| The dark tones introduce themselves ominously, like a much hipper version of those breaking news bulletins on the network news. The primal thumping soon follow, and by the time Jack White begins the kind of guitar wails that sound like the revving of a motorcycle, you’re finished. This “Seven Nation Army” just played your ears like a blitzkrieg bop. And so begins the White Stripes’ latest album, “Elephant,” the most fully realized attempt yet that there is ample room between rap’s bravado and the pained reality of hard rock. While bands like Coldplay polish their loose ends with |
| The White Stripes |
| Elephant |
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| emotion, the White Stripes wear their raggedness like a red-and-white badge. You can be forgiven for not having embraced the world’s best garage band just yet. After two critically acclaimed cult albums in “The White Stripes” and “De Stijl,” the band just broke into the mainstream last year with “White Blood Cells” and its single, “Fell in Love With a Girl.” The Lego-fied video found an unlikely home on MTV for the duo comprised of Jack White on guitars and vocals and Meg White on drums. Still, it’s a band far from the top of the charts in sales if not talent (despite a five-star review in Rolling Stone, it’s still available at a bargain basement $10 price in some stores). In stripping down their songs to guitar, vocals and drums, they’ve nearly perfected a sly combination of 1960s rock, blues bar standards and a twang of country. Not necessarily the next combination for a Nelly single, but it’s welcome relief for those who complain there’s very little “real” rock and roll today. While there’s no reference to specific cars or girls, there’s plenty of variations on the “Oh baby, you’ve got to change your ways” theme ever-present in Jack White’s lyrics. Like the best in relatable rock songs, it’s a world where women are both the bane and the best of existence. But to uncover those lyrics means first peeling away the layers of gimmicks and trademarks so familiar to the White Stripes faithful. Besides the red and white stage garb, there’s the little matter of Jack and Meg’s relationship. While promotional materials always claimed they were brother and sister, different outlets eventually found a marriage certificate for the two and no proof of any bloodlines. Such cheekiness plays for part of the game in Britain, but in America it came off more like untrustworthy kids -- it’s as if there’s still resentment that most of the country embraced someone named Posh Spice just a few years back. All those non-music-related issues help separate the White Stripes from a guitar-oriented rock movement gaining energy in the past year. The Strokes used New York swagger, The Vines a wasted chic image and The Hives a tongue-in-cheek punk Rolling Stones revue to show pop aficionados what six strings can do. And while each band wears its influences like an ironic T-shirt, the White Stripes more than any other band have created a sound of their own. That signature sound even applies to covers. One of the highlights of “Elephant” is “I Just Don’t Know What to Do With Myself,” a cover of a Burt Bacharach song. As Jack White’s voice wavers from a plaintive tunefulness to a fierce, punky growl, the combination of vocals, guitars and drums creates a depth and power even without much in the form of a bass line (in fact, the lead-off track is the most prominent instance of such bassy undertones.) For fans of the breakneck pace that made “Fell in Love With a Girl” such a spastic delight, there’s “Hypnotize,” which manages to spit out symbolic puns like “I want to hold your little hand/If I can be so bold/ And be your right-hand man/ ‘til your hands get old.” And for the devoted fan, there’s the odd ditty “Well It’s True That We Love One Another,” a reference to the whole siblings-or-lovers “controversy.” Even with the outward appearances of a throwaway track, it’s a song the Mamas and Papas might have recorded in today’s media saturated times. There’s still the feeling, though, that the White Stripes are still figuring things out. The eclectic nature of the songs lacks a certain connectivity that only the best albums provide -- and that possibility for improvement is thrilling. But like many great albums, that final track features a melody that knocks around into your head until the ominous undertones greet you once again like a hipster friend. For true rock fans, that timeframe between listens won’t last long. |
| Originally published in the Free Press Newspapers, by Hank Brockett |