The Black Crowes’ latest album shows they truly are the American Oasis

Leonard Cohen used to speak self-deprecatingly about his sole ‘chop’ – that mesmeric, circular minor-key guitar pattern deployed on so many of his earliest and greatest songs. It was a classic Cohen humblebrag, the implication being that, in popular music, practical competence at just one thing was acceptable – but any artist with multiple ‘chops’ was to be viewed with great suspicion.

The slightly strange notion that anyone peacocking their technical mastery is covering up for some other inadequacy – usually a lack of heart or, worse, of ‘authenticity’ – has found widespread acceptance in the field of music criticism over the years. It’s hard to think of another art form where being very good at what you do is regarded as a negative, but then rock discourse, particularly in the UK, loves to fetishise the idiot savant. Too much knowledge is a dangerous thing – or, at least, doesn’t make for good copy.

Well, be warned: the Black Crowes have more ‘chops’ than a black belt in Shotokan. They are a ridiculously proficient rock-and-roll band – albeit one beamed in from around 1972. Strictly in terms of their retro-centrism, you could make a case for them being the American Oasis. Shamelessly derivative and in thrall to a romanticised golden age, they could play the lead band in Almost Famous without any major adjustments.

But while Oasis paid homage – let’s be kind – to the brittle, non-swinging snap of 1960s British rock and pop, the Black Crowes are in love with groovy rock ’n’ roll and R&B, with flashes of psychedelia, krautrock, country and soul. Put the Faces, the Rolling Stones, Otis Redding, AC/DC and Guns N’ Roses in a blender and you wouldn’t be far off.

There is another Oasis parallel.