6.20 The White Stripes @ Icky Thump Records
“I feel like I’m at my friend’s bah mitzvah, and The White Stripes got paid a million dollars to play,” my friend Brett said as we stood, waiting eagerly and sweating profusely, in the old Tower Records store at the heart of the Sunset Strip. It had been temporarily repurposed into Icky Thump Records, in order to sell copies of the new White Stripes album when it dropped on Tuesday (the store even opened at midnight, old school style, recalling the days when eager fans still queued up to buy those most coveted new releases like “Appetite for Destruction”), and to host an exclusive show by the rock duo. The atmosphere was pretty sexy for a bah mitzvah, though, and it definitely felt more like a rock show, what with the way the seriously bland store, with its dropped ceilings and boxy, vacant vibe, had been done up with red light gels, and the foxy young minxes in vintage cigarette girl garb circulated, pedaling limited edition buttons.
When the band finally took the stage, the crowd’s anticipation crescendoed, as everyone pushed forward and started to move. Meg and Jack were dressed down, compared to the elaborate costumes they sport on the cover of their new album, and the whole night had an intimate, basement show feel. They played much of their new album, as well as oldies but goodies like “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” which found the crowd singing all of the verses, and a gorgeous, punked up version of “Hotel Yorba.” Plus there were classic covers like “Jolene,” on which Jack howled. The interplay between Jack and Meg was a thing of subtle beauty. Jack prowled the stage, moving between several microphones, sweating and wringing the most remarkable highs and lows out of his voice, and the most delicious blues licks out of his guitar, but always stopping from time to time at the microphone near Meg’s drum set, to commune with his big sister, as he still calls her. A charming master of ceremony, Jack was gracious and funny, thanking everyone for being there, especially the fans who had camped out for tickets, and who were apparently sent pizzas by the band (now that’s classy). And with his smooth voice and fervent tone, he sounded like a Pentecostal preacher, as he had the crowd say Amen, not only for the wonder of tangible, non-disposable music, but also for Meg, of course.
But when the band tore through a ferocious version of “Seven Nation Army” during their encore, it was a reminder that, spectacle aside, the duo is responsible for some of the most authentic and ambitious rock ‘n’ roll this side of the ‘60s. And that was the perfect note on which to end a celebration of their latest record, which is at once as fierce and tender as anything they’ve released.
And a note for those concertgoers who like to be in on the latest trends (wave a cell phone, not a lighter, etc., etc.), apparently young bucks no longer hoist their ladies onto their shoulders during concerts, so that the girls can get a prime view (and flash the band, of course; this show was on the Sunset Strip). Now, they sort of grab them under their rib cage, as if they’re pulling them out of a burning car, and hold them aloft for as long as they can, so the girls can see over the heads of those in front of them. It’s not quite as sexy, but it seems to get the job done.
