Confessions of a Jack White junkie, part 11: Aural first aid at Madison Square Garden. That's A-U-R-A-L

Yes!! I found the one cab driver in all of Manhattan who doesn't know how to get to LaGuardia! And who asked me not which airline I was flying out from, but which terminal, as if I'd know. And who then, after not being sure he'd taken the correct exit to the airport, told me when we finally got there that he needed me to read the signs to figure out which terminal American was at because "we need to work together, help each other". And who turned to me when we pulled up at the terminal and said "We went through a toll. Did you pay it?" And who then said, after I'd swiped my credit card, "You added the toll, but there's no tip on this".  

Uh huh. I'd woken up with no voice, not even a hoarse one, so arguing with the cabbie on the way to the airport was great fun. Why did I have no voice, do you ask? Well, because I was sick. Why was I sick? Well, because I'd spent so many days this week outside in the cold and wind (and some brief snow flurries), wrapped up in blankets on a sidewalk waiting to get on the rail at Jack White shows, to get my inner junkie her fix. Last night's was an arguably historic show at the historic Madison Square Garden and it went a long way towards eradicating all memory of those hours of shivering. If only I could eradicate the coughing and sniffling.

Jack's had a tempestuous relationship with New York. On the Blunderbuss tour alone, he played five tremendous shows, but the one most people talk about is the one that he pulled the curtain on after playing only an hour. I'm not going to go into detail about that show because you can still find all the articles about it on the internet, though I will say that I'm convinced I will go down in history as the only person who was glad he cut it short because I was as pissed off at the crowd that night as he was. So, after hearing that there would be no shows in NY this tour, presumably because he was still pissed, the announcement of the MSG show was a huge surprise. If he had to go to NY, he was apparently going to cram as many people into one show as he could, and no damned seated theater would do. As he told Jordan Klepper, Madison Square Garden has an energy that seated theaters in NY just don't have, no matter how renowned.




For this show, Jack swung to the opposite gamut from Nashville two days ago, where he'd celebrated the music of that town with openers William Tyler and Loretta Lynn.  To celebrate playing at the Garden in one of the hometowns of hip-hop, he enlisted rappers Run the Jewels to open.  Not my cup of tea, though I will give them (and featured guest Zack de la Rocha, that was exciting) credit for working their asses off to get the crowd fired up.  

When it was his turn, Jack exploded like gangbusters with Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground. Within a few songs, I realized with a bit of surprise that he was repeating the same exact set he'd played in Nashville.  The energy was off the charts, though, so at the time it was just something curious and I didn't give a damn. And from the moment that he dropped Broken Boy Soldier (one of my favorite live songs) into the middle of Cannon, he began to break things up a little bit and I became so caught up that I stopped thinking about comparisons.  


 
Except that it continued to remain very similar, though wildly different at the same time. After an insane Ball'n'Biscuit that almost led to toppled monitors at one end of the stage, the curtains swung shut for the encore break.  



Then once again, just like at Nashville, Jack had a surprise in store for us.  After blowing my little mind by beginning the second set with That Black Bat Licorice (my other favorite live song), he suddenly introduced a special guest-- But instead of someone iconic like Loretta joining him on stage, out came former Tribe Called Quest member, Q-Tip, rapping out the tongue-twisting lyrics of Black Bat alongside Jack.  Jack was obviously on cloud 9 as he, his band, and Q-Tip then launched into a cover of Excursions, bouncing around with a huge grin on his face. I didn't know the song, but it was fascinating to watch how he and the band handled a hip-hop tune being sung by the original artist, to notice when and how Jack chose to add flourishes of guitar.  
 

 
Another angle just for the hell of it--
 

I couldn't see what was happening behind me, but from watching Jack it was obvious that the huge crowd filling the sold out Garden was giving him exactly what he wanted and needed, what he'd not felt he'd gotten at Radio City two and a half years before.  He kept up a hyperventilation-inducing pace for the next few songs, leading directly into Sixteen Saltines, Astro, and Steady As She Goes.  God or whatever's above, bless him for finally giving us a break in the form of Would You Fight For My Love. 
 

