My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight.

I may or may not write more about this later, still processing how I feel about it.  In the grand scheme of things, it's not monumental.  It's not even a surprise.  But the emotional impact this band has had on the people who connected with their music is a special, special thing.  This announcement is gracefully worded, yet so utterly sad in its finality...

The White Stripes would like to announce that today, February 2nd, 2011,
their band has officially ended and will make no further new recordings or perform live.

The reason is not due to artistic differences or lack of wanting to continue, nor any health issues as both Meg and Jack are feeling fine and in good health.

It is for a myriad of reasons, but mostly to preserve What is beautiful and special about the band and have it stay that way.

Meg and Jack want to thank every one of their fans and admirers for the incredible support they have given throughout the 13 plus years of the White Stripes’ intense and incredible career.

Third Man Records will continue to put out unreleased live and studio recordings from The White Stripes in their Vault Subscription record club, as well as through regular channels.

Both Meg and Jack hope this decision isn’t met with sorrow by their fans but that it is seen as a positive move done out of respect for the art and music that the band has created. It is also done with the utmost respect to those fans who’ve shared in those creations, with their feelings considered greatly.

With that in mind the band have this to say:

“The White Stripes do not belong to Meg and Jack anymore. The White Stripes belong to you now and you can do with it whatever you want. The beauty of art and music is that it can last forever if people want it to. Thank you for sharing this experience. Your involvement will never be lost on us and we are truly grateful.”

Sincerely,
Meg and Jack White
The White Stripes

A fellow Stripes fan summed it up best on her Facebook profile by quoting the way Jack ended so many of the band's shows:

"My sister thanks you, and I thank you. Goodnight."

From shiverin' to Shakin' All Over

It's taken me several days to sit down and write about this.  I've talked about it so much elsewhere that I guess I forgot to babble about it over here, but some great video popped up on the intarwebs and reminded me that I needed to document the occasion.  So here goes...

It was appallingly cold last Friday when I headed up to NY to see Wanda Jackson, Jack White, and the Third Man House Band play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn.  Take-your-breath-away cold.  And yet a bunch of us die-hard fans came from various places around the country to stand outside for hours waiting to get into this show just so that we could get prime spots up at the front of the stage.  I've written before about the addictive effect of music and there we were, proving what junkies we all are.  It was so very worth it, though, and not only for the fantastic show we finally experienced.  The camaraderie we shared as our feet became increasingly numb (the one part that couldn't be warmed by our group huddles) made the long wait in the cold bearable.   

Angelina Seha.  Photo by Megan Vitovic

One of my compatriots, apparently taken just as she arrived roughly an hour before I did.  Note the gleeful anticipation on that angelic face, it's such a perfect representation of what we were all feeling, and continued to feel despite the cold that seeped into the marrow of our bones as the minutes slowly ticked by.  (Did I mention it was cold...?)  

About halfway through the wait, we got a little pick-me-up--  A red van pulled up and I noticed Wanda Jackson sitting in the backseat.  No one else seemed to notice, so I nudged folks to get their attention as Wanda climbed out of the van and maneuvered through the snow and the crowd to head into the venue.  Everyone else went back to huddling for warmth, not seeming to realize that if Wanda had just arrived, the rest of the band had to be close behind.  Sure enough, within a few minutes, another van pulled up and, again, no one else seemed to notice.  So after more nudging, everyone turned around to watch the entire 11-person Third Man Band, plus attendants, pile out of the van as if it were an over-sized, rock'n'roll clown car.  And, of course, that meant...

Jack White.  Photo by Peter Burdi

 One of our bunch squealed and another practically hyper-ventilated.  More importantly, it made us forget the cold for at least a couple of minutes. 

