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This has all turned into quite something hasn’t it,
Jackie White (that’s his own term by the way, as inserted
into electrifying blues-standard ‘Boll Weevil’ – I’m
not getting over-familiar, I wouldn’t dare). From the
humblest of rootsy intentions at their Detroit inception,
to towering 50ft over a mammoth London crowd at 7 years
old, projected as a classic spasming silhouette against
the ornate interior of one of the capital’s biggest
indoor venues. So alright, they’ve never actually done
small over here, per se. No – a modest tsunami of hype,
teasing dribbling tabloids with colour schemes, marriage
certificates, and a record deal that’ll see them in
the red for further than the eye can see, saw to that.
Even when they did do small it was big news. But nobody
can deny this is getting proper big now. Only of course
that is all that’s really different. Even if it’s a
bigger box they’re reusing the wrapping paper, they’re
economically sound you know.
You do wonder whether, given such a staunchly unshifting
demeanour, they can really know (there’s not one single
big hall concession – no screens, no vast backdrops
or designs, their stage set remains confined to a small
centre-stage square containing a drum kit, two lead
mics, keyboard, amplifier and basic lighting rig), or
want to admit to knowing. Yet of course they know. Jack’s
animated entry, repeatedly leaving the ground and thrashing
his guitar awake into fractured life at the opening
of ‘When I Hear My Name’ subtly says as much, heavily
feeding off the obvious airborne electricity with a
comfortable recognition of the scale.
Where The Strokes floundered out of their depth in the
same venue a month earlier, arguably outplayed by their
own lights, The ‘Stripes continue to pile their most
basic of building blocks up as near to the sky as they
can go, adding intricacies at will. When the music is
founded on the relationship between sound, space and
impact anyway, extenuated by their stubbornly archaic
recording techniques, such a mass of open space must
seem like a playground. And why, perhaps, they seem
even better suited to this than past intimate settings.
When they possess personality and chemistry that on
this evidence can travel to the back of any room we
could even say, in retrospect, that they’ve been rather
wasted in clubs. Seeing as this is certainly not nearly
true of all bands who attempt the leap (especially the
You-Know-Whos) it is only further testament to their
natural strengths.
Potential rumours that organisers were to move the front-barrier
back five paces to avoid the full awesomeness of his
swing, should the situation arise, of course remain
totally unfounded. He is in fact the most gentlemanly
of performers. The way our name, “Londawn”, repeatedly
floats off his tongue with warm, full-bodied Southern
chivalry, it’s as if he’s complimenting us as perfect
hosts even though we’ve done little to nothing in return.
“Are we all friends yet?” he rhetorically charms during
the ever-sweet ‘We’re Going To Be Friends’. And extra
playful pauses in ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With
Myself’ show someone seemingly getting as much out of
this as us. Of course, as much as he flirts we should
know we play a poor second place next to ‘sister’ Meg.
From the elegant glamour-arching of her back as she
basks beneath the grandeur during a brief time out,
to the numerous heated commanding gazes from him, that’s
the chemistry that makes the air really go pop in here.
And all with far too much crackling sexuality for us
to really believe their cover story.
The only one real disappointment of the whole night
was that Blanche, hosts to the recent epic White
Vs Stollenmeister rough ‘n’ tumble at their album launch
and latest recipients of the (perhaps poisoned?) Jack
White production credit, were so utterly drab in support.
Relevant sites:
http://www.whitestripes.com/
http://www.alexandrapalace.com/
http://www.blanchemusic.com/
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2004©
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