White Stripes | Elephant
Review by Jade Jett
that Jack White.
The White Stripes newest offering, Elephant, will surely
go down as one of the best CD's of 2003, it could very well lead
to an early grave. It makes you want to do bad things. For example
smoke, imbibe heavily and frequent seedy bars with dirt floors
and wooden counters. Forget the fact that you might have just
quit smoking or aren't much of a drinker because Elephant
provides the backdrop for all things bad for your health.
Any true smoker will agree that the mark of a good song is if
it passes the cigarette test; if it makes you want to light up
when you hear it. For those of you who've recently quit, I suggest
you stay far, far away from this CD.
disarms while it stomps across well-tread territory, making no
apologies for its blatant appropriation. This isn't just petty
theft, but a full scale pillage of the hallowed ground tilled
by legendary players of every stripe - Hendrix, Zeppelin and Sabbath
to Robert Johnson, Roy Orbison and the swaggering New York sweat
drip of The Stooges.
who really cares? Not Jack White. He doesn't give a shit
if your parents think he's aping the soundtrack to their generation!
He's here to rock out. And he succeeds.
would seem to be an innocuous rock n' roll clone of an album upon
first listen proves to have a bright beating heart of its own.
Regardless of how Jack White got to his destination, the ride
is just as sweet.
opens with the tribal, heart-pounding bass line of "Seven
Nation Army," a riff so primal it assures the creation of
a legion of guitar wannabes, spelunking away for many a bleeding
fingered, sleepless night. Add the operatic gospel sneer of "There's
No Home For You Here" and the dirty delta-blues crunch of
"Ball And Biscuit" and you have an album that gets clotted
in your veins. A serious heart attack waiting to happen.
doesn't address the universal themes of love and loss so much
as it keeningly flops around; an unstable emotionally ragged mess.
When Jack White's voice sobs with rawness, rising to a pitchfork
wail of desperation on the Burt Bacharach remake, "I Just
Don't Know What To Do With Myself" you wish you could reach
out and give the boy a hug and let him know that everything's
gonna be alright. All is forgiven. Thank you Jack. For bringing
messiness, late night inspiration and sweet temptation to the
forefront. What would life be without these necessary evils?
God Bless The White Stripes. God Bless Jack White.