But freezing to the point of numbness out front paid off inside, as we all ended up in various spots in the first or second row.  One element that's gotten little mention in reviews is that the opening act was the Dex Romweber Duo.  For our little group, the combination of Dex and Sara with Wanda and Jack was just too mind-blowing and we were as revved up for the openers as the headliners.  Dex let us know right away that they'd be playing only a 30 minute set and that was a shame, seeing as how he and Sara tore it up as usual.  Too many of their great tunes had to be left out, though they included favorites such as Mexicali Baby, People, Places, and Things, and the always fantastic show closer, Grey Skies.  As an added treat, they had a local friend join them on standup bass for a few tunes.  And, as it turned out, they probably could have played another 10-15 minutes.  



Because then the wait began.  The hours standing outside suddenly seemed like nothing compared to the 45 minutes we spent fidgeting to the surprisingly low-key, sleep-inducing music that was piped in between sets.  We were antsy, we'd come for raucous rockabilly.  Could Wanda and Jack rip us out of the comatose state we were quickly descending into?  Hah.  Silly question...    

It was obvious at a few points that Wanda and the Third Man Band have not had much time to gel, but in many ways that added to the charm of the show. As Jack always puts it, it created a scenario for interesting things to happen. From Wanda needing lyric sheets on a few songs (a trick she nicked from Elvis) to backup singers The Cupcakes looking at Jack blankly when he asked them for a D during the band introductions, things were a touch rocky. But he just keeps going and she's so disarming that it made the show fun rather than clumsy.  The overriding feeling was one of joyous energy, as Jack danced around the stage with a grin on his face and Wanda held the crowd in the palm of her hand.  

Bit of distortion in this video, keep the volume on the low side--


Much has been made in recent articles about Wanda's new Jack-produced album, The Party Ain't Over, of the fact that she opened the door back in the 50's for practically every female rock'n'roll singer after her.  Beginning as a country vocalist, she was one of the first to put on a risque dress instead of a cowboy hat, and to growl out tunes about mean, mean men and wild times in Nagasaki. But it's obvious watching her now that she never lost her dignity or her class along the way, a lesson that too many of the female artists she paved the way for unfortunately never learned.  With any luck, they'll pick up the new album and catch one of the shows on her current tour before it's too late.    

The one and only disappointment of the night (and an incredibly minor one, at that) was that Jack had some serious equipment issues. He started out with with his Gretsch Roundup, but something happened a couple of tunes in that required them switching out not only the guitar but also one of his amps in the middle of a song. Wanda didn't skip a beat with all of that going on behind her, and it didn't seem to affect Jack at all 'cause he was all smiles even though the song was brought to a premature end. And when the audience shouted for them to finish it, Wanda & co. complied by launching into the final verse. But, aside from a couple of tunes on Claudette (one of his acoustic ladies), he ended up playing the rest of the set on his black Billy Bo which has an aunchy, hard rock tone that, to my ears, didn't provide the sweet rockabilly twang that most of the songs that night required.  This is a minor nit-pick, though, because Jack will leave your jaw dropped to the floor no matter what he plays...



Priceless moments:  First was when they began Fujiyama Mama and Wanda stopped Jack to make him count it down again more slowly. The second was watching him singing along to that song as he played. Totally made me forget my frostbitten toes.  It's unfortunate that no one seems to have captured that on video.   

Another was the clatter, bash, boom accompanying each chorus of Busted (again, careful of the sound distortion)...



And their cover of Heartbreak Hotel proves that the Queen of Rock'n'Roll could compete with the King any day of the week...



And, finally, the show ain't complete till Jack breaks a string... 



Such a way to end the night. With our ears ringing and our cheeks aching from grinning, we piled out of the venue and into the Cuban bar next door to re-live the details of the night and cement them in our memories.  Frostbite or no, I think we'd all do it again in a heartbeat.  Until next time, y'all!


Many, many thanks to the people who recorded this show and posted videos to help sustain these wonderful memories. And for anyone who's interested, there are also some excellent photos here and here.

 

Vandals chop down famous Nevada shoe tree

Read about this in the news today: 

U.S. Highway 50, billed as the “Loneliest Road in America,” lost one of its landmarks last week because of vandals.

The 70-foot cottonwood tree known as the “Shoe Tree” one mile east of Middlegate was cut down sometime late Thursday night or early Friday morning.