 
A couple songs later, the Kay came out and it was time to see how New York would perform on Seven Nation Army. If anyone were to need an indication of how heady a night this was for Jack, what happened during this song is the example I'd give them.  He chose a spot 8 or so people down the rail from me to climb over into the crowd.  It crossed the junkie's mind for one brief moment to try to squeeze through the crowd to get closer, but it was over too quickly, I wouldn't have made it in time. And as it was, I was in a great vantage spot to see him hovering in the air over the fans below him, gazing back toward the far reaches of the arena. For those few seconds that he was on top of the crowd, Jack White was on top of the world.

Photo courtesy of Babette Ross and permission to use is very much appreciated.
She must've been only a couple rows behind where I was standing.

Photo by David James Swanson

  Go to about 2:40 for that moment--


Another angle, with his launch into the crowd at 4:30 in--


I can only begin to imagine the incredible high he must have felt, the combination of adrenalin, adoration, and pure energy.  It surely must've been at least as intense a high for him as he gives to us, and I was thrilled for him, and thrilled for myself that I was able to be a part of it.  Cold sidewalk?  For a show as exhilarating as this one, I'd spend every night on a cold sidewalk. 

During Top Yourself, just before the encore break, Jack had asked the crowd how we were doing and let us know that if we needed, he had an aural first aid kit up on stage, spelling out A-U-R-A-L, and saying he hoped it made us feel good when we needed it. Needless to say, I already knew about it, though I consider it a drug rather than first aid and it was why the junkie and I were there in the first place. It has definitely cured many of my ills on many occasions (except for the coughing and sniffling on the way to the airport the next morning, of course).

Could this be the rare show at which Jack might admit he was having... fun?  Watch some of those videos up there and tell me that's not someone having a ball, having a blast, having the time of their life. Jack may have a different definition of the word "fun" than the average person, but there was too much exuberance on that stage, too much joy, for that word to not spring to mind.  

Photo by David James Swanson

And, thanks to the magic of the interwebs, you can listen to the entire Madison Square Garden show here.  The junkie was off to Ohio after that lovely cab ride to the airport.  Here's where she's been.

Jack White's Ego, live and in person

Whatever assumptions you've made about this post based on the title, just go ahead and discard 'em now.  This will be a bit of a ramble, so please bear with me...

I saw Jack White last week. For those of you who don't know, the Raconteurs have reformed for a scant half-dozen shows this fall.  I bought tickets for two shows immediately when they went on sale, then agonized and changed my mind and agonized some more before dropping a silly amount of money on eBay for a ticket to a third-- at Jack's 'house', Third Man Records.  There was just no passing up the opportunity to see this band, one that I wasn't sure I'd ever see, at that location.  The place is too special. 

So last Wednesday I hopped a plane to Nashville and, upon arrival, headed straight downtown to line up outside TMR with a bunch of fellow fans. My timing turned out to be perfect, as I was close enough to the front of the line to end up at the edge of the stage in the same spot I had for each of the Dead Weather shows I saw last year-- right next to Jack's pedal board.  So close, in fact, that I had paranoid visions of knocking a cable loose and creating technical difficulties for him.  This didn't come to pass, fortunately, and paranoia ended up eclipsed by bliss.  

Here's where you need to begin bearing with me as I ramble--  Of the famed trio of bands in which Jack's been involved, I have to say that the White Stripes are far and away my favorite.  That's due in large part to the immensity of their catalog compared to the other two, but also to the mesmerizing interaction between Jack and Meg.  But my chance to see the Stripes live was lost before I ever had it and has to be fulfilled through a blessed bounty of recorded performances.  The third of the tripartite, the Dead Weather, was my introduction to Jack live, with four shows spread over the spring and summer of last year.  Each show was an incredible kick of adrenaline, but that rush was somewhat tempered by the fact that Jack was not the frontperson of the band.  So that left the Racs as the band that I've felt a compelling urge to experience, in order to see him up front, at a mic, with a guitar, for the duration of a show.  Imagine my thrill when this fall's shows were announced.

But there's another thing about the Raconteurs. It struck me at some point last year, while I was immersing myself in and digesting Jack's catalog, that this triad of bands is very loosely reflective of Sigmund Freud's concept of the Id, Ego, and Superego... 

