The Black Keys
El Camino

It's like when you light the zarsa, you feel it burn a bit in your mouth but the taste is so good.

You can't roll it too delicately, but you can't twist your fingers too roughly either, otherwise the mix falls on the car mat, and then there's no way you're getting it all back, so find the exact middle way between art and strength and put your mind to it.

Once it hits your head, you can imagine whatever you want, even a plethora of dirty vans, in front of which you place your film camera (if you're picturing a damn coolpix, maybe you're listening to another record, sorry "bad trip, just a bad trip") and take enough shots to play on El Camino.

It's simpler than you think to make an album that gets in your head without scratching, and the Black Keys teach us how. They teach us to roll with mastery, and when you start with a first hit like "Lonely Boy", with that dirty and heavy guitar, the crunch that explodes in your nostrils and ear chambers, and then with the beat that drifts away with this sound that didn't make it out alive from the '80s, you start well, and the voice that steals the soul? So much stuff. But then you continue to smoke it, and it never gets depleted, and the fuzzycatchy blues arrives on "Gold On The Ceiling", voices of desert euphoria and slaps as if the White Stripes were dancing with the mescalero on a sandy hill alongside a chorus of feverish women. And what a jewel the acoustic river of "Little Black Submarines" is, the hit you take sitting on the porch, until an electric wind leaves no escape. And so on, hit after hit, references to the '60s, powerblues slides, melodies that stick to the walls of the brain.

Until the end of the trip.

Until the end of the road.