I passed the Shoe Tree during my cross-country road trip several years ago.  It was by far one of the coolest things I saw on that trip.  Such a shame that someone apparently didn't feel the same way and chose to destroy it rather than let it be.  

 

Just don't know what to do with myself...

A buddy recently mentioned that she misses my blog.  While that was gratifying to hear, I couldn't help but cringe a bit.  I haven't written much lately because it feels that my focus has narrowed to the point that only two things revolve through my head anymore and I feel like the blog is full of them.  One of those things gives me quite a high, providing excitement and joy in equal measure.  The other has been dragging me down, somehow making me both restless and lethargic at the same time.  Lately, though, the restlessness has been increasing and there is where hope lies. 

In casting about for solutions, I've been looking carefully at the lives of friends and acquaintances.  What I see is inspiring, though at the same time occasionally incites a frustrated envy--

One friend who's worked from home for the last several years recently had a change of position that required her to begin the daily slog into an office downtown.  Rather than finding this to be a drudge, though, she's become re-energized by re-entry into the world and the change has radiated through her to affect other aspects of her life.  

Another friend who not too long ago shared my lethargy expressed that state beautifully...

Where did it go?

Can someone help me find my motivation?
I left it here somewhere.
My ambition, my desire, my inclination?
I just had it in my hand,
And put it down here,
It's not where I stand,
It's not next to my beer.
I want to complete a project I start,
I want to complete a thought,
I want to do these things with all my heart,
But cannot.
Where oh where can my motivation be,
Oh where oh where can it be?
I can't see or know, or remember where I last saw it.
I can't dream or imagine or think where I hauled it.
If you see my drive, my thirst, my appetite,
Please send it right back over!
Tell it I miss it,
Tell it I'll be better,
Tell it I'm nothing with out it!

-- Tisha Christenson-Dillon

Last summer, she began forcing herself off the 'net and outside into her garden.  More recently, she found a job putting to use a natural talent and seems not only motivated but wonderfully happy.  Other friends have moved to new states, even new countries, to begin new chapters of their lives and the energy involved in such moves leaves me staggered.  Where do they find it?  Mine's apparently hiding with my motivation.

A fellow blogger over at The Gardener's Cottage wrote yesterday about her New Year's resolution to have more fun.  Considering what she's shared with me about the challenges she's faced the last few years, it sounds like the best prescription any doctor could give to her.  But it made me realize that my own problem has possibly been too much fun--  My single lifestyle allows me the freedom to spend my time off as I please, but have I been making productive use of that time?  The things I do for fun are beginning to feel stale and suddenly seem to have a narcotizing effect rather than an energizing one.  

The one activity that still seems to do me some good is getting out into the woods.  This winter's been abundantly cold and grey and that's apparently kept a lot of people off the trails.  Solitude on its own can be as much a trap as a pleasure, but throw in a good endorphin rush and it clears the mind while recharging the spirit.  And Nature provides its own examples of motivation--  Yesterday's hike through a nearby conservation park brought me to a well-maintained beaver dam.  The destruction wreaked on trees in the area indicated that the dam's builders haven't yet settled down into a hibernatory state and have been living up to the cliché of "busy as a beaver".  

 

On top of all this, I recently decided I'd had enough of the Comcast monopoly and gave up cable television.  I had no idea this would be such a challenge.  I didn't think that I watched much television, but apparently I had grown used to having it on in the background and being able to sit down and watch for a few minutes in between other activities.  It was filler.  Without it, I find I don't know what to do with myself.  I'm almost in a panic, trying to think of things I can occupy myself with at those moments when the intarwebs have run dry and I feel like being still.  Sure, I could read a book, but I find I need something that engages me visually as well as mentally.  

To that end, I'm in search of a new hobby or project, even two or three.  Thing is, there are potentially too many options.  I've begun making lists to consider the myriad options, but can't seem to settle on anything--

-  I could take up something like knitting that would engage both hands and eyes, but what the heck would I do with the product of my labors?  I can only wear so many sweaters, and my family's moved to Florida so I could hardly send them scarves.

