As
I sat eating the pickles off my pulled pork sandwich at the Double Windsor, I could sense the excitement of anticipation I haven’t felt
music-wise in a long time. Well, maybe the Radiohead show at Roseland a few
months ago was on a similar level. I had Jack’s entire catalog up on a mix on
my phone so the subway ride in (F to the B) was filled with Ball & Biscuit,
Black Math, Freedom at 21, Hustle and Cuss, Difference Between Us. Earlier in
the day, my musical prep also included learning and recording Dead Leaves and
the Dirty Ground, after watching Jack give a lesson on youtube to
Jimmy Page and Edge. My B train lifted me straight on to Broadway and 52nd
where I saw the massive block long ROSELAND sign and the 4 block long line of
folks waiting to get in. A courteous email (and phone call!) from ticketmaster
earlier in the day had informed me that the doors would be opening an hour
earlier than printed on the ticket, presumably to accommodate the simulcast on
SiriusXMU that night. I confirmed with the bouncer – a massive well-mannered
hulk who was politely fielding all kinds of inquiries on how to get in without
a ticket (I’m sorry, ma’am) – that the Shakes would be going on at 8 or 8:30.
Adam had warned me that there would be leagues of wonderful women at the show,
but from the look of the line it was 5:1 hairy men to girls. The ladies that
were there looked more ready for an Ani Difranco concert. But then I realized
that hot chicks don’t show up early for anything, not even Jack White. Billy appeared
as promised at the stroke of 7. Doors were opening at Roseland behind us, but
we decided to get our game faces on with a few pints of Smithwicks and a burger
at a nearby Irish bar.
At
7:45 we arrived at Roseland with the line entirely gone and crowd safely
ensconced in the legendary dance hall. We strolled in, got an over 21 wrist band
and walked into the crowd. Wow, the bars were full but manageable and the floor
was only half full. At the same point in the September Radiohead show there
were folks hanging from the rafters, no room on the floor at all and 25 deep in
the bars. I felt like the organizers decided not to oversell the place which
made for a good feel. I said “nice shirt” to the guy with the Hendrix shirt,
“love the shirt” to the girl with the Grateful Dead shirt and “great band” to
the guy with the Black Keys shirt. At 8:15, Britney Howard and the Alabama
Shakes walked on. The roadies had inserted their gear in a small circle that
was surrounded by Jack’s band’s equipment. It was the cramped opener setup that
the Stones used to do to their opening acts: when you are done, we want to
change some plugs and pull off some tarps and get to rocking. It made for a
very comfortable intimate setting for the Shakes as all they played within a
few feet of each other. Britney came out howling from the first note. The band
was tight and right behind her through her dramatic starts and stops, thrusts
and pokes and screams. She grooved forced the crowd to feel her ample hips. She
even dropped some soaring guitar solos to add to the magic.
I
waded in to the bar and moved up next to an exotic looking woman in a large sun
hat, leather jacket and white pants. She wasn’t making a move to signal the
bartender and I asked if I could assist. She said she was thinking about asking
for a double vodka but wasn’t sure about how to go about it. I shouted to the
bartender for two Heinekens and a double vodka and turned to her: “Have
you ever heard of Bianca Jagger?” She said, yes. “Well, you are a dead ringer
for Bianca Jagger in her prime.” She smiled a smile as big as a bright crescent
moon and said “Thank you so much, I’ll take that as a compliment. A big one.” I
told her that’s what it was. We looked at each other for a few moments and
smiled. She took a sip of her $8.50 double vodka and then floated into the
heavens.
By
that time, Bill’s and my roost on the floor about 20 people back had been
overwhelmed by extremely tall men with hats and elephant ears. Roseland is a
terrible place to see a show if you are short. These guys were at least 6
inches taller than me and I’m 5’10”ish. You could turn around and look at the
faces to see who could actually see the stage. If their eyes reflected light
from the stage, they could see. If their eyes were in shadows, they could see
nothing. There were many eyes in the shadows. Throughout the night I would talk
to the girls next to me, who averaged 5’0” it seemed: Can you see? No. Nothing
at all. But it sounds great! Do you want to sit on my shoulders? Yes,
please! We shifted over to stand behind the girls, because, uhh, we could
see better. And it just smelled better.