The White Stripes may have been portrayed with a child-like element, but there was nothing childish about the way Jack approached the band.  Articles and interviews during the ten years they performed are full of references to the "box" he constrained himself within when writing their music, to his and Meg's intense work ethic, even to their apparent lack of typical rock star partying.  It was a rarity to read a cuss word in any of Jack's interviews during that time (though he'd loosened up quite a bit in that regard by their final year of touring, as evidenced in the Under Great White Northern Lights documentary).  He was a gentlemanly "brother" to Meg, his demure "sister".  Despite the inner complexities depicted in Jack's lyrics, they were characterized as just about the most clean-living, well-mannered, moral rock band conceivable.  They were, in many ways, Jack's Superego, "persuading [his] ego to turn to moralistic goals rather than simply realistic ones, and to strive for perfection". 

Id, on the other hand, "operates on the Pleasure Principle, which is the idea that every wishful impulse should be satisfied immediately, regardless of the consequences".  Listening to even a handful of their songs makes it quite obvious that this was the driving element of the Dead Weather's music.  Whether it was Alison Mosshart's influence or something that she and Jack brought out in each other, I've no idea.  But he took on a sometimes almost frighteningly dark persona in that band, which manifested itself not only in the music but also, towards the end of last year's tour, in his behavior on stage.  

Which leaves us with the Raconteurs and Jack's Ego.  Freud's use of that word was very different from the definition most people apply to it.  In his concept of the psyche, "Ego controls higher mental processes such as reasoning and problem-solving, which it uses to solve the Id-Superego dilemma, creatively finding ways to safely satisfy the Id's basic urges within the constraints of the Superego".  The Raconteurs strike me as Jack's balancing act between the Superego of the White Stripes and the Id of the Dead Weather.  While Freud's concept is much more complex, when taken on a simplistic level, it's not a stretch to see this band as the one in which the tensions of the other two are resolved and Jack becomes grounded and, dare I say it, even relaxed.  The interaction with Brendan Benson, Jack Lawrence, and Patrick Keeler, combined with the quiet skill of Brendan's songwriting contribution, seems to create a musical equilibrium Jack's not had in either of the other bands.  This is what was apparent to me at the two shows I attended last week.

The tone of the TMR show began with the opening act, Pokey LaFarge and the South City Three, four of the most authentic roots musicians and charmingly goofy showmen you could ever hope to see.  They had us singing and smiling by the end of the first song, which was the perfect state in which to experience the Raconteurs when they hit the stage and began to blow us away (which I unfortunately can't share with you, as video and photography are not allowed in the Third Man venue).  The Racs have been described as four friends who got together to make music, and it was so obvious all night long that that's still what they are. And to be making music on Jack's own stage had to leave them feeling as giddy as it did all of us in the audience.  While the setlist was short because the show was being recorded (to be pressed to vinyl for some as-yet-unspecified future release), it was augmented during the reel changes by Jack and Brendan telling stories of when they first met.  The smiles up on that stage were almost non-stop, and the band's performance was both loose and intensely electric.  

Three days later, I followed the Racs to Michigan for the inaugural MI-Fest.  I'm not a fan of festivals.  There are just too many people making it that much more difficult to get to the front of the stage.  But this was originally announced as the only show the Raconteurs were going to play, so I jumped to get a ticket and make arrangements to fly to Michigan.  I won't go into the chaos created by the promoters leading up to the event because, for my intents, everything worked out just fine.  The location was beautiful, the weather was gorgeous, the people I hung out with throughout the day were great fun, and, yet again, I ended up in almost exactly my favored spot at the front of the stage-- granted the stage was over six feet from the ground and the pit between it and the barrier was at least ten feet, but I still had as good a view as I could have hoped for.  And the band was worth every one of the eight hours (ten, for some folks) my compatriots and I spent waiting for them.  What this show lacked in the intimacy provided at Third Man was made up for by the extended setlist that included songs I'd sorely missed hearing on Wednesday night.  But you don't have to take my word for it.  There were a lot of phones and cameras in the audience that night, for which I will be forever grateful (one person, in particular, filmed some wonderfully high quality footage).  My own personal favorite songs of the night--

Top Yourself--


Level--


Broken Boy Soldier. Note the dangling guitar string, which apparently broke just as Jack began the song--


