Nothing trendy or modern crossed ZZ Top's path Tuesday at Chicago Theatre. Save for the brief sight of a smartphone in a background video, the veteran trio espoused a stubbornly classic approach. No opening band. No fancy lights. Just a minimalist setup in a relatively intimate venue that allowed the group opportunities to get back in touch with its bluesy roots and transcend nostalgia-act status by debuting material from its first new album in nine years. There was just one problem: New songs were AWOL.

Decades removed from its ascent to the top of the pop universe during the Reagan era, ZZ Top has spent a majority of time since facing an identity crisis. The slick, processed sounds the group employed on its mid-80s records—combined with the stylized, campy images of its videos—turned the "little ol' band from Texas" into MTV superstars. Yet the transformation hastened a creative decline and slide into routine. Distorted and stripped-down, ZZ Top's recent "La Futura" album is the first sign in ages the ensemble is capable of more than living in the past.

Of course, the trademark touches—guitarist Billy Gibbons and bassist Dusty Hill's long beards and black sunglasses, Western hats, synchronized dance steps and winking humor—never grow old. Neither do the gritty shuffles and greasy boogies, which the band performed at a slightly slower clip than in the past. With most rock artists, such a tact would detract from the impact. But ZZ Top has always excelled when it lets notes growl and grooves simmer, relaxing rather than rushing, and maintaining a laidback musical cool to parallel its imperturbable attitude.

For all of his visual showmanship, whether soloing with one hand tucked into his pants pocket or standing still to accent a hook, Gibbons' playing was all business. Splattered with Delta mud and buttressed by fat tones, riffs slouched and swaggered, coming across as prickly ("Pincushion"), twangy ("Jesus Just Left Chicago") and crunchy ("Beer Drinkers & Hell Raisers"). Gibbons attacked the high part of his instrument's neck, finger-picking low-end passages that suited his gruff, gnarled vocal rasp. Steady, vice-grip-tight rhythms met him at every turn.

Absent the synthesized drum-machine beats of the studio versions, pop-leaning hits like "Sharp Dressed Man" even registered with a roadhouse punch. Ditto the staggered scrape of "I Gotsta Get Paid," for some inexplicable reason the lone new tune in a 75-minute set that begged for more than the same old.

ctc-arts@tribune.com