The new album, Boarding House Reach, isn't even out yet and Jack White's fans are already dividing into factions over the first three songs. Corporation was released at midnight this past Thursday and by the time I listened to it over breakfast, opinions ranged from loving it, to calling it garbage, to genuine concern over what in the hell direction his music is headed in and has he forsaken everything he used to stand for? Personally, it's the first of the three songs I can say I almost unequivocally enjoy. The lyrics are a ways away from profound, but they've definitely got me wondering and that's a good thing.
As for the music... It's funky fresh and makes me grin from ear to ear.
Yeah, it's damned different from anything he's done before. We're waaaay far from both the Delta and the garage here, folks. But is it really a surprise? If you look at his progression over the course of his career and the music and musicians he's talked about over the last five years, this actually starts to feel like a fairly natural direction for him to turn. His last two albums seemed to reflect his immersion in Nashville, with an abundance of fiddle and pedal steel creating a distinct country flavor. But he was also playing with a hip-hop drummer (Daru Jones) and a keyboard player who had strong experimental, progressive, and psychedelic leanings (Ikey Owens, may he rest in peace). The two of them had to have had an influence on him, even if it didn't come out noticeably on Blunderbuss or Lazaretto.
And then there was Three Dollar Hat on the last Dead Weather album, Dodge and Burn, in 2015.
In 2016 came Don't Hurt Yourself, on Beyonce's album Lemonade...
...and the songs he co-wrote/contributed to on A Tribe Called Quest's final album, We Got It From Here-- Solid Wall of Sound and Ego (neither of which seem to be on YouTube, all I could find was a preview snippet of Ego).
Not to mention his take on Curtis Mayfield's Pusherman in one of the hidden tracks on Lazaretto--
So to hear him go full-on funk in Corporation might be a surprise to many, but it should not be completely unexpected. That's not to say everyone has to love it, of course. Though I think I might. Because it makes me really, really want to hear him cover this now--
Play that funky music, White boy. Play that funky music till you die.
Showing posts with label Dead Weather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dead Weather. Show all posts
January 27, 2018
September 19, 2011
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
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
February 7, 2011
Three bands, three songs, one strange bird
In a blurb in the December 2010 issue of Vanity Fair, Jack White was asked whether he prefers playing guitar or drums. He replied, "The guitar is a strange bird for me. I never really had a desire to be a guitar player-- it just fell on me. The drums would be an actual passion of my life." Fans the world over probably sat frowning and scratching their heads over that one. The man plays as if the guitar is both a natural extension of himself and at the same time some alien creature that he's dead set on beating into submission.
In each of his three bands (the three that most people know about, I mean), there's been one song that became a showcase for his bizarrely contradictory relationship with the guitar. One song played at pretty much every show, during which he seemed to turn himself inside out and wrench forth a part of his soul. All three are impressive enough in their studio versions, but became something definitive when performed live.
In the White Stripes, that song was Death Letter. The choice is fairly obvious-- originally performed by Son House, this is what the Stripes were all about. Jack has stated that everything about the band, from their child-like demeanor to the color scheme, all of the "gimmicks", were intended as a distraction from the fact that they were two white kids from Detroit playing the blues. In some of the best performances of this song, Jack would segue into House's Grinnin' In Your Face or Blind Willie Johnson's Motherless Children at the end of his solo, but this version from the 2005 Glastonbury Festival contains no extras. It doesn't need them.
Much has been made of the scene in the film It Might Get Loud in which Jack smears blood all over his guitar during the solo of the Raconteurs song, Blue Veins. It's certainly amazing to think he'd be so possessed as to keep shredding after slicing open a finger. My own personal favorite performance of this song is one in which he's so overcome that he stops playing and stands transfixed at the mic for an entire, electric minute. But the performance that most people would direct you to, the one so intense that Jack demolishes his guitar, a monitor, three mics, and then stalks off the stage a jittery mess, is the one from the 2008 Bonnaroo Festival.
Though he went back to the drums for the Dead Weather, any fan will tell you that the highlight of that band's shows was the moment each night when he stepped out from behind the kit to play guitar on Will There Be Enough Water. The song is sparse lyrically but gives Jack multiple opportunities to open up on the guitar. Even on one occasion when he was seemingly trashed to the point of needing to lean against a speaker stack for support, he was still able to rip incredible sounds from his guitar. But just about the best performance of this song I've found is one that I was fortunate enough to witness, at the 9:30 Club in DC in 2010. (Recorded in two parts, be sure to watch both.)
With the Stripes finally officially ended, and his band-mates from both the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather off playing with their original outfits, there's a lot of speculation currently amongst fans about what Jack will do this year. The one thing that every single one of us seems to agree on is that we desperately hope he'll continue his weird relationship with the guitar, that thing he's apparently never had a passion for yet plays so damned passionately.
Edit 9/29/2011: Here's another take on this theme-- The Many Shades of Jack White from Gilles LeBlanc at ROCKthusiast.
In each of his three bands (the three that most people know about, I mean), there's been one song that became a showcase for his bizarrely contradictory relationship with the guitar. One song played at pretty much every show, during which he seemed to turn himself inside out and wrench forth a part of his soul. All three are impressive enough in their studio versions, but became something definitive when performed live.
In the White Stripes, that song was Death Letter. The choice is fairly obvious-- originally performed by Son House, this is what the Stripes were all about. Jack has stated that everything about the band, from their child-like demeanor to the color scheme, all of the "gimmicks", were intended as a distraction from the fact that they were two white kids from Detroit playing the blues. In some of the best performances of this song, Jack would segue into House's Grinnin' In Your Face or Blind Willie Johnson's Motherless Children at the end of his solo, but this version from the 2005 Glastonbury Festival contains no extras. It doesn't need them.
Much has been made of the scene in the film It Might Get Loud in which Jack smears blood all over his guitar during the solo of the Raconteurs song, Blue Veins. It's certainly amazing to think he'd be so possessed as to keep shredding after slicing open a finger. My own personal favorite performance of this song is one in which he's so overcome that he stops playing and stands transfixed at the mic for an entire, electric minute. But the performance that most people would direct you to, the one so intense that Jack demolishes his guitar, a monitor, three mics, and then stalks off the stage a jittery mess, is the one from the 2008 Bonnaroo Festival.
Though he went back to the drums for the Dead Weather, any fan will tell you that the highlight of that band's shows was the moment each night when he stepped out from behind the kit to play guitar on Will There Be Enough Water. The song is sparse lyrically but gives Jack multiple opportunities to open up on the guitar. Even on one occasion when he was seemingly trashed to the point of needing to lean against a speaker stack for support, he was still able to rip incredible sounds from his guitar. But just about the best performance of this song I've found is one that I was fortunate enough to witness, at the 9:30 Club in DC in 2010. (Recorded in two parts, be sure to watch both.)
With the Stripes finally officially ended, and his band-mates from both the Raconteurs and the Dead Weather off playing with their original outfits, there's a lot of speculation currently amongst fans about what Jack will do this year. The one thing that every single one of us seems to agree on is that we desperately hope he'll continue his weird relationship with the guitar, that thing he's apparently never had a passion for yet plays so damned passionately.