-  Several years ago I got into making walking sticks.  Started out one day by picking up an interestingly shaped branch, taking it home and sanding it down, varnishing it, and wrapping it with colored thread to create a handhold.  Ended up making several for myself and people I knew who appreciated such things, adding such decorative elements as feathers and beads.  One for a friend was even personalized with a small pouch of totem items.  But I ran out of people to give them to and, as with knitting, I can't just end up with an apartment full of these things.  If I began again, perhaps I could figure out some way to sell them...?

  -  Photography's been a hobby for a long time, but I've never really gotten serious about it.  Should this be the year that I sink money into a decent SLR instead of just running around with my little point'n'shoot?  Should I learn Photoshop and actually try do something with my photos?  Sell 'em, enter 'em in contests...? 

-  Writing, like photography, is something I've long considered trying to do more with.  But the (in)frequency of posts here at the blog shows just how disciplined I've been about that.  Would it be worth making the effort to become more focused, find things to write about, do it more frequently?  Perhaps, but part of the impetus behind this whole idea is to get out from behind the computer monitor and away from the desk.   

-  Music's been one of my drugs of choice for as long as I can remember, but the closest I come to practicing it myself is bellowing along with the stereo in the car.  Perhaps it's time to find out whether I've actually got any musical sensibilities of my own.  I've considered a few times the idea of taking voice lessons, but have lately been wondering how difficult it might be to learn to play guitar.  

-  And there are, of course, dozens of classes I could take for personal enrichment:  Psychology, literature, philosophy... Hell, maybe I could even find a physics class for the mathematics-challenged.  Again, though, the number of choices has me paralyzed. 

I need help, folks.  Give me some input, ideas, advice, a kick in the ass.  I'm on the verge of a crisis, in a muddle and will take any help I can get to climb out of it.  Don't leave me in this state.


As for that other thing that gives me such a joyous high, it also provides many apropos accompaniments to my babblings...

If I die, please don't bury my soul...

Synchronicity never fails to blow me away.   Through my exploration of Dex Romweber's music, I just yesterday found a new favorite song--  Last Kind Word Blues, which Dex and his sister Sara recorded with Jack White for release through Third Man Records in 2009.  I had picked up the 7" single when I was at TMR in September and listened to it as soon as I got home, but didn't rip and burn it onto a cd for the car until this weekend.  Much as I enjoy listening to vinyl at home, in the car is where music really sinks into my head.   So, anyway, after a couple of listens, this song had its hooks into me.





"If I die, please don't bury my soul... just leave me out and let the buzzards come and eat me whole" That line was the second of the hooks. The first is the crazy contrast of the vocals. Who on earth would expect Dex's bourbon-soaked croon to work with Jack's manic wail? But it does work, to electrifying effect. Throw in some filthy guitar work and smooth piano and you've got one of the quirkiest blues covers going.


According to the TMR website, the original artist is one Geechie Wiley.  I googled the song last night just to find the lyrics, but didn't go any further than that.  So today, I'm sitting at lunch, reading Delta Blues: The Life and Times of the Mississippi Masters Who Revolutionized American Music, and I turn the page and find a chapter headed "let the buzzards eat me whole" (there's that synchronicity).  Sure enough, it contained what little biography there is for Geechie.  One of the few female blues artists of note, she apparently only recorded six songs and left not much more of herself behind.  Damned shame, that, as it sounds as if she had the potential to be on a par with any of the known blues men.







Fortunately, she left a bit of her soul with us before she went.

Another jackpot

Found this little beauty out in the woods yesterday.  Same place where I wandered a few weeks ago, but in a different area, away from the junk piles and remnants of old human habitations.  This was deeper in the woods along a little-used, partially overgrown trail, sitting on a moss-covered log as if someone had left it there just for me...

 

Raccoon.  It's missing it's right incisor and one of the front teeth on that side keeps slipping out, but aside from that it's in perfect condition. 

Am I greedy for snatching it up and slipping it in my pocket, rather than leaving it there the way the person before me did?  I'm not much of a collector, but this is definitely the sort of thing I covet.   