Steady As She Goes--


Blue Veins. Listen for the note Jack holds at the end of "don't mean nothin'..." I've not heard him do anything like that in any show or live recording I've listened to, and it made my hair stand on end--


And, finally, Carolina Drama. It's not complete and you need to keep the sound low due to distortion. But, man, it sure looks good--



These two shows fulfilled every expectation I had for this band. They were energetic and powerful and, most of all, full of an extraordinary joyfulness.  Just writing about them has put a huge grin on my face.  And the best part is that I've got a ticket to see the Racs again in Atlanta in November, their final show until who knows when.  At that point, I'll have completed a trio of shows for the band that is, in so many ways, the most glorious of Jack's triad.  His Ego's a beautiful thing.


More reviews --

Live Review: The Raconteurs at Nashville’s Third Man Records, Consequence of Sound

The Inaugural MI Fest, krewechief's Live Music Blog

Raconteurs End Three-Year Hiatus at MI Fest, Spin Magazine



  

Broken and low

Saw an interesting film this evening up at the old Shepherdstown Opera House--  Get Low, with the always witty Bill Murray, and Robert Duvall at his curmudgeonly best playing a backwoods hermit named Felix Bush.  After 40 years of isolation, Felix determines that it's time to "get low" and sets out to arrange his own funeral, but with a twist.  Assisted by the town funeral home director (Murray), he plans a pre-death shindig to which he invites everyone within four counties who has a story, real or gossip-fueled, to tell about him.  As it turns out, though, the story to be told is his own-- the explanation for his self-exile.  There are some laugh out loud moments (with Murray and Duvall, how could there not be), yet in the end the film left me shaken.  I managed to hold back the tears until I got into the car, but they flowed freely as I drove out of Shep'town and into the moonlit backroads of West Va.

The thing that got to me was that I saw myself in Felix, though my story has none of the drama of his.  And, obviously, I'm nowhere near as isolated in location-- I live in the midst of the suburbs, go to work in a major metropolitan city, and get out every chance I can to do my favorite things in my favorite places.  Yet, in many ways, I'm as imprisoned as Felix.  Life has become a perpetual loop of solitude and routine. 

Since reaching adulthood, I've spent more years alone than I have in relationships, and friendships have been just as sparse.  Much as I've tried to dismantle it in recent years, there's some sort of wall between me and the rest of society that I just can't overcome.  I feel like I'm in the world, but not a part of it. Everyone-- family, friends, and acquaintances alike-- is held at arm's length for some reason I can't make out.

What I don't understand about this is that I'm not a complete misfit.  Introverted, yes, but I do have the ability to connect with people.  I just can't seem to deepen and sustain those connections.  I can connect with faraway people via the internet in the blink of an eye but, like every physical friendship I've ever had, those connections end up fading as my interests change and I migrate to other areas of the web.  Even now, I'm in a transitional phase in which I can feel certain connections seeming to dissolve as I develop new ones relating to newer obsessions.  I've lived in the same area my entire life, but when it comes to people I'm decidedly nomadic.  Why?

Most of the time this doesn't bother me.  I've written before about how often I'm more content by myself.  But then something like this movie will come along and hit me in the gut and get me wondering--  what the hell is wrong with me?  Why is it so hard to find people within close proximity with whom I can connect, and why can't I make it last when I do?  Am I broken in some way?  In moments like this, I'm just so fucking tired of being alone.

Coupled with this is a frustrating inability to decide what the hell to do with my life.  The routine is to go to work at a job that I'm thankful to have but that's shrinking my brain, come home and explore the web, then spend days off out and about doing familiar things in familiar places because they bring me comfort from the increasing stagnation.  Of course it's entirely possible to break out of this--  Go back to school, challenge myself in a new line of work, move to a new area... if I could just make up my damned mind as to what, where, and how.  I've lots of interests but no single overriding passion to compel me in a new direction.  And, at my age, dramatic life changes are challenging enough even when you have a plan and course of action.  The result is that I remain flummoxed and stuck in this prison of my own making.  So I turn to the internet and whine, whine, whine...

I've no idea what this song has to do with any of the drivel I've babbled here, aside from the fact that I set it on repeat and listened to it over and over and over on the drive home through the dark from West Va.  Somehow, it seemed to fit the mood--