Edit 9/29/2011: Here's another take on this theme-- The Many Shades of Jack White from Gilles LeBlanc at ROCKthusiast.
September 8, 2010
Back to Tennessee, Day 2
Began the day in Mississippi by rolling up the legs of my jeans and walking barefoot through the wet grass from my Cadillac Shack (pictured below) to Lyle's Tinth Shack.
Our plan was to visit the Delta Blues Museum in downtown Clarksdale and eat tamales at Hick's, then head back up to Memphis to check into our hotel there and hopefully collect Lyle's wayfaring luggage. Accordingly, we piled into the Pony, which Lyle christened "Lucifer" after the pony in Bob Dylan's song as covered by The Dead Weather (we certainly had no plans to shoot our Pony).
Clarksdale's a fairly bleak place, with a history as rich as the local Delta soil but way too many empty store fronts to make it a truly going concern. Even Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club has apparently failed to make it the successful destination that it could, and perhaps should, be. It's still a necessary visit for anyone looking to understand the blues. The Delta Blues Museum is basically one room in the old train depot, filled with photos, instruments, costumes, and information about the musicians that put this place on the map. The largest exhibit focuses on Muddy Waters and includes a portion of the shack where he was living when discovered by John and Alan Lomax.
We wandered from there to Cat Head, Inc, then over to the town cemetery which is unlike any other I've visited. I've seen a lot of cemeteries in my time, but never one quite so stark. It's obviously maintained, but only at a bare minimum. The crabgrass is mowed, but the dry mowings are left piled at the base of the headstones. And there are no other plantings aside from decades-old trees. Many family plots are completely bare dirt, not even graced with crabgrass. A favorite motif was apparently what I call the "bathtub" style of grave marker, in which the area above the casket is marked with a marble rim that would have been filled with flowering plants and greenery. The sight of so many of these markers in one place indicates that the Clarksdale cemetery must have been beautiful at one time, very different from the poor place it is now.
Lyle and I decided that we weren't yet getting a good feel for the blues, so we climbed into Lucifer and headed for Tutwiler, which is where W.C. Handy supposedly heard the first true blues but which is now more known for the nearby prison (and traditional quilts made by local women). This is no surprise. A bunch of small homes and an empty downtown in the middle of vast, flat cotton fields, Tutwiler appears even more rundown and decrepit than Clarksdale.
At the time, I think we were too busy looking and talking and taking photos to be able to sink into the moment and feel what was around us. Thinking back as I write this, though, it's clear that we were surrounded by the atmosphere that birthed the blues. It's easy now to imagine W.C. Handy in that lonesome train station all those years ago, waking up to the sound of that unidentified musician with his knife sliding on the frets of his guitar and his song of "goin' where the Southern meets the Dog".
Back up in Memphis, Lyle was finally reunited with her luggage. We cleaned up a bit and drove down to Beale Street, where we ate ribs and more tamales, then wandered down the block and listened to local street musicians including Big Jerry, from whom Lyle had to buy a cd before he broke her heart (go to that link and buy some of his music, he's good).
Afterward, I re-lived the experiences of my April trip by dragging Lyle past Minglewood Hall (where I first experienced The Dead Weather), C.K.'s 24-hour coffeehouse, and the cemetery behind the Piggly-Wiggly. Settling into bed in the Sleep Inn later on, I found myself missing the less homogeneous but much more comfortable Cadillac Shack out in the middle of those dark cotton fields in the Delta.
Full album of photos here.
Our plan was to visit the Delta Blues Museum in downtown Clarksdale and eat tamales at Hick's, then head back up to Memphis to check into our hotel there and hopefully collect Lyle's wayfaring luggage. Accordingly, we piled into the Pony, which Lyle christened "Lucifer" after the pony in Bob Dylan's song as covered by The Dead Weather (we certainly had no plans to shoot our Pony).
I had a pony, her name was Lucifer
I had a pony, her name was Lucifer
She broke her leg and she needed shooting
I swear it hurt me more than it hurted her
Sometimes I wonder what's going on with Miss X
Sometimes I wonder what's going on with Miss X
She got such a sweet disposition
I never know what the poor girl's gonna do to me next
Everybody say you're usin' voodoo, your feet walk by themselves
Everybody say you're usin' voodoo, I seen your feet walk by themselves
Oh, baby, that god you're prayin' to
Is gonna give ya back what you're wishin' on someone else
Come over here pony, I wanna climb up one time on you
Come over here pony, I wanna climb up one time on you
Well, you're so nasty and you're so bad
But I love you, yes I do
Clarksdale's a fairly bleak place, with a history as rich as the local Delta soil but way too many empty store fronts to make it a truly going concern. Even Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club has apparently failed to make it the successful destination that it could, and perhaps should, be. It's still a necessary visit for anyone looking to understand the blues. The Delta Blues Museum is basically one room in the old train depot, filled with photos, instruments, costumes, and information about the musicians that put this place on the map. The largest exhibit focuses on Muddy Waters and includes a portion of the shack where he was living when discovered by John and Alan Lomax.
We wandered from there to Cat Head, Inc, then over to the town cemetery which is unlike any other I've visited. I've seen a lot of cemeteries in my time, but never one quite so stark. It's obviously maintained, but only at a bare minimum. The crabgrass is mowed, but the dry mowings are left piled at the base of the headstones. And there are no other plantings aside from decades-old trees. Many family plots are completely bare dirt, not even graced with crabgrass. A favorite motif was apparently what I call the "bathtub" style of grave marker, in which the area above the casket is marked with a marble rim that would have been filled with flowering plants and greenery. The sight of so many of these markers in one place indicates that the Clarksdale cemetery must have been beautiful at one time, very different from the poor place it is now.
Lyle and I decided that we weren't yet getting a good feel for the blues, so we climbed into Lucifer and headed for Tutwiler, which is where W.C. Handy supposedly heard the first true blues but which is now more known for the nearby prison (and traditional quilts made by local women). This is no surprise. A bunch of small homes and an empty downtown in the middle of vast, flat cotton fields, Tutwiler appears even more rundown and decrepit than Clarksdale.
At the time, I think we were too busy looking and talking and taking photos to be able to sink into the moment and feel what was around us. Thinking back as I write this, though, it's clear that we were surrounded by the atmosphere that birthed the blues. It's easy now to imagine W.C. Handy in that lonesome train station all those years ago, waking up to the sound of that unidentified musician with his knife sliding on the frets of his guitar and his song of "goin' where the Southern meets the Dog".
Back up in Memphis, Lyle was finally reunited with her luggage. We cleaned up a bit and drove down to Beale Street, where we ate ribs and more tamales, then wandered down the block and listened to local street musicians including Big Jerry, from whom Lyle had to buy a cd before he broke her heart (go to that link and buy some of his music, he's good).
