Black Keys rule

It's a cold November night in Minneapolis.

Most likely the effin' coldest night of the year so far. It's one of those nights where the wind tears at your flesh and you can feel big bubbles of frostbite forming on your cheekbones as you walk down Hennepin Ave.

I'm in town for business and have a light day the next day. So, I call up some way old homies and suggest we meet for brewskies. Catch up on our lives, our successes, our trials and tribulations. Since I'm staying downtown, we decide to meet at the Rock Bottom. Tommy and DAve (The Wad) show up; Steve begs off due to prior commitment(s) with the wife.

We meet, sit, have some beers, tell some lies. We're waiting for one more friend of Tommy's, a psychiatrist, who's due to show up "any minute".

Some beers turn into a few more beers, and it's starting to get late by 45-year-old old man standards. We're about to head out, and the psychiatrist shows up. So we have one beer, and he asks if anyone is up for seeing the Black Keys, playing just down the street at the Ave. With a head full of beer, and a longing to visit First Ave., I say, sure, why not. I can vaguely remember hearing a few Black Keys songs on my iPod, and if nothing else, I'm getting out for some kulture in my old city.

So we head out into the arctic blast, and the doc stops and asks if I want a pinchie. Wow, what a treat! I haven't had any in eons, and I suspect it will enhance the show. So we fumble in the high winds for a minute, enjoy our treat, then duck around the corner and into the front door of First Ave.

Someone in the entryway asks if anyone needs tickets. Bonus! The doc grabs one, and I reach for another. But there are no others. I send the doc in, and I'll buy on at the ticket counter. But no! The show is sold out! I figure I'll wait a few minutes, see if anyone else has a ducat, and find the doc inside.

After a few minutes, the doorman shoves me outside, not wanting anyone blocking the door. So out I go. Damn it's cold. I can feel my ears freezing solid, ready to snap off if someone were to flick them. I figure I'm out there about twenty minutes as the number of fans entering dwindles down to nothing. I step back inside and inquire if any will-call tickets remain. "No sir," is the reply. Gulp. SONOFA. The doorman keeps looking at me like I'm an idiot, and it finally dawns on my cold-addled brain. I slip a Jackson in his pocket and he waves me in. The warmth and waves of sound enveloping me are equally welcome.

Funny, I'd always thought of the Black Keys as a larger group -- their sound always seemed so big. But up there in front of me are just a guy flailing around on drumkit and a guy with a guitar. The place is jammed. There is no sign of the doc.

I make my way to the right of the stage in the nick of time to narrowly avoid being leveled by the huge chunks of skronk that come flying out of that guy's guitar. Big, luscious sheets they are, rippking and fuzzy and sharp. I can feel that old familiar wilt to my cochlea. God, is he good! Damn, does that drummer pound! How can two guys make that much noise?

I never did see the doc again, but I have to thank him. What a great idea that was.