Metropolis, Fremantle, Australia.

The smell. This has to be the most pungent gig I ever attended. It's a miasma of stale testosterone, car parts, but mostly beer. There's probably more beer on the floor here than in the swaying people's stomachs. And whilst Christopher Walken quite rightly stated in Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead, touch is the most under-rated of the five senses, its this rank funk that somehow epitomisies all the hurly-burly rock of this beautiful bluesy affair.

Its such a potent combination, the blues - the solitary sound of suffering - versus the euphoria of playing live, feeding off the heat of the crowd and reciprocating in kind. Due to a recruitment session I miss an estimated first third of the main set. I have no complaints (unless of course the bastards don't hire, in which case I'm Hell pissed off *) but from the moment I walk through the door, fuck no, approaching from the street I can hear the electric blues buzzing, I can feel it luring me. The door guy salutes me (see further background below), I walk inside and its the perfect conception of everything I was hoping for. The place is rocking. Fremantle doesn't lose it often, but this is on. My chances of getting anywhere near the front are sub-zero. The huddled masses are a frothing black lines of abandon. I find a good vantage near the bar with an acceptable view and several greasy puddles of ale. Even back here the vibe is wired.

There's are real loose sense to their work, yet there's not a single note wasted. I've talked about this gig to people unfamiliar with the BKs, in fact unfamiliar with good music in general. Let me tell ya, the most common reference point I've had is the White Stripes, being a blues heavy two piece. But whereas the Stripes can either play the best or most disappointing show depending on when you see them, I do get the vibe that the Black Keys are this good every night. There's a directness, a simple brutality to Patrick Carney's drumming, cohesion and an attitude. Behind the is a twenty foot inflatable racing tire embossed with their logo and their industrial magnet of a hometown, Arkon. It's their perfect hard-wearing, built for the road icon.

The crowd spontaneously claps in the penultimate blam-piece. And its probably more this spur of the moment sensation that Have Love, Will Travel turns in the most energetic performance of the night. I'm glad I not a woman. I'd inevitably have to sleep with them. And that beard looks really itchy. More decrepit looking than the young Kings of Leon.The guitarist staggers about the stage with all the uncoordinated freedom of a drunken fool. It seems like a slanted attempt to come across more ramshackle than a male sheep in manacles when they're really tighter than the nuts on a jeep. Instantanious satisfaction is guaranteed. Bona fide.

Transcribed by Christopher H James

Further background: I don't what its coming to when the ticket guy says "hey, I've been expecting you". I don't wish to sound rude but I ain't the foggiest clue who he is. As for why... I know I'm pretty regular but its not like I come to every single gig. Maybe its just every good one. Maybe my reputation is once more preceding me in ways I know naught of. Alas, there was no sign of the rampant enthusiastic Asian taxi driver who drove me home from the Sunn 0))) gig. No doubt he was here. His super waxings were got me all in a lather. Just the ticket.

* As it turns out, they didn't hire - but I remain philosophical despite my earlier proclaimation.