Dex after midnight

Had a very cool time last night/this morning in Baltimore.  Drove up to see the Dex Romweber Duo at Area 405 (the video above is from a 2009 show, not last night/morning), which is an art gallery/space/whatever set in a block of otherwise entirely empty buildings in one of the seediest neighborhoods in town. The show was organized (I use that word quite loosely) as a "festival" with 6-8 bands. I should have grabbed a poster as I left for informational purposes, as I'd never heard of any of the others playing. It was way under-promoted--  I'd found out about it through the DRD site, there was no mention of it on the Area 405 website, and I spoke to another person there who said they'd only heard about it that day. Dex's tour manager had told me they'd be going on around 10:30, then that changed to 11:30, and then when I got there, things had been delayed to the extent that no one knew when Dex and Sara would be on. At the most crowded point, there were probably 100 or so people hanging around in the two rooms set up for the alternating acts. Could have been more, but I've never been good at estimating crowds.

By the time DRD was finally on at 2:00am (!), there were two, maybe three, dozen of us die-hards still around, including the bartenders and other staff. The folks who had left just have no clue at all of what they missed. Dex and Sara were at the same time more polished and yet more raw than any other band there that night. How that man gets the sounds he does out of a guitar and amp that look like they're about to fall apart is beyond me. No pedals, no gizmos, nothing but fingers and strings. And Sara is just spot-on. I love to watch her, she's not a powerhouse drummer like, say, Poni from The Ettes, she's much more subtle.  And, like Dex, she has the ability to create a surprising variety of sound out of the most minimal of kits.  The most unusual, and charming, thing that happened was when Sara took a break and Dex played a few solo numbers. At one point, can't recall which song it preceded, he commented on the size of the crowd, then hopped down off the stage and ran around giving us hugs. Obviously done in a joking manner, but still very endearing

He's an interesting guy, Dex. I was watching him during the earlier acts-- In his black pants, white shirt and black jacket, wandering around or sitting off by himself, he was just on another plane from the rest of the blue-jeans/flannel/leather crowd there. In his own world, almost. At one point when the line-up was getting all jumbled up, he was pacing around with his guitar strapped on, watching the band that was on while his fingers just sort of mindlessly worked the frets. It amazes me that he's not a star, and yet doesn't surprise me at all. I'm just damned glad I found out about him.

Bring out your junk and we'll give it a home

Back when I first heard the album Icky Thump a few years ago, Rag and Bone was one of the songs that hinted to me that there was something about The White Stripes that I should be paying attention to. For whatever reason, the album as a whole didn't reach out and shake me up at the time, but earlier this year the switch finally flipped and the lightbulb came on.  Months after diving into Jack's extensive catalog of music, this tune's still one of my favorites, a raucous gem of subtly clever humor. Behind that charmingly lively repartee lies a metaphor for the way in which Jack and Meg created the magic of the Stripes-- by taking what they perceived as cast-off musical styles and making something beautiful out of them.  In a twist on the old rag-and-bone men of England, they took everything from blues to garage/punk to Scottish reels and more, and produced an amazing amalgamation that still leaves fans staggered even though it's been years since the band's last performance together.

This song came to mind today because I spent the afternoon wandering old trash piles out in the woods and reflecting on the different tack that nature takes with our discarded junk.  Many of the parks and wildlife management areas in Maryland consist of land that was once settled and farmed.  Seeing as how farms are spread out and separated by fields, there were no communal public garbage dumps in those days, so each farmhouse had its own dumping place tucked off in a corner of the property.  As this land was sold off to the DNR and M-NCPPC, no one went out to clean up, which means you never know what you might find as you come around the bend of a trail in some seemingly untouched natural area. 