Afterward, I re-lived the experiences of my April trip by dragging Lyle past Minglewood Hall (where I first experienced The Dead Weather), C.K.'s 24-hour coffeehouse, and the cemetery behind the Piggly-Wiggly. Settling into bed in the Sleep Inn later on, I found myself missing the less homogeneous but much more comfortable Cadillac Shack out in the middle of those dark cotton fields in the Delta.
Full album of photos here.
August 27, 2010
Random babblings: Tasting the water
A week or so ago, I began a thread at a message board about the recent devastating floods in Pakistan (nothing gets my attention like a flood, it seems). The first person to respond was of a sort that I've found at every message board I've frequented-- Of a philosophical bent, focusing on abstract elements of situations of this sort, rather than the human element. Seemingly more intellectual than empathetic. So instead of a conversation about what the people in Pakistan are dealing with and how they can be helped, the thread veered immediately into a discussion on the place of evil in the world. The idea that got the ball rolling was this: "Evil and misfortune exists in order to bring about opportunities for us to express compassion......otherwise, life would be meaningless." Other folks immediately threw down the bullshit flag and the debate was on.
I allowed that this person had made a valid point. I've read this idea over and over in my exploration of philosophy and religion. But I think I responded too quickly because I don't really agree with that. There's certainly the possibility that this is the case, that we need the contrast of misfortune in order to fully appreciate good and beautiful things in our lives and to spur altruism and compassion. But do they really exist for this purpose? That smacks of a grand design, and that's something I'm definitely not sure I believe in. Later on in the same thread, I went back and pointed out that perhaps this idea is just a coping mechanism for people who can't accept that there isn't always a reason for why things happen. As I put it then, nature and the world are indifferent to all of our theories about them, yet still we feel compelled to quantify them for our own comfort. We assign concepts such as 'good' and 'evil' to occurrences like sunshine and floods, as if these things happen for us, and not merely around us.
And then a couple of days later, NPR posted an article about a new "Gradations of Evil" scale created by Columbia University professor, Michael Stone, and my thoughts shifted to human, as opposed to natural, evil. As a forensic psychologist, I suppose it makes sense that Stone would focus on murderers but, really, that makes the title of his scale misleading, implying as it does that evil only takes extreme forms. Of course those are the most obvious, and the majority of us would probably immediately summon up the likes of Adolf Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer if asked to name an epitome of evil. But is its extent really encapsulated only within the spectrum of violence and cruelty?
I can't recall now where I read it (within a book by the Dalai Lama, perhaps, or Brad Warner...?) or even if I'm remembering it correctly, but the idea is stuck in my head: something about "evil" being defined as a lack of awareness, an obliviousness, or even a callousness, to how our actions affect others. That would be pretty all-encompassing, making Stone's scale frighteningly inadequate. Anything from a careless insult or a disrespectful lie all the way through the most psychotic torture would fall within the scope of such a definition.
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them...
- Jack Keruoac
But surely there is a difference between simple self-centeredness and the outrageous compulsions of a psychopath. Can we accept that it's a matter of degree? The question to consider may be-- just how far removed are we, really, from psychosis? Is there a level of socio-pathology to the simplest act of manipulation or dishonesty? Or are these merely acts grounded in ignorance?
In Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty, Roy Baumeister begins with an anecdote about a woman rushing to get a snack in an airport before boarding her flight. She grabs a package of chips and a drink and sits down next to a man reading a newspaper. As she reaches into the package, pulls out a chip, then eats it, she notices that the man is suddenly staring at her menacingly. To her shock, he reaches down and helps himself to one of her chips. Her first impulse is one of fear, but instead she remains seated and continues to eat her chips and drink her soda. As she does, the man continues to wordlessly reach into the bag and help himself to chips as well, staring at her the entire time. Her nervousness accumulates, she becomes more and more sure that he's some weird psycho. Finally, her flight is called to board and, heart pounding, she gets up and walks toward the gate. As she reaches into her purse to pull out her ticket, her hand closes on the bag of chips she had bought and then forgot that she'd put away. She'd been helping herself to his food. So who was the psycho? As Baumeister puts it, sometimes evil is in the eye of the beholder.
A more zealous example can be seen in the recent case of an Iranian woman accused of adultery. Puritan New Englander's in the early days of the United States would have slapped a big red A on her chest and ostracized her. The judicial court in Iran has instead sentenced her to death by stoning, which consists of her being buried from the shoulders down and pelted with rocks. Imagine how long this would take and how it would feel, imagine waiting for death in such a position. And yet the Iranian court has determined that her unproven act of infidelity is evil enough to warrant such an execution. Who is the criminal in this case?
How far along the evil scale could any of us go? How many of us have ever really considered such a question? I proposed the idea once on another message board somewhere-- If you found yourself in a situation in which there would be no reprisals, none, at all... could you kill another human being? The answers didn't surprise me. A certain number of people responded with emphatic no's, under no circumstances could or would they take the life of another person. And then there were those who said a gung ho yes!, but with an obliviously conditional "if" that included the defense of self, loved ones, or country. I don't recall that a single person replied that they might possibly kill out of a condition such as rage or even, like Raskolnikov in Dostoevky's Crime and Punishment, out of a bizarre curiosity to know whether they could.
I find it hard to believe that I'm alone in that latter category. No, beyond that, I refuse to believe that a large percentage of us don't have that possibility lurking in our nature. The vast majority of people seem to not want to look at that part of themselves, to dig that deeply. But wouldn't this explain the popularity of a television show like Dexter? There's certainly a level of unconscious projection going on in our admiration of a character who looks and acts just like any one of us, but who then lives out the fantasies we don't even know we have... or won't admit that we have.
And what about a film like Seven? If ever there was a perfect exploration of this subject, that would be it. The triad of characters in that film sums up much of what I've babbled about here-- Where on Stone's Gradations of Evil scale would Mills and Doe each fall? Mills, who wants so badly to be good but whose passions control him, and Doe, whose seeming passivity belies intense hatred. Somerset is then balanced against them both to represent those among us who recognize the existence of this part of our natures. By doing so, by accepting that this shadow is part of who we are, he alone is able to control it. (Spoiler alert for that link, for those of you who haven't seen the film)
What does it take to uncover that part of us? Does it require a level of insanity to step over that line? And wouldn't it be wise to know whether it's there, so that we can take steps to moderate it? After all, is it the impulse that's evil, or the acting upon it? Is it our passions, both conscious and unconscious, or our control of them that separates us from the examples on Stone's scale? Do the gradations end where he specified, or do they continue on until we have to squint to see them?
As is so often the case, I've got questions here but no answers...
I drank some dirty water
Shook evil hands
I've done some bad things
They get easier to do
Then I wrote a nasty letter
And I sent it to the Lord
I said don't you dare come
And bother me no more
I had a good friend
I could only destroy
And lovers I loved less
Than anybody could afford
Yes, but this old rocking horse
Just nods his head
And he's gonna rock back and forth
The way that he always did
Baby, don't you bother
Tasting the water
And baby, don't you bother
Coming closer to me
Can you see my eyes?
