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    Saturday 30/10/04 The Black Keys, The Archie Bronson Outfit @ The Cockpit, Leeds

    Saturday 30/10/04 The Black Keys, The Archie Bronson Outfit @ The Cockpit, Leeds

    November 02, 2004 by Bill Bedford
    Saturday 30/10/04 The Black Keys, The Archie Bronson Outfit @ The Cockpit, Leeds

    The Blues has come along way since the cotton pickin’ days of 1930’s America.  The Archie Bronson Outfit; three well-spoken, beardy white boys from the deep south of England, are amongst the post-White Stripes brigade dragging the art form screamin’ and a-hollerin’ into the Twenty-First Century.  They’re great too, setting Jack White’s histrionic yelp to a churning bass-driven backdrop.  There’s a dark intensity at work here that belies their unassuming stage presence, and goes to show that even posh English boys know about the nature of human suffering, man.

    Though the support are an altogether more intriguing prospect, tonight’s headliners, Ohio two-piece college dropouts The Black Keys, prove that the Yanks still have a slight edge when it comes to stripped-down, amped-up blues rawk.  In keeping with national stereotypes, Archie and his outfit are reserved and edgy where their stateside counterparts are confident and relaxed. From the moment singer/guitarist Dan Auerbach strolls onstage, already noodling away on his guitar with an air of slack charisma, it is clear that the Leeds crowd are begging to be worked up into a frenzy of testosterone soaked retro rock action.  Indie fashionistas are largely absent from the Cockpit tonight.  In their place is a contingent of ageing rockers, whose appreciation for a good honest rock-out no doubt contributes to the fantastic atmosphere.  

    Vocally Auerbach bears more than a passing resemblance to Jimi Hendrix.  He also makes valiant stab at invoking the legendary guitar shaman’s ghost through his heroic axe exploits.  This instrumental dexterity, however, is not matched by geeky drummer Patrick Carney, who rarely deviates from the tried and tested approach of smashing seven shades of shit out of his kit.  Its not clever, but it does make for electrifying evening’s entertainment.  White Stripes comparisons are inevitable, but the two-piece formula is so successful you wonder why no one thought of it sooner. Far from being a gimmick, the synergy between Dan and Patrick, like that between Jack and Meg, is crucial to their success.  Without a thick-skulled bass dullard disrupting the psychic connection, the band are free to fire off song after song, leaving the crowd punch drunk and rapturous.      
     
    It could be argued that there is a scarcity of fresh ideas across the breadth of this transatlantic nu-blues showcase.  This doesn’t really matter though when the music feels so vital.  What was once the music of the struggle really has no right to be this much fun.  Muddy Waters is either turning or dancing in his grave.

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