A lonesome road trip across midwest America, painted yellow lines swallowed up by a speeding vintage Chevrolet. Polaroid pictures and sepia negatives faded pink by the sun.
Coachella and Lollapalooza. Sienna sunsets and indigo black nights. Amaranthine light.
Battered old pickup trucks leaving trails of desert dust in their wake. Pulling up to a busted old parking lot with tin cans and glass beer bottles scattered around '94 Chryslers. Dressed in indigo denim and arenaceous brown boots, striding up to a smoky bar with the muffled sound of raw blues rock coming from inside becoming clearer with each dusty step.
Filthy money and ten cent pistols with a large shot of dry whiskey. The clack-clack of billiard balls on a stretch of cobalt green baize. Ex-girls and next girls. An intimate crowd in dreamy languor with nodding heads and hand claps.
Ostentatious slit drapes and glitter slash curtains, spotlights that illuminate musicians in the dark. Augmenting the pulsating thump of drum with velvet tones and sweet melodies. Raw, intense guitar riffs.
This is what I see when I hear this band's music.
The name of this band is The Black Keys.