Jack White and The White Stripes: a Rock 'n Roll Promise Kept

You get to a point where you figure that it's over. You're never gonna see another come along to transcend the whole fucking shebang again. So many pedestrian bands, so many dull evenings, so much time lost in the quest for something more. Rock n roll makes promises it has rarely kept. So you search for the next good hit, always in (the) vein. Jesus - this shit - this music - this fool's fucking gold, can be so utterly sickening the way it leads you on. But wait.

Three bands, one night, and the unspoken promise of rockroll potential fulfilled. That was the dream - that was the expected lie. But then Jack White strapped on his guiiitar and, well.

Standing outside a 7-11 store somewhere in Detroit, Jack White bought back the soul Robert Johnson sold to the devil and he locked it up. I can't help but accept that now. I saw the ghosts of a dozen lost rock spirits pour out of a set of skins, a (pair of) guitar, and Jack White's mouth. These weren't "vocals", they weren't recantations of simple lyrics, no sir-ee, these were guttural howls for the redemption of rockblues. It was less an astonishing performance than it was unconditionally fulfilling.

It gave exactly what the music needs more than ever now - a fierce spirituality. Redefining rock and roll as something greater than all of us - something that exists as a force rather than product, something alive (makes you feel even more alive), something intangible - may seem silly or naïve. But, at its greatest, rock music becomes positively supreme. Like Coltrane, or Miles Davis, or Jimmy Morrison, or Hendrix, or Iggy, or anyotherwhathaveyou's of lore and legend (they get that way for a reason you know), Jack White is the real thingy. He is because of his unfaltering conviction and his supernatural morphing into an instrument of the very powers that define rockroll noises.

He wasn't just Jack White - kid from Detroit - up there on that stage. He was a prophet from a numinous past caterwauling us to the uncertain future. He is an angry angel whose wings are sullied, and he don't give a shit. Just clip those fuckers off cuz he's got his guitar now - and now he ain't goin' back to flyin' for nuthin'! Onstage with his sis Meg bangin' the drum kit like it's some shithead punk who just grabbed her ass in the mosh pit, White erupts with a voice that cracks, screeches, and bleeds out such anguished beauty that you want to just touch him.

A fucking icon.

Energy swirls the venue as he and Meg ping-pong through an earache storming of the bluez as they pertain to a New World supposedly gone good. Everyone's happy now, ya know - with the economy and all of that shit. But these bluezy muthas ache for something more - something as trivial as, oh, say, the forgotten core of our human spirit. Un-fed and needing caressed, these souls that have WallStreet-dotcommed their way into oblivion are not vanquished, but only lonely and lapsed from consciousness. The White Stripes reach for those psyches - well not really reach, but rather address them - no that's not it either - they bare theirs so you can reconnect to yours. Painful shit, but if you just accept the noise into you, if you sit back and absorb, let it shoot right through you - you'll feel the movement. Rocknroll's bullshit promise begins to at least seem reasonable, if not entirely honest.

The music? Yes, the music. Staggering through an assortment of tunes from their debut disc and this year's best-so-far-disc De Stijl, as well as a painfully gorgeous cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene", the Stripes conquer the sorta-Stonesy presentation of their records and then transgress into a demon-blues combo that never lets up. An astonishing live rendition of Robert Johnson's "Stop Breaking Down" removes any doubtful ambivalence about Jack White, Meg, and the White Stripes. And when Jack starts to speak in tongues - eyes afire - two thirds of the way into "Truth Doesn't Make a Noise" the room is converted. They aren't merely honest in the presentation of their work; it dwells in every last sullen cell of their beings. The always-arresting Sleater-Kinney was slated for the stage after the Stripes, but why? What was left to be done? Nothing.so we went home.

Rock noise is saved.

Epilogue: A day later I am sitting in the Creekside Tavern, a little rustic drinking hole that serves good beer and just happened to have a jukebox. I was there for the beer - the jukebox was hardly even of note - until I moseyed over (hard to resist - for a music fiend) and flipped through the selections. It was standard fare for the most part, classic rock, some Beatles, some Stones (never got enough of that revolution stuff.what a drag), a dash of U2, Sinatra, Jimmy Buffet, and.now here's where it all goes tangentially off. Matthew Sweet's epic beauty In Reverse. A couple of dollars and voila! The place was filled with the oft kilt shimmer of "Millenium Blues" straight to the chilling rumble of "Thunderstorm". Still high as can be from the prior evenings White Stripes show (let me tell you 'bout the little band that opened that gig: COCO - a two piece drum and bass outfit whose disc I casually accepted, and then fell in love with - it was that kind of night), I was now swept up by the beer, the queerly pastoral atmosphere of the pub, and the sounds of Matthew Sweet.

It seemed to be a message, my burning bush, telling me that it was alright, everything was gonna be okay. And for a flash, I was back to that place that only music seems to be able to take me; lost in an aura that's inexplicable, optimistic, enveloped in the spirit of that hullabaloo I hold so dearly, cynicism obsolete, and possibilities as endless as a brilliant three-minute 45 rpm. It's not everything, but it's more than an old guy like me bargained for. For now, at least, we can move on knowing that maybe the world understands - or at least copes.

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