They're half the size
And I'm not able
To look at you
I allowed that this person had made a valid point. I've read this idea over and over in my exploration of philosophy and religion. But I think I responded too quickly because I don't really agree with that. There's certainly the possibility that this is the case, that we need the contrast of misfortune in order to fully appreciate good and beautiful things in our lives and to spur altruism and compassion. But do they really exist for this purpose? That smacks of a grand design, and that's something I'm definitely not sure I believe in. Later on in the same thread, I went back and pointed out that perhaps this idea is just a coping mechanism for people who can't accept that there isn't always a reason for why things happen. As I put it then, nature and the world are indifferent to all of our theories about them, yet still we feel compelled to quantify them for our own comfort. We assign concepts such as 'good' and 'evil' to occurrences like sunshine and floods, as if these things happen for us, and not merely around us.
And then a couple of days later, NPR posted an article about a new "Gradations of Evil" scale created by Columbia University professor, Michael Stone, and my thoughts shifted to human, as opposed to natural, evil. As a forensic psychologist, I suppose it makes sense that Stone would focus on murderers but, really, that makes the title of his scale misleading, implying as it does that evil only takes extreme forms. Of course those are the most obvious, and the majority of us would probably immediately summon up the likes of Adolf Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer if asked to name an epitome of evil. But is its extent really encapsulated only within the spectrum of violence and cruelty?
I can't recall now where I read it (within a book by the Dalai Lama, perhaps, or Brad Warner...?) or even if I'm remembering it correctly, but the idea is stuck in my head: something about "evil" being defined as a lack of awareness, an obliviousness, or even a callousness, to how our actions affect others. That would be pretty all-encompassing, making Stone's scale frighteningly inadequate. Anything from a careless insult or a disrespectful lie all the way through the most psychotic torture would fall within the scope of such a definition.
My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them...
- Jack Keruoac
But surely there is a difference between simple self-centeredness and the outrageous compulsions of a psychopath. Can we accept that it's a matter of degree? The question to consider may be-- just how far removed are we, really, from psychosis? Is there a level of socio-pathology to the simplest act of manipulation or dishonesty? Or are these merely acts grounded in ignorance?
In Evil: Inside Human Violence and Cruelty, Roy Baumeister begins with an anecdote about a woman rushing to get a snack in an airport before boarding her flight. She grabs a package of chips and a drink and sits down next to a man reading a newspaper. As she reaches into the package, pulls out a chip, then eats it, she notices that the man is suddenly staring at her menacingly. To her shock, he reaches down and helps himself to one of her chips. Her first impulse is one of fear, but instead she remains seated and continues to eat her chips and drink her soda. As she does, the man continues to wordlessly reach into the bag and help himself to chips as well, staring at her the entire time. Her nervousness accumulates, she becomes more and more sure that he's some weird psycho. Finally, her flight is called to board and, heart pounding, she gets up and walks toward the gate. As she reaches into her purse to pull out her ticket, her hand closes on the bag of chips she had bought and then forgot that she'd put away. She'd been helping herself to his food. So who was the psycho? As Baumeister puts it, sometimes evil is in the eye of the beholder.
A more zealous example can be seen in the recent case of an Iranian woman accused of adultery. Puritan New Englander's in the early days of the United States would have slapped a big red A on her chest and ostracized her. The judicial court in Iran has instead sentenced her to death by stoning, which consists of her being buried from the shoulders down and pelted with rocks. Imagine how long this would take and how it would feel, imagine waiting for death in such a position. And yet the Iranian court has determined that her unproven act of infidelity is evil enough to warrant such an execution. Who is the criminal in this case?
How far along the evil scale could any of us go? How many of us have ever really considered such a question? I proposed the idea once on another message board somewhere-- If you found yourself in a situation in which there would be no reprisals, none, at all... could you kill another human being? The answers didn't surprise me. A certain number of people responded with emphatic no's, under no circumstances could or would they take the life of another person. And then there were those who said a gung ho yes!, but with an obliviously conditional "if" that included the defense of self, loved ones, or country. I don't recall that a single person replied that they might possibly kill out of a condition such as rage or even, like Raskolnikov in Dostoevky's Crime and Punishment, out of a bizarre curiosity to know whether they could.
I find it hard to believe that I'm alone in that latter category. No, beyond that, I refuse to believe that a large percentage of us don't have that possibility lurking in our nature. The vast majority of people seem to not want to look at that part of themselves, to dig that deeply. But wouldn't this explain the popularity of a television show like Dexter? There's certainly a level of unconscious projection going on in our admiration of a character who looks and acts just like any one of us, but who then lives out the fantasies we don't even know we have... or won't admit that we have.
And what about a film like Seven? If ever there was a perfect exploration of this subject, that would be it. The triad of characters in that film sums up much of what I've babbled about here-- Where on Stone's Gradations of Evil scale would Mills and Doe each fall? Mills, who wants so badly to be good but whose passions control him, and Doe, whose seeming passivity belies intense hatred. Somerset is then balanced against them both to represent those among us who recognize the existence of this part of our natures. By doing so, by accepting that this shadow is part of who we are, he alone is able to control it. (Spoiler alert for that link, for those of you who haven't seen the film)
What does it take to uncover that part of us? Does it require a level of insanity to step over that line? And wouldn't it be wise to know whether it's there, so that we can take steps to moderate it? After all, is it the impulse that's evil, or the acting upon it? Is it our passions, both conscious and unconscious, or our control of them that separates us from the examples on Stone's scale? Do the gradations end where he specified, or do they continue on until we have to squint to see them?
As is so often the case, I've got questions here but no answers...
I drank some dirty water
Shook evil hands
I've done some bad things
They get easier to do
Then I wrote a nasty letter
And I sent it to the Lord
I said don't you dare come
And bother me no more
I had a good friend
I could only destroy
And lovers I loved less
Than anybody could afford
Yes, but this old rocking horse
Just nods his head
And he's gonna rock back and forth
The way that he always did
Baby, don't you bother
Tasting the water
And baby, don't you bother
Coming closer to me
Can you see my eyes?
They're half the size
And I'm not able
To look at you
July 14, 2010
The Dead Weather: A storm a-ragin' at the 9:30 Club
I didn't write in much detail about my first experiences with The Dead Weather earlier this year in Memphis and Nashville. The DW shows I've attended this year have also been my first experience with Jack White and seeing the man live on stage is, shall we say, more than slightly intense. Jack is a powerhouse performer, whether behind the drum kit, out front with a guitar, or even pacing the stage with nothing in hand but a microphone. The concentrated energy just radiates from him and infects the entire audience. Something about how that energy affected me tonight compels me to want to share the experience this time, which is entirely contrary to how I felt before. Third (!) time's the charm, I guess.