So I headed out to one of these places today, one that used to have a dirt and gravel mud-pit for parking, but that now has a paved lot with designated spaces and that gets a lot more use as a result.  With more people tromping the trails, there's more recent garbage.  I tsk'd a few times at the sight of a plastic water bottle here, a Red Bull or Coors can there.  Funny, then, how a hundred or more mossy old bottles and rusty pails and tubs strewn through the undergrowth can be such a source of delight.  It's the sense of discovery, I guess, and the wondering about the lives of the people who left this detritus so many years ago.  The first dumping ground along the trail seems to be the oldest, consisting mostly of brown bottles and clear glass jugs and jars of various shapes and sizes.  In one spot, in between the roots of a beech tree, I found the necks of three root beer-colored bottles seemingly growing out of the earth.  And here and there I'd kick up the symbol of a feminine spirit, in the form of thicker white glass cosmetics jars.

Farther back in the woods, past the caved-in remains of what seems to have been a coal kiln, is an apparently more recent trash heap, at which there are fewer bottles and an abundance of faded Colt 45 cans, along with rusted water heaters and bed frames, and moldering pieces of what used to be clothing.  It's obvious that a few more decades will leave this pile looking more like the other, as the old appliances decay, the cans settle into the dirt and leaves, and the undergrowth takes over.

Up the hill and around the bend, I came face to face with a beautiful box turtle crawling through the pine needles in what's left of the foundation of a house.  The turtle looked fresh and new, with gorgeous golden markings against the deep brown background of its shell, the light yellowy-orange skin of its neck and legs, and the fierce, darker orange of its eyes.  All that's left of the house are scattered chunks of brick and cinder-block, and two vine-covered cement steps.

While someone like Jack White or the old English rag-and-bone men might take abandoned stuff and turn it into something new, nature indifferently treats these items as the inanimate objects that they are.  Instead of being given a continued life, they're taken over by the cycle of life around them, by the earth, trees, vines and shoots that break through, cover, and consume them.  They're dissolved and absorbed, and the world goes on.  It's an interesting and humbling lesson.   

A couple of things I rescued. The bottom of the brown bottle is embossed with a design patent number and "La Choy Food Products Archbold Ohio". The jar has a Grecian key pattern about its middle and the single word, "Woodbury", on its base. I've no plans to create anything out of either of them, they're lovely and interesting as they are.

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--

The untangible beauty of music

Image found on Tumblr. If anyone knows the source, please let me know so I can credit it.

Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,
To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd,
And, as with living Souls, have been inform'd,
By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees, or Flint? O force of constant Woe!
'Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

-- William Congreve, The Mourning Bride

Jack White took to the 'web a few days ago to express some griefs. As should be expected, the previously unreleased, secret Dead Weather song hidden inside his recently distributed, Blue Blood Blues Triple Decker Record was leaked onto the internet in just over a week.  I'm actually surprised it took that long, considering that copies of the Triple Decker were on eBay the same day that the first 100 units were sold at Third Man Records in Nashville.  This was an exciting release with a two-fold thrill for fans and collectors alike.  And there, right there, lies the crux of the Triple Decker-- The unreleased song and its accompanying b-side are on a 7" single nestled between two 12" colored vinyl platters that contain the Blue Blood Blues single and its b-side.  I've already posted this video once, but in order for this whole thing to make sense, you really need to have Jack's explanation:



To reiterate-- In order to get to the extra song, you have to crack open the outer layers of the colored vinyl single.  And let me stress that there are only 300 copies of the Triple Decker available!   It's pretty damned brilliant. Jack knows how collectors of his music covet his colored vinyl albums.  His limited edition tri-color singles end up selling for hundreds of dollars on eBay.  And here he's combined colored vinyl with a never-heard-before song, and in the process created a conundrum for the lucky/rich/obsessively determined few who manage to obtain a Triple Decker--  To break the seal, or not to break the seal? 

For the true collectors, there's no question.  Breaking that seal destroys the value of the Triple Decker.  They'll either live without hearing that unreleased track or wait until someone else cracks open a T.D., rips the tune, and posts it on the internet.  Which brings us back to Jack's complaint.

