ack White pulls his black Ford pickup truck to the curb on a quiet, tree-lined street in his native Detroit and hits the ‘play’ button on the cd player in the cherry-red dashboard.he turns the volume up to deafening and grins proudly as howitzer-fire drumming and squeals of distorted guitar rattle the windshield.When she started to play drums with me, just on a lark, it felt liberating and refreshing. It was my doorway to playing the blues, without anyone over my shoulder going, “Oh, white-boy blues, white-boy bar band.” I could really get down to something.
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There are bursts of marimba, too, which sound like someone shaking a bag of bones.
The singing is really just shouting, and the lyrics are kid stuff: “You’re my top special, baby/Top! ” But the total effect is elementary, irresistible ecstasy.
I saw a review of our new album, and it said, “Every single component of the White Stripes is a gigantic lie.” What does that mean?
Have I sat down and said I was born in Mississippi? Did I say I grew up on a plantation and learned how to play guitar from a blind man? It’s funny that people think me and Meg sit up late at night, in front of a gas lamp, and come up with these intricate lies to trick people.
is also their boldest record, combining the Stripes’ whiplash rock and Jack’s passion for vintage blues and country music with a gothic-roadhouse tension scored with grand piano and marimba.