Thanks to the generosity of a fellow fan, I was spared from having to camp out in line all afternoon in order to get a good spot in front of the stage. The weather forecast all week had predicted a 60% chance of thunderstorms from afternoon through evening, which would have been miserable. Instead, the clouds broke somewhat and the day became brutally hot. I would've suffered it, not gladly but willingly, if a very cool dude from the White Stripes message board hadn't posted an offer to let someone be his 'plus one' if he managed to win the early entry lottery that's open to ten fan club members, plus guest, per show. This is the second time I've had an amazing DW experience as someone's 'plus one' and, for such a seemingly little thing, it goes a long way toward restoring my oft-bruised faith in humanity.
So instead of broiling under the humid sun, I was able to relax, get to the venue a few minutes before the doors opened, and then stroll in ahead of the crowd to claim my particularly chosen spot at the front, the same spot I had for the two previous shows in Tennessee, and the spot I will aim for again come August when the DW plays Baltimore-- on the right, just between Alison and LJ, with a mostly unobstructed view of Jack's drumkit. If you happen to attend a DW show that I'm at and decide to snatch that spot from me, just know that you do so at your peril. Not long after my early entry patron and I got settled up front and the rest of the crowd began making its way in, a young kid of 12 or so popped up behind us and announced that this was his second concert ever and his first time seeing Jack White. His dad had apparently forgotten one of their tickets and was waiting out front for Mom to deliver it, but sent the boy in ahead so he could get a good spot. Of course, we immediately squeezed him up to the rail and kept an eye on him throughout the evening. It turned out to be a ball hanging out with him before and during the show, seeing his excitement and discussing music in general and the DW in particular with someone whose perspective is so fresh and unjaded.
Harlem, the opening act, were three very cute young boys who acted very casually about their set but played fairly tightly and with great energy. They provided a fun warm up and had us all raring to go for the DW. And D.C. was more than ready-- the show sold out almost immediately when tickets went on sale two months before, and many people apparently remembered that the band had kicked off their 2009 tour on almost exactly the same day in the same venue. Everyone was expecting a hell of a show.
The band seemed to sense this as soon as they hit the stage. They tore through 60 Feet Tall, and both Alison and Jack broke into big grins over the crowd response at the end of the song. From there it was right into Hang You From the Heavens, with Jack twirling his drumsticks between cymbal smashes and the audience singing word for word along with Alison. Despite Jack's insistence in recent interviews that the band's begun playing without a setlist, they pretty much followed standard formula tonight, following HYFtH with (some of this is sure to be out of order, it all becomes a blur on the drive home)--
You Just Can't Win
So Far From Your Weapon
I Cut Like a Buffalo
No Horse
The Difference Between Us
I'm Mad
Gasoline
Rocking Horse
Rolling In On a Burning Tire
Gasoline
Hustle & Cuss
Die By the Drop
Will There Be Enough Water?
Encore
Blue Blood Blues
I Can't Hear You
Treat Me Like Your Mother
Much as I adore 2009 performances of the song, I was not terribly looking forward to You Just Can't Win. For some reason I can't begin to determine, Jack's vocals during their spring 2010 shows became unaccountably... histrionic. His voice was fine, but his delivery was terribly over-dramatized. Perhaps it was having a bit of a break before this tour, perhaps it was the obvious excitement of the audience, I don't know what it was, but he was spot on tonight, singing emotionally yet with a much more relaxed manner. And having a hell of a time, apparently-- smiling repeatedly, chatting to the crowd a few times between songs (which, unfortunately, I couldn't understand a word of due to the mic at his drumkit being way too damned low in the mix).
The absolute highlight of the show was, as is often the case, Will There Be Enough Water?. The slowest moment of any Dead Weather show, it's also the most intense (there's that word again) as Jack comes from out behind the drums to strap on his guitar and share a mic with Alison as they croon the spare lyrics of the song. The solo that he launched into tonight between the second and third verse was mind-blowing. The potential for this was the reason for my determination to get the spot I had on the rail. With his pedal board directly in front of me, I had a long handful of minutes to watch the man up close. So close, in fact, that it became difficult to figure out what to look at-- the expressions on his face as he lost himself in the music, his fret hand picking out chords, the other hand switching continuously from strumming to finger-picking to bending notes with the whammy bar, or his feet in those oh-so-cool white winkle-pickers tapping the various pedals on his board. And on top of all of that going on, I found myself being repeatedly drawn into eye-contact with the honkin' huge, gleaming silver, head of the Creature of the Black Lagoon belt buckle at his waist. The damned thing was staring right at me, winking as the stage lights hit it. No wonder my mind was blown.
This is very close to the view I had. The person who filmed these was about four people to my left, also on the rail.
In all seriousness, though, as fantastic as it is to listen to Jack play, it really is amazing to watch him. Especially for someone like me who's never had any interest in playing a guitar myself, to hear the sounds he creates and, at the same time, to see, ok, here he's finger-picking, here he's hitting the whammy, that's where he hits the pedal... It's just incredibly fascinating. I've always been drawn to guitar-driven music, but he's the first musician who's made me want to understand it.
Yes, this review is heavily Jack-centric. I make no apologies for that, he's the reason I was at the show. Alison, in the few moments that I watched her, was her usual dynamic self, belting out each song and mesmerizing the crowd with her gaze, including the kid at my side who's probably getting a hell of an early, somewhat subconscious, sex-ed through this band. I can think of worse women than Alison to inspire teenaged wet-dreams. At least he won't grow up expecting his women to be submissive. And, as before in Tennessee, I didn't give LJ or Dean the attention they deserved. I heard them both clearly and appreciated the hell out of their contribution to the show but, no, I didn't watch them. I'll try to make it up to them later on in Baltimore.
During the drive home, the skies finally delivered on the predicted storms. Heat lightning glimmered through the clouds as I headed out of the city, before letting loose a deluge of rain on the highway. I was soaked on the short run from the car into the house and sat down dripping wet to write this, while thunder rumbled outside the window. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to document an aural storm while feeling the effects of a physical one. Let the weather/Weather rage.
Thanks to the generosity of a fellow fan, I was spared from having to camp out in line all afternoon in order to get a good spot in front of the stage. The weather forecast all week had predicted a 60% chance of thunderstorms from afternoon through evening, which would have been miserable. Instead, the clouds broke somewhat and the day became brutally hot. I would've suffered it, not gladly but willingly, if a very cool dude from the White Stripes message board hadn't posted an offer to let someone be his 'plus one' if he managed to win the early entry lottery that's open to ten fan club members, plus guest, per show. This is the second time I've had an amazing DW experience as someone's 'plus one' and, for such a seemingly little thing, it goes a long way toward restoring my oft-bruised faith in humanity.
So instead of broiling under the humid sun, I was able to relax, get to the venue a few minutes before the doors opened, and then stroll in ahead of the crowd to claim my particularly chosen spot at the front, the same spot I had for the two previous shows in Tennessee, and the spot I will aim for again come August when the DW plays Baltimore-- on the right, just between Alison and LJ, with a mostly unobstructed view of Jack's drumkit. If you happen to attend a DW show that I'm at and decide to snatch that spot from me, just know that you do so at your peril. Not long after my early entry patron and I got settled up front and the rest of the crowd began making its way in, a young kid of 12 or so popped up behind us and announced that this was his second concert ever and his first time seeing Jack White. His dad had apparently forgotten one of their tickets and was waiting out front for Mom to deliver it, but sent the boy in ahead so he could get a good spot. Of course, we immediately squeezed him up to the rail and kept an eye on him throughout the evening. It turned out to be a ball hanging out with him before and during the show, seeing his excitement and discussing music in general and the DW in particular with someone whose perspective is so fresh and unjaded.
