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| The White Stripes Infect Local Online Editor |
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 The White Stripes are spreading like a viral meme and I'm their latest host. I don't know what's come over me but I've been spreading this virus every time I open my mouth to talk about music, intentionally infecting my unsuspecting friends and acquaintences. It's sick, I know. I'm sure with a little bed rest and plenty of fluids I'll be right-as-rain in a few weeks, but for now I can only cough-up infectious accolades for the band that, in my fevered condition, I believe saved rock 'n roll. If you don't want a dose off this gratuitous Influence-a yourself, I'd suggest you quit reading now and go double-up on the Vitamin C before your throat starts to itch with sympathetic vibrations and you reach for a peppermint hard-candy to sooth your weary pipes.
Perhaps in this case prevention is the best medicine. Let me explain how the symptoms began and where I picked up this nasty, persistent bug that plagues me to this day:
Weakened Immune System
After suffering the relentless buzz of what I was convinced would be another over-hyped, MTV-style flavor-of-the-week disappointment, I broke down and decided to find out what all the ballyhoo was surrounding The White Stipes (yeah, I know I could have stole the music online, but lucky for the record industry I don't have a broad-band connection yet and I'm too impatient for downloading). I figured, since they were from Detroit, it was my responsibility to know, at least, who they were and what they did before they disappeared entirely.
Initial symptoms upon handling the medium of infection
'Oh look, a cute, candy-colored CD cover for the fashion-gorging sub-pop youth market. And there's a little peppermint on the cover with (whaddya know?) white stripes. How quaint,' I groaned. The band's marketing scheme was thinner than the errant hairs protruding from the middle of my forehead. Should I really buy this CD? I wondered. Would my musical life be richer for the purchase or was I just going to be out another thirteen bucks? I still needed to know who these punks were. Don't think, just buy; impulse purchasing is, after all, The American Way and we're still recovering from a post 9/11 funk. I rushed to the counter and paid retail (possibly the first sign of sickness) for The White Stripes self-titled disc from 2001; curiously, the only copy available in the entire store.
Asymptomatic Itch
"What the F*ck?" was my very first impression of the raw sound blurting out of my speakers; some guy wanking-out blues riffs on his fuzzed-out guitar while his sister (his sister?) clomps on the drums with baseball bats in what sounds like my parent's garage? This is what all the hype is about? Feeling as if I'd once again been fleeced by the record industry (Sympathy For The Record Industry - indeed!), I pulled out of the store parking lot, cynicism reinforced, and headed for home. But, I didn't pull the disc out of my CD player. "Well, why the fuck not?" my conscience chimed in. "It's just one guy and his sister bashing out the blues, stripped of any redeeming production value whatsoever. Take that fucker and throw it out the goddamn window already!" But I wouldn't do it. I couldn't do it. Somehow, it felt like I'd be pitching my last cigarette out the window, un-smoked, with nary a gas station or cigarette machine for a hundred miles. "No, I'd better just hold on to it in case I need it later," I rationalized.
Fevered Pitch
There was something about Jack White's sinewy voice; something primitive that you can only experience in altered states of listening that makes time slip backwards; back to junior-high summers, embroidering band names on my naturally faded blue-jean jackets and being truly proud to wear them; back to the days of pouring over CREEM magazines for some esoteric germ of rock wisdom that might, for a moment, impress my pubescent peers; back to T-Rex, that's the vibe, but cruder, ruder, like Mark Bolan's long lost basement tapes that are so rich with passion and impromptu spasms of pure emotion it's almost too painful to hear. It's Rock 'N Roll VooDoo, it's Black Magic Blues, it's Robert Johnson's re-birth at the crossroads in an incarnation nobody would recognize (I could easily believe the White Stipes made a deal with the devil to mezmerize the entire world; There is, after all, an awful lot of red on those covers. And if Meg White really is his ex-wife masquerading as his sister, well that just makes the spell even more devilish).
Persistent Infection
How did the White Stipes save rock 'n roll? They pitched all the rules out the fucking window, like Iggy did, to remind us that music isn't about album-cover glamour, consumer marketing savvy, or technical production skills. I'm not saying there isn't some ingenious alchemy in the creation of "The White Stripes" - we're too far along in the game to call their sound natural evolution (more of a symptomatic mutation) - but they've emoted a waking dream in their recordings. They've captured something in their music you can't commodify - try as the record companies might to re-create their success by churning out garage band after garage band, hoping one in a thousand contracts pays-off the way this one has.
Ironically, my White Stripes infection has made me feel better about nationally released music than I have in twenty years. One in a billion viruses mutate in the music biz to create a new strain of sickness you can't beat off with a stick. It's probably no accident they've named their new release, "White Blood Cells." You're going to need them if you ever want to feel the same about rock music again. Personally, I prefer to stay infected, before The Machine starts to tout the sickness as the cure-all and force-feeds you another dose of Garage hype via your nearest public orifice.
Oh, Unfair World
The White Stripes are playing two sold out shows at the Royal Oak Music Theater, tonight May 22nd 2002 and tomorrow, May 23rd. If you're a registered user or just a browser with better luck and connections than I (meaning you have tickets) let us know how it all went down.
- Mitch Phillips
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