You can just type the name and most music fans will automatically bring a healthy dose of pre-conceived notions to the table.
Jack White.
Out come the labels. Poser. Charlatan. Genius. Last of our true rock stars. And on and on. In a way it is totally understandable. He controls his own narrative. Just as he controls his recording masters. And he creates his own projects. Defines what is next for him. In a way, making his own rules. But, isn’t that the point of money and talent? Making your own rules and breaking the ones that are made by douchebags?
Reading the reviews of the Dead Weather album is entertaining as hell. Seems like 50% of the lines in the reviews are dedicated to one thing. Bashing/loving Jack White. Pathetic. Isn’t this all about one thing? You know….does it fucking rock?
I won early entry to the show. Nice crew for this one. The boys. We are rolling 4 strong and front row in the up on the rail. We’re on your right. On the bass side. Your left is Dean on keys/guitar. We’re as close to the stage as you can get and still go grab a beer and have a saved seat. House is packed. PACKED. Crowd is all over the map. Typical Portland (in a good way). See a guy who must have been 70. Told him I hope I am as fucking cool as him one day. He knuckle bumps me. At this rate, I’ll just be happy to have some range of hearing left.
Why does Jack White always seem to hit Portland? Because he gets it.
“Portland is the only city you can see a girl strip to a Tom Waits song”
Let’s fucking do this.
Lights drop. The Dead Weather hit it. All white instruments with gold inlays. Beautiful. Dean in black and white stripes. LJ all in black. Jack all in black. Alison in black with a blue shirt. Opening guitar riff to “60 Feet Tall”. So, does it fucking rock? The thing about this song I love is the build. Slow, mixed to where all the parts are very distinct in the beginning. Live is the same deal. Alison pacing around. Dean restrained. LJ bouncing around to his fuzzed out bass hook. And then all hell breaks loose. Alison perched on the edge of the stage. Pseudo-singing to the dude being escorted out, guitar screaming, while that fucking killer bass is pounding. Alison on top of the monitors screaming. Yeah. It’s okay if you are into that sort of thing.
In so many ways, Alison stole the show for me. With The Kills her stage presence veers from menacing, to slutty, to cool. Chameleon to her own mood and whatever interplay with Hotel she has going on. With the gothic-blues soaked Dead Weather it is way more rocking. Consistent. Bad ass. Intense. For the only song Jack played on guitar she shared a mic with him. “Will There Be Enough Water?”. I sincerely hope Alison Mosshart keeps whatever recreational drug use she’s into confined to non-soul sucking chemicals. She walks the line. Hell, she may be the line. As the song heats, as the vibe heats, Jack finally breaks and shoulder blocks her away from him just to get her the fuck away. Rock and roll long ago ceased being dangerous. But she’s dangerous to someone.
Alison works the pole during Jack's solo
Second song was “Bone House”. Like almost all songs during the set the vocals rise and take it to the line of being just in control. And that is where this write up starts to head south. Cause I just wanted to shake my hair around. Cause it fucking rocked.
“Cut Like A Buffalo” was a snack. The quirky choking noises are omitted so you just get a reggae-flavored cut of fun.
Encore included “New Pony” and “Treat Me Like Your Mother”. LJ knifing his bass toward the amp, Alison just fucking wailing during Mother from the front. Jack screaming over the top from the back. The crowd was an ocean of movement and screaming. Strobes. Hard to describe. Oh wait, yeah. Here you go: ROCKING. One music snob on a blog stated we should start ignoring Jack White. I totally agree. You do that fuck-o. I’ll take my bombed out hearing and the memories of his future projects. In 20 years we’ll compare notes.