Harlem, the opening act, were three very cute young boys who acted very casually about their set but played fairly tightly and with great energy. They provided a fun warm up and had us all raring to go for the DW. And D.C. was more than ready-- the show sold out almost immediately when tickets went on sale two months before, and many people apparently remembered that the band had kicked off their 2009 tour on almost exactly the same day in the same venue. Everyone was expecting a hell of a show.
The band seemed to sense this as soon as they hit the stage. They tore through 60 Feet Tall, and both Alison and Jack broke into big grins over the crowd response at the end of the song. From there it was right into Hang You From the Heavens, with Jack twirling his drumsticks between cymbal smashes and the audience singing word for word along with Alison. Despite Jack's insistence in recent interviews that the band's begun playing without a setlist, they pretty much followed standard formula tonight, following HYFtH with (some of this is sure to be out of order, it all becomes a blur on the drive home)--
You Just Can't Win
So Far From Your Weapon
I Cut Like a Buffalo
No Horse
The Difference Between Us
I'm Mad
Gasoline
Rocking Horse
Rolling In On a Burning Tire
Gasoline
Hustle & Cuss
Die By the Drop
Will There Be Enough Water?
Encore
Blue Blood Blues
I Can't Hear You
Treat Me Like Your Mother
Much as I adore 2009 performances of the song, I was not terribly looking forward to You Just Can't Win. For some reason I can't begin to determine, Jack's vocals during their spring 2010 shows became unaccountably... histrionic. His voice was fine, but his delivery was terribly over-dramatized. Perhaps it was having a bit of a break before this tour, perhaps it was the obvious excitement of the audience, I don't know what it was, but he was spot on tonight, singing emotionally yet with a much more relaxed manner. And having a hell of a time, apparently-- smiling repeatedly, chatting to the crowd a few times between songs (which, unfortunately, I couldn't understand a word of due to the mic at his drumkit being way too damned low in the mix).
The absolute highlight of the show was, as is often the case, Will There Be Enough Water?. The slowest moment of any Dead Weather show, it's also the most intense (there's that word again) as Jack comes from out behind the drums to strap on his guitar and share a mic with Alison as they croon the spare lyrics of the song. The solo that he launched into tonight between the second and third verse was mind-blowing. The potential for this was the reason for my determination to get the spot I had on the rail. With his pedal board directly in front of me, I had a long handful of minutes to watch the man up close. So close, in fact, that it became difficult to figure out what to look at-- the expressions on his face as he lost himself in the music, his fret hand picking out chords, the other hand switching continuously from strumming to finger-picking to bending notes with the whammy bar, or his feet in those oh-so-cool white winkle-pickers tapping the various pedals on his board. And on top of all of that going on, I found myself being repeatedly drawn into eye-contact with the honkin' huge, gleaming silver, head of the Creature of the Black Lagoon belt buckle at his waist. The damned thing was staring right at me, winking as the stage lights hit it. No wonder my mind was blown.
This is very close to the view I had. The person who filmed these was about four people to my left, also on the rail.
In all seriousness, though, as fantastic as it is to listen to Jack play, it really is amazing to watch him. Especially for someone like me who's never had any interest in playing a guitar myself, to hear the sounds he creates and, at the same time, to see, ok, here he's finger-picking, here he's hitting the whammy, that's where he hits the pedal... It's just incredibly fascinating. I've always been drawn to guitar-driven music, but he's the first musician who's made me want to understand it.
Yes, this review is heavily Jack-centric. I make no apologies for that, he's the reason I was at the show. Alison, in the few moments that I watched her, was her usual dynamic self, belting out each song and mesmerizing the crowd with her gaze, including the kid at my side who's probably getting a hell of an early, somewhat subconscious, sex-ed through this band. I can think of worse women than Alison to inspire teenaged wet-dreams. At least he won't grow up expecting his women to be submissive. And, as before in Tennessee, I didn't give LJ or Dean the attention they deserved. I heard them both clearly and appreciated the hell out of their contribution to the show but, no, I didn't watch them. I'll try to make it up to them later on in Baltimore.
During the drive home, the skies finally delivered on the predicted storms. Heat lightning glimmered through the clouds as I headed out of the city, before letting loose a deluge of rain on the highway. I was soaked on the short run from the car into the house and sat down dripping wet to write this, while thunder rumbled outside the window. Somehow, it seemed appropriate to document an aural storm while feeling the effects of a physical one. Let the weather/Weather rage.
May 9, 2010
Nashville and Dead Weather, in more ways than one
Now that other things are out of my system, it's necessary to talk about another element that made The Dead Weather's live album preview performance so exceptional. In the midst of figuring out how to get off from work and how to arrange the timing of my flights there and back, I was made aware of an additional potential complication-- the catastrophic flooding of Nashville and much of Tennessee.
Photo borrowed from upressing.com
The weather was absolutely gorgeous when I was in Nashville on Thursday of my road trip. By Saturday night, when I was simultaneously in the Third Man Records Vault chat room and on Expedia, Nashvillians in the chat were telling me to think twice about coming. The highways were being shut down, and there were already news reports of one or two people being swept away and killed in the flood waters.
Photo from a May 3rd blog post at Bear Creek Ledger.
It sounded scary as hell. How on earth could it have happened so quickly? There was talk that the band wouldn't be able to make it into town from Louisiana, but no official word from their website. So I charged ahead and made my plans. The show was two nights away, things had to get better by then, hadn't they?
It sounded scary as hell. How on earth could it have happened so quickly? There was talk that the band wouldn't be able to make it into town from Louisiana, but no official word from their website. So I charged ahead and made my plans. The show was two nights away, things had to get better by then, hadn't they?
It's obvious by now that both the band and I, and over a hundred other fans, all made it. Not everyone was so lucky-- One Vault member's wife was still stuck in Texas as of Monday, after American Airlines canceled all of their flights to Nashville on Saturday night. But knowing what we'd all gone through to get there made the bonding easier. While no one in attendance that I know of was severely affected, some of us had flown in not knowing what we'd be dealing with, and some had come despite having no power in their homes. It created a shared experience.
Franklin TN Flood 05-02-10 May 2010 from Jonathan Melton on Vimeo.
Honestly, I'm surprised he didn't bolt directly from the stage to his car.
So forgive me for proselytizing, but this event has moved me. Between the fact that it's Jack's chosen base of operations and that I was able to connect with a bunch of lovely people there, I've been touched by this part of the country and am eager to see it get through this.
