wanted to jump on the guitar, I could do it. Brian
and Pat had a moog part they thought would be cool on a song, so they
would just try it. That studio is a really special place."
Danger Mouse fit right in, too. Says Dan, "He came in as our collaborator.
Brian does hip-hop, but he likes rock and roll, obscure 60s psychedelic
stuff, and we listen to a lot of that too. So he was pretty easy to get
along with. Brian has a real ear for melody and arrangement, and that
was a big part of this record, his making suggestions about the arrangements."
Dan and Patrick were childhood buddies who grew up in the same Akron
neighborhood and attended the same schools. But they didn't recognize
their natural musical affinity until well into high school when they started
jamming together with other aspiring musician friends, who they soon ditched.
Early demos of The Black Keys featured a third member, who played a moog
bass, but he didn't last long either, and they subsequently carried on
as a duo. Says Dan, "Pat and I just click. We walk in to a groove
quite easily. It's kind of hard to describe." Their minimalist approach
to rock is similar to what the late-70s New York City duo Suicide's has
been to electronic dance music: The Black Keys have been able to make
something ferociously noisy, deceptively melodic, and surprisingly sincere
out of the simplest tools and riffs. (Unlike Suicide, though, they're
more congenial than confrontational with their audiences.)
With Danger Mouse, The Black Keys didn't veer uncomfortably far from
the elemental rock & roll territory they'd mined so effectively on
previous albums like their 2006 Nonesuch debut, Magic Potion, or their
Fat Possum discs, Rubber Factory (2004) and Thickfreakness (2003). But
they were definitely in a mood to experiment on Attack and Release. Dan
explains, "We'd never let it all go before like we did for this one,
where anything was game." The new tracks have a spaciousness and
clarity that accentuate the soulfulness in Dan's preternaturally weathered
vocals and in arrangements that oscillate between melancholy and swagger.
(On side-by-side, moody vs. head-banging versions of "Remember When,"
they do both.) There's a subtle range of extra instrumentation (organ,
piano, synthesizer) and some very cool arrangements (like the ghostly
choir that surfaces midway through "I Got Mine"). Guitarist
Marc Ribot and Pat's uncle, multi-instrumentalist Ralph Carney-both veterans
of Tom Waits' band-sat in for a few days of unfettered jamming. Jessica
Lea Mayfield, an impressive eighteen-year-old bluegrass/country singer
from Kent, Ohio, sings alongside Dan on the plaintive final cut, "Things
Ain't Like They Used To Be." Dan and Patrick did finally head west
for the mix. Recalls Patrick, "We started August 9; our last day
was August 23. We went to L.A. to mix the record with Brian's engineer,
Kennie Takahashi, who mixed the Gnarls record. He's a younger dude who
knows his shit. He matched our rough mixes exactly-the EQ, the compression,
everything. He just cleaned them up-or dirtied them up-from there.
"I'm more pleased with the sound of this record than any we've ever
made," Pat concludes. "Rather than mask things in, like, a low-fi
fog, we can make things sound big and fucked up at the same time."
--Michael Hill
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