Last year, for the first time since 1963, no rock-and-roll band had a No. 1 album. This is a queer factoid–mostly because it doesn’t count Bonnie Raitt as a rock band-but it’s a resounding one. Rap and computer-driven dance music have pushed orthodox rock into the margins. The success of the Black Crowes is a response to this. These guys are orthodox with a vengeance: they wear the red velvet pants and the scarves, and purse their lips just right, even when there isn’t a mirror in sight. Singer Chris Robinson knows how to wear a blouse. And they write good songs. When a sneaky chord change in their single, “Jealous Again,” suddenly lands them in the middle of the chorus, it’s a reminder of how strange and exciting the familiar can be.
The music never feels like the real thing, though. When the Rolling Stones or Stewart plunged into the music, they didn’t know what would happen next. The Black Crowes know what happened, and don’t like it. So they end up embalming the wild past with their good taste. That’s the problem with being earnest: the band can’t tease and taunt, even while it enshrines the boys who did. The Crowes are trustworthy where they ought to be cool.