More importantly, Nashville is a beautiful city that figures prominently in Americana through both its history and music. Much like New Orleans, it's been through hell and deserves our support. The Grand Ole Opry House is closed indefinitely for repairs, though the heart of the Opry, the treasured section of stage salvaged from the previously destroyed historic Ryman Auditorium, was fortunately not severely damaged. Many people lost everything they had because they never expected to need flood insurance. And a friend in the Vault chat room told me last night of how his little girl's softball games are being re-scheduled to other fields because the local one is still under multiple feet of water. Just because you don't see this in the news does not mean it's gone away. The people of Nashville will be living with it for a long while, though their heart and determination are sure to get them through it. That's something to respect.
Ways to help, if you can and want to:
- So Nashville is Flooded... How Can I Help? is probably the best source out there, with an extensive list of options for donations and volunteering.
- Nashville Flood Tees, also available at Render Apparel
- And, if you're curious, here's what Jack's doing: Jack White lending profit, hand to flood relief.
May 7, 2010
Carry this burden now until the moment of your last breath
Old Mary, full of grease,
Your heart stops within you.
Scary are the fruits of your tomb,
And harsh are the terms of your sentence.
Old Mary, sister of mine,
Mother to the world,
Mother to the world,
Carry this burden now until the moment of your last breath.
Now until the moment of your last breath...
So, I went back to Nashville. Got home from my Dead Weather DC-to-Memphis road trip Friday night. As I was catching up on teh intarwebs, a fellow blogger/Jack-fan messaged me to say that she was one of 20 people who'd won entry into The Dead Weather's pre-release, invite-only, live performance of their new album, Sea of Cowards, that was to take place at Third Man Records on Monday night. Did I fancy a trip back to Nashville as her plus-one? Considering that I was still high from the road-trip, the Memphis show, and visiting Third Man on Thursday, I'll leave you to imagine my response.
Yet I had to immediately catch my breath, as this would be more complex than just hopping a plane. I was due back at work for a partial day on Saturday and full-time as of Monday. How to get a few more days off for yet another show? Here's the kicker--
I'd already been planning to ask for another day. On the way home from Tennessee, I'd received a call from my father informing me of a death in the family. My parents and sister were going to drive up from Florida to Virginia for the funeral, could I get time off from work to join them? Knowing my employer's dictum that family comes first, I knew that would be no problem. Of course I would join them at the funeral on Tuesday.
And yet, now I had my own priority staring me in the face. Musical obsessions are a difficult thing to explain to most people. Star Wars fanatics or Trekkies might get it, as they'll move hell or high water to make it to their costumed conventions. A more apt comparison, though, might be to the junkies who prowl the methadone clinic next door to Third Man Records. Music has such an emotional impact that it can get into your system like a drug, and your chosen musician can become the supplier that you'd figuratively crawl through broken glass to get to in order to satisfy your cravings. And Jack White's a pusher extraordinaire, coming up with increasingly enticing methods to deliver the raw purity of his musical vision.
So what was I to do? This was the sort of offer that just does not come along every day. The answer jumped right into my already worn-out and over-stimulated brain-- Use the funeral as an excuse. The logistics would be tricky, getting to Nashville for Monday night's show and then back home by Tuesday morning to meet my family. What was trickier, though, was the conversation with my boss the next morning.
Was it worth trying to explain why I really needed both Monday and Tuesday off? No. Much simpler was to re-write the death to be that of a more immediate family member, say, an uncle instead of a great-uncle. And if that uncle were being buried in Florida instead of Virginia, then that would necessitate two days off so that I could fly down to be with my family. It would work. But did I have the balls for the fabrication?
I've done some bad things... They get easier to do
I've done some bad things... They get easier to do
I've told some doozies in my time, back when I was a kid. But I'd more or less developed some integrity by the time I became an adult, especially after discovering Buddhism. Now, I've never actually referred to myself as "a Buddhist" because I haven't felt ready for a total commitment to the practice, but I have tried over the last few years to follow the Buddhist precepts as well as I can. My moodiness and impatience have made this quite a challenge, but it's a way of life that makes so much sense to me that it's worth the struggle. A lapse of the sort that I committed this past weekend is a violent one, in that I can see the two sides of my self at war-- The moral side that wants to live with right thought, right action, and right speech; and the other, perverse side that wants something badly and thinks of nothing but how to get it. In this instance, craving won hands down and didn't give a flying fuck that morality was left bruised on the mat.
So I told my fabrication, and was given much sympathy along with a green light for the time off I'd requested. The butterflies that had taken over my stomach through last week's road trip began fluttering back, along with a few nasty, dark-winged moths and other creepy crawlies that were obviously not mere excitement.
When I got in the car the next day to head to the airport, The White Stripes' Get Behind Me Satan was still in the cd player from the road trip. The song that came up this time was not as nifty a coincidence as on the day I left for Memphis. This time I was hit in the face with "Red Rain" and Jack's refrain of If there is a lie, then there is a liar too / And if there is a sin, then there is a sinner too...
The irony doesn't end there. Jack White's a born'n'bred Catholic who reportedly almost attended seminary school to become a priest, though he's apparently since developed a less rigid spirituality. While it's possible that he'd likely have become a hard smoking, hard drinking priest of the Scotch/Irish variety, I get the impression that he's also intensely moral and committed to his own code of truth. And I'd lied in order to fly to this man's base of operations and watch him make music.
By the time I met my compatriots in Nashville the moths from my gut were practically crawling up my throat, but the junkie in me squashed them down. It was too exciting to meet these people, and the event we'd come to attend was just too intensely amazing. After the first song, Jack greeted the audience with a hearty "Welcome to my house". I feel a pang thinking of it now-- Did I deserve to be there?
I'm a prick when I sin, and I know I can't win
I'm a prick when I sin, and I know I can't win
There is no sin in Buddhism, only the discipline of the Eightfold Path and the much misunderstood concept of karma. Most folks think of karma as the old cliché of "what comes around, goes around." It's actually more direct than that. Our intentions and resulting acts set chain reactions in motion and can reinforce habitual behaviors. Sometimes shit just happens, but most often our choices create the atmosphere in which we live. One of the best explanations of this comes from, of all places, The Huffington Post:
...the analogy of a game of billiards can be a useful way to describe the process of karma --- the table is set up, you hit the ball, it in turn hits other balls, moves the configuration on the table around, and then sets you up for your next shot. After that, maybe another person takes a turn and moves the balls around and then it's your turn again. Just as in the analogy of a billiard game, our thoughts and actions ripple outward, collide with others' thoughts and actions and generate consequences. These consequences create the setting in which we initiate our next set of thoughts and actions.
When our choices are consistently unskillful due to self-centered motivations, we're just setting ourselves up for a fall. Yet we can always make a more skillful karmic decision to act from positive intentions, and stop ourselves from making negative choices into habit. I'd like to think that the drive to meet and connect with people I'd only previously known on-line was a benevolent enough intent to counteract the raging desire to just see Jack again. But for all I know, that's just the junkie validating its behavior.