He made it clear in his post over at The Vault that his issue was not with the leak of the song in and of itself, though he has at other times expressed disapproval of such musical theft.  No, his concern in this case was the attitude of the websites that posted the song.  He was frustrated that they assumed they had the right to take one portion of his creation and make it available to the public outside of the context in which he'd presented it.  This is an understandable complaint for an artist to have.  Artists from Botticelli to Mozart would probably roll over in their graves at the way their works have been snipped and trimmed and co-opted for various purposes.  Jack's preferred context for his art is vinyl.  He's talked a lot about the romance of vinyl as a tangible media--

Download culture isn't a very romantic experience for the fan regarding art, it cheapens it and makes it fast forwardable, and disposable, and a lot of times ignorable...

That's a shame for a lot of art and music that isn't getting the chance that it would if people just left the needle on the record till the end of the side or what have you.

I'm not telling people not to listen to MP3s, we sell them for all of our records and I wouldn't say to them don't share with their friends or whatever, but if you're asking me my opinion on what I prefer, or what I think is the best way to enjoy music, I would take a tangible, moving piece of machinery to listen to, as it expands the imagination. The physical attachment and the experience is more reverential to the art form.
-- (From bbb.co.uk/newsbeat)

It was obvious in his recent post that he felt the beauty of his latest creation had been compromised by these people who focused only on that one individual part of it--  The unreleased song.  That they'd taken it out of its physical form and turned it into something intangible, without his knowledge or consent, made it in his mind into just what he described above:  Something fast-forwardable and disposable. 

He's since removed the post in which he expressed this grievance.  He does that a lot, apparently, posts explanations, disclaimers, rants, and then takes them down, sometimes replacing them with inscrutable photos or seeming riddles.  But I was lucky enough to have read this post before it disappeared, as well as his replies in the ensuing conversation that took place in the comments section.  I think that I grasped his point clearly enough that I can definitely empathize with his frustration. 

But, at the same time, I question Jack's insistence on the tangible as such an important component in appreciating his music.  I can't help but wonder--  In focusing so completely on the tangible, does he sometimes forget the beauty of the visceral?  I'm one of those people who was less concerned with the unique physical properties of the Triple Decker.  Like those folks at the websites he mentioned, what immediately captured my attention was the words "unreleased song".  Once I got over the initial excitement of watching him crack open that amazing disc and pull out that hidden single in the video above, I became increasingly annoyed at his statement that "you can't hear it unless ..." 

Some people with whom I've had this conversation insist that limiting the availability of the song is what makes it special.  Others go so far as to brand those of us who believe we should have access to this song with having a "sense of entitlement."  There are valid points either way.  There was a time, before museums, photography, and the internet, when only a minuscule segment of the population had the thrill of experiencing the beauty of the Mona Lisa.  But times are different now.  Art and music can and have been made more immediately available to the masses.  How does limiting it make it more special? 

To me, what is special in a piece of music is the emotional response it stirs.  Whether it puts a smile on your face or brings tears to your eyes, the fact that it touches you makes it beautiful.  That sort of beauty has no physical presence.  It's completely intangible, but no less appreciable than anything that you hold in your hand.  A "moving" piece of machinery may certainly expand the imagination, but so can a "moving" lyric.  Or voice.  Or guitar solo.  Can anyone out there not think of a time when they've closed their eyes in order to more fully enter a piece of music, to let it get inside of them?  To completely experience the rapture of it? 

So I would argue against Jack's apparent belief that publishing music on the 'web cheapens it (at least not when it's done with the artist's consent, of course).  In my own case, a weekend on the internet contributed immensely to the reverence I have for his art.  I will certainly admit that his views have inspired me to get a turntable and begin collecting vinyl records for the first time since I was a teenager, and I'm having a ball with it.  But after I've gone through the ritual of putting the record on the turntable and precisely placing the needle at the edge, once the vinyl's begun moving around, you'll find me lying back with my eyes closed so that I can listen with full attention. 

And that once-unreleased, now almost impossible to legally own Dead Weather song is still out there on the 'net. I could easily find it and share it here, introduce the handful of people who stumble across this post to its haunting vocals and hypnotic guitar, but I won't. Despite the fact that I'm peeved that I can't just buy the damned thing, this ain't that kinda blog.