I was crazy for “Crazy.” I loved your Femmes with a touch of Funk (“Gone Daddy Gone“.) But I’m sorry, Mr. Barkley, I’m just not that into you. I feel kinda cheap saying this. It’s like we were a one-night stand, a prom-date gone long. I’m not saying that I regret it — I mean it was, you know, cool. I had fun. I’ll never forget it. It was totally special, and I think that you’re really talented. But I just don’t think we can make it work.
To be honest, I was drawn to you because you reminded me of someone else. You had some soul. Always was a sucker for some soul: like Audrey Hepburn; like Cheese & Chardonnay on a summer’s day. And you were fun. Not scary fun like the last time I saw George Clinton, but a good kind of fun. You didn’t take yourself too seriously; maybe that’s why I couldn’t take you too seriously.
I like The Odd Couple. I really do. Especially the throwback Mark Ronson-y stuff you’ve got going on. And I’m not saying you have to go, we can still hang out. I’m just saying that I’m feeling kinda pressured right now when I’ve found somebody new.
You might know them actually, they’re called The Black Keys, and your old buddy Danger Mouse had a little something to do with the new album. This might not make any sense right now, and I understand if you don’t want to hear it from me, but they’ve got something that I was looking for in you. It’s back to that whole soul thing. They’ve got it. Not like Al Green or Luther Vandross soul, but the kind of soul a kid from Akron can relate to.
You see, just like The Black Keys, I grew up not too far from the rusty wrecks of the rubber age and under the feeling that life used to be better. Looking back on Stow — the slice of nowhere suburbia on the top fringe of Summit County where I spent my elementary school years — I can see the latex fingerprints everywhere. My neighborhood (a slight step-up Brady Bunch tract christened Heather Hills) was mostly Irish Catholic, though I didn’t know what that meant at the time. I just knew we were a little different, like the “confirmed bachelor” next door and the the Chinese family down the street, but still we were usually invited along.
The dads around us worked at Firestone and Goodyear — middle-managing while things at work slowly cracked like a junkyard tire toasting in the sun. The moms stayed home. The kids played. Lawns were mowed with guts and gold chains glinting in the sun. Summertime was tinged with the taste of kid-snuck Coors Lite from block party coolers. It was 50% John Cougar, 50% The Boss, and 100% America.
I don’t know. There’s something about the worked-over riffing of The Black Keys’ recycled blues that hits home. It’s the sound of classic-rockin’ WMMS mixed with WKSU’s weekend stabs at racial diversity. It’s not the real deal. It is what it is. Like the White Stripes (the coincidences abound) it’s what happens when you give a kid from nowhere a guitar and hopeless amounts of idle time.
So Gnarls, I guess that what I’m really trying to say is that it’s honest, that it’s got my kind of soul. I can trust The Black Keys, and I can’t say I feel the same about you. I’m not saying they’re the best. I’m not even saying that they’re better than you. I’m just saying that it’s where I’m at right now.
Still friends? Call me, m’kay?