...the analogy of a game of billiards can be a useful way to describe the process of karma --- the table is set up, you hit the ball, it in turn hits other balls, moves the configuration on the table around, and then sets you up for your next shot. After that, maybe another person takes a turn and moves the balls around and then it's your turn again. Just as in the analogy of a billiard game, our thoughts and actions ripple outward, collide with others' thoughts and actions and generate consequences. These consequences create the setting in which we initiate our next set of thoughts and actions.
When our choices are consistently unskillful due to self-centered motivations, we're just setting ourselves up for a fall. Yet we can always make a more skillful karmic decision to act from positive intentions, and stop ourselves from making negative choices into habit. I'd like to think that the drive to meet and connect with people I'd only previously known on-line was a benevolent enough intent to counteract the raging desire to just see Jack again. But for all I know, that's just the junkie validating its behavior.
Edited 2/17/2011: I've just re-read this and decided that the final paragraph is bogus. I don't know what I was trying to say there. It reads more like a lame attempt at clever justification than a conclusion. And so it's struck out.
May 1, 2010
DC to Memphis Road Trip: Day 6, Hustling and cussing
Nashville seems to sit on the dividing line between the polite west and the obnoxious east. I noticed a similar phenomenon on my cross-country road trip years ago-- West of this indistinct line, people automatically move into the right lane after they pass, or at least shift over immediately when a faster car comes up behind them. It's just what people do, and you pick up on it quickly and join right on in. Driving is a pleasure in that part of the U.S.. In the east, though, all bets are off and people park themselves in the left lane and cruise along oblivious to what's behind or around them. So the last few hundred miles of this road trip were not only anti-climactic, they were annoying. I ended up doing a whole lotta right-lane passing today, and even more of this...
April 29, 2010
DC to Memphis Road Trip: Day 4, The reason for it all
I finally forced myself out the door in time to be at the venue by four. There were three groups there already, about a dozen folks altogether, some of whom had driven distances similar to mine and others who'd been there since 8:30 in the morning. Having them to hang out and talk with helped keep me from climbing the walls while we waited to get in to the venue.
The opening act, The Ettes, included an incredibly powerful woman on drums but was otherwise forgettable. After their fourth song I'd had enough and began wishing that each successive tune was their last.
When The Dead Weather came on, I did a serious disservice to Alison, Dean, and LJ. I have to admit to barely acknowledging their presences on the stage. I'd ended up with exactly the spot I was hoping for, on the rail right in front of LJ with an unobstructed view of Jack's drum kit. From the moment I caught sight of his tall form strolling out from the dark at the back of the stage, my eyes were immediately drawn and remained on him throughout the band's set. I remember a few glances at LJ when he momentarily stepped into my line of sight, and a few seconds of locking eyes with Alison in a staring contest as she leaned out from the stage in my direction (she looked away first, turning and stalking back to the other side of the monitors).
I could go on at length about the facial tics I noticed, the tricks with the drumsticks, what it was like watching Jack's fingers on the fretboard of his guitar, but I'm honestly not sure how much of this experience I really want to describe. There are times when sharing something can make it more special. But there are other times when a moment is so meaningful that it needs to be held inside where it's safe from being trivialized. Jack himself has commented on a similar feeling-- At a promo event for It Might Get Loud, he was asked about the conversations between himself, Jimmy Page, and The Edge that didn't make it into the film. He allowed that there had been quite a bit of unused footage of the three of them together. Asked to elaborate on those bits, and whether he'd learned anything from his co-stars, he demurred and said that those moments were special and he was keeping them for himself. That's exactly how I feel about this show. Just as Jack was totally wrapped up in his music on that stage tonight, I was totally wrapped up in experiencing both the music and his presence. I know what I felt in the moment and I know what it meant to me. And that's enough.
The one thing I will say, though, is that after so many days of anticipation, it was over way too quickly.
Setlist for my own memory and anyone who's interested (not necessarily in correct order):
60 Feet Tall
Hang You From the Heavens
You Just Can't Win
No Horse
Gasoline
Blue Blood Blues
Hustle & Cuss
So Far From Your Weapon
Die By the Drop
Child of a Few Hours
Will There Be Enough Water?
Encore
I Can't Hear You
I Cut Like a Buffalo
Treat Me Like Your Mother
April 26, 2010
DC to Memphis Road Trip: Day 2, Getting the blues
Began the day under the kind of low, dark, billowy clouds that you just want to grab and pull up over your shoulders as you roll over in bed and bury your face in the pillow. Hit the road after breakfast and let the car eat up the rest of the miles between Virginia and Tennessee, while I put The White Stripes' Icky Thump into the cd player and sang along in an attempt to keep the weather from drowning the previous day's joyousness.
The possibility of adding a second Dead Weather show to this trip has been hovering in my mind much like today's dark clouds. The band is in Birmingham, AL, the night before Memphis. That show is sold out, but a compatriot from the Third Man Records chat room and I have been hunting craiglist and eBay for tickets. On the one hand, this idea is excitingly spontaneous. How could I miss two shows in a row and the chance to meet a fellow fan? Not to mention that this is an opportunity to see Jack in one of the cities he sings about in the American-ised version of Van Morrison's "You Just Can't Win". Considering how much I'm looking forward to that song to begin with, that would be quite a thrill.
On the other hand, this situation has added an element of uncertainty and complication to what was going to be a simple, free-wheeling trip. I'm a hundred miles from Knoxville, TN, and I don't yet know which direction to head when I get there-- west to Memphis or south to Birmingham? The whole purpose of a road-trip is to be on the move, yet I'm trying to wait for answers and go forward at the same time. It's making me a touch fretful, and the rain that's now pouring down onto the road is only stirring up that tension, rather than soothing it.
I'm bringing back ghosts
That are no longer there
I'm gettin' hard on myself
Sittin' in my easy chair
Well, there's three people in the mirror
And I'm wonderin' which one of them I should choose
Well, I can't keep from laughin'
Spittin' out these 300 mile per hour outpour blues
I'm breakin' my teeth off
Tryin' to bite my lip
There's all kinds of red-headed women
That I ain't supposed to kiss
And it's that color that never fails
To turn me blue
So I just swallow it and hold on to it
And use it to scare the hell out of you
I have a woman
Says come and watch me bleed
And I'm wonderin' just how I can do that
And still give her everything that she needs
Well, there's three people in my head that have the answer
And one of them's got to be you
But you're holding tight to it -- the answer
Singin' these 300 mile per hour outpour blues
Put on gloves, a tight scarf and wrap up warm
On this winter night
Every time you get defensive
You're just looking for a fight
It's safe to say somebody out there's got a problem
With almost anything you'll do
Well, next time they stab you don't fight back just play the victim
Instead of playin' the fool
And the roads are covered with a million
Little molecules
Of cigarette ashes and the school floors are covered
With pieces of pencil eraser too
Well sooner or later the ground's gonna be holdin' all
Of my ashes too
But I can't help but wonder if after I'm gone
will I still have these 300 mph
finger breakin', no answers, broken back, dirty cancer, bee stung and busted up, empty cup, torrential outpour blues
One thing's for sure, in that graveyard
I'm gonna have the shiniest pair of shoes
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