The Dan-Patrick Show: Black Keys Hit the Ryman

After spending most of this decade watching the Black Keys shred on their home turf before sold-out Ohio crowds, their inaugural Ryman performance begged the question, "Are they big enough to fill this place?"

Empty seats scattered among the pews hardly mattered - the Akron duo slowly poured out a bottle of Buckeye State blues, powering through brisk, compact set.

A few extended blues jams that never last long enough to turn stale broke up the march through the Keys's short, sweet songs. A duo immediately has more space to fill than a standard band, yet Auerbach and Carney had no trouble knowing when to bring the heavy lumber or to let the songs breathe a little.

These two possess a completely different dynamic than the White Stripes, to whom they're often compared. While they certainly share influences and Rust Belt credentials, the groups diverge quickly. To begin with, Carney can actually play the drums.

Auerbach's swampy, distorted blues paddles around the uptight cliches white guys usually summon from the blues. While the strobe lights got old within a few songs, Auerbach and Carney let their affable yet unyielding music ring out.

Thanks to a Danger Mouse production on Attack & Release, the new songs really stood out - "Things Ain't What They Used to Be" and the set-closing "I Got Mine" sacrificed nothing in stretching their blues away from its traditional song structures. They lined up nicely with "Your Touch" from Magic Potion and others.

At times Auerbach's stack of amplifiers strained against the Ryman acoustics, but their reliance on three-minute songs never allowed it to become a glaring flaw. His banter often felt forced, and they practically ran offstage at the encore's end. But once his slide hit the fretboard and Carney laid down a Bonham-esque bed of percussion, all was forgiven.

Royal Bangs provided a break from the standard indie rock opener, veering from Sonic Youth-inspired noise outbursts to keyboard-heavy fare reminiscent of the Boo Radleys at times.

As for Jessco White the Dancing Outlaw ... for all the people who said not to miss him, I wish I had. Thanks to a PBS documentary, the audience got a half-hour of tap-dancing to stock country tunes while Jessco rubbed his man-boobs and raving drunkenly toward the front row. In comparison, Daniel Johnston is a pillar of mental stability. I really wanted to root for him, but mental illness and drunkenness turned his appearance into an embarrassing freak-show spectacle before the roaring crowd.

Backstage, Jessco got booted from the Ryman, Auerbach reported later. Dwelling on their awkward choice for an opener was among their only missteps. The rest was a smooth travel through the blues of Akron.