Once gritty blues-rockers, The Black Keys trade garage sweat for polished pop on No Rain, No Flowers is a dangerously pleasant, hook-filled album that soothes more than it shakes.

So here we are: The Black Keys, our once-dusty-garage-rock, sweat-and-grease blues-rock darlings, have wandered out of the dive bar and into the adult-contemporary wine lounge, and folks, they’ve brought a horn section. This isn’t so much a reinvention as it is a costume change: leather jackets traded for linen blazers, grit swapped for polish so shiny you could use it to check your teeth.

Last year was their “Oh God, what happened?” moment. Ohio Players barely made a splash, tours got axed, management went kablooey. Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney looked like they’d been through the emotional car wash on the “scrub twice” setting. So No Rain, No Flowers arrives like a peace offering to themselves, a sonic SPF 50 for the scorched egos.

The Black Keys’ New Album is *A Sonic SPF 50 for the Soul

And yeah, it’s smooth. Like dangerously smooth. Imagine you’re drinking a milkshake made of satin and nostalgia. Daniel Tashian, Rick Nowels, and Scott Storch stirring in little flecks of pop fairy dust. Synths here don’t punch you in the jaw; they sidle up and ask how your day’s been. Even the so-called “gritty” track, “Man on a Mission,” is the kind of grit you could brush off your jacket before brunch.

Highlights? Sure:

“Make You Mine”: Philly soul-lite that could soundtrack the slow-mo meet-cute in a Netflix rom-com.
“On Repeat”: Truth in advertising. It’ll loop in your head like the Muzak in a very hip dentist’s office.
“All My Life”: A disco pulse that feels like the ghost of Studio 54 politely holding the elevator for you.

Hammock Time for the Garage Rockers

The thing is, it’s pleasant, dangerously pleasant. The kind of pleasant that sneaks up on you while you’re buying cereal and makes you hum along without realizing you’ve been seduced by grocery store speakers. But rock & roll’s not supposed to be pleasant. Rock’s supposed to make you feel something, want to speed down the highway or smash your toaster or at least spill your drink.

Still, I can’t hate it. There’s something endearing about hearing two guys who once sounded like they were recording in a burning shed now swaying in the hammock of adult-alternative security. They’ve earned their easy listening moment. Just don’t tell me it’s the storm after the calm, because right now, it’s more like a warm shower after a pedicure.