The
roadies all wore black suits, black shirts, blue ties and black hats. It looked
like 10 Elvis Costellos plugging in guitars and moving stuff around. Jack
strode in just after 9:30pm. Radio time. Girl band. The Peacocks. All glad in
Victorian formal dresses. Flowing when they moved. I couldn’t have been more
excited. The timing of the band was staggering. He walked from backstage,
around the pedal steel station, directly to the front mic and without pausing
to slow down and wave, screamed “SHE’S GOT STICKERS IN HER LOCKER!” The
drums and bass exploded at that instant. This wasn’t your father’s girl band.
The sound was bigger than huge. Confident, strident, soaring. But the drums.
Holy crap. John Bonham, Keith Moon and the goddesses of love and hope had
combined to form Carla Azar’s energy and sound. Bare feet. Traditional left
handed grip. Pure force. The bass player – pregnant (“playing for two”
Jack would later admit) – was getting some hairy fuzz tone out of a stand up
bass. A stunning redheaded keyboard player swayed and worked her organ. From
the back a blond Danish pedal steel guitar player delivered the melodic lines,
really taking the pressure off of Jack to be more free on the stage. There was
a violin back there, too? She danced as much as she played and it rocked. After
Saltines, the crimson keyboardist played the circular riff that signaled
Missing Pieces. Jack went over to her mic and speed sang his rhymes inches from
her face. They were already gelling.
It
was 10 years since I had seen the White Stripes at the Bowery Ballroom. Back
then a slightly chubbier (in tight red and white garb) Jack ripped it up with
his Meg in an intimate venue. Like today, he was in total control then. You
could see he was gravitating to his right often to shout into the mic in the
drum set because that’s what he’d do with Meg. But Carla was syncopating in
ways Meg could only dream of. In the Stripes, Jack was the guitar player, bass
player, rhythm, lead and backing sound. Now he had a strong band that delivered
his bass lines, melody and counter melody from a pedal steel guitar, violin and
piano. It freed him up to sing and punch riffs and solos wherever he wanted.
Dead
Leaves came next. Totally new sound. Larger and wider. Not better but different.
A new voice appeared in the form of a lovely backup singer Ruby Amanfu who
seemed totally unfazed when Jack would sidle over to scream in her mic as she
was singing. Love Interruption was next and
a perfect song to play with this band. Everyone harmonizing vocals around
Jack’s beat up acoustic guitar. Ruby starred in this one taking center stage
with Jack. Yeah, I won’t let love disrupt corrupt or interrupt me. (higher) I
won’t let love disrupt corrupt or interrupt me. (lower) I won’t let love
disrupt corrupt or interrupt me. Any more. (whispered).
“What
do you want me to play??? I’ll play anything you want!” Jack smiled. The crowd
heaved, the drummer went click click click click and Hotel Yorba came flying
out. Place went wild. It seemed that everyone knew every word. I been
thinking of a little place down by the lake they got a dirty little
road leading up to the house I wonder how long it’ll take. This is where I missed
Meg. This was the only song she really sang on for the Stripes that I recall
and it seemed that something sweet and innocent was gone.
A
few songs later, Jack pulled out an acoustic version of the Raconteurs’ Top
Yourself. I don’t know if he had a different type of influence when he wrote
those Raconteurs songs but they are really structured superbly well. More
nuanced and advanced than the straight ahead Stripes stuff. Top Yourself first
electrified the crowd as it seems that many of the younger folks were too young
for the Stripes. Is that possible? But then they settled into his Memphis-type
retelling of the tune and that was quite alright for all comers.
Back
to the piano for Hypocritical Kiss. Playing back to back with the red wonder in
a number that seems as a counterpart or sequel to Missing Pieces. Watching his
hands I decided to learn piano so I could play stuff like that. That idea was
quickly squashed as Jack then launched into the heavy heavy heavy Blue Blood
Blues dead weather riff. Maybe I’ll stick with the guitar and just play stuff
like this. Yeah. Crack a bone!!! Crack a bone!!! Crack a bone!! The bass and
guitar were a squadron of B-17 bombers over Ploesti. Boom boom crack crack
crack crack. Singing Sunday Service!!
Another
fun sing-along moment when the team played the Stripes I Think We Are Gonna Be
Friends and then went into the Jack/Danger Mouse masterpiece Two Against One.
The mirror is a trigger and your mouth's a gun. At this point you really felt
you were a part of something.
I
like Freedom at 21. He’s been playing it on the TV circuit so every knows it. A
derivation of the Seven Nation Army lick and the rapidfire lyrics with a
message that makes the girls feel great and the boys feel played. Also gives
Jack the opportunity to rip high speed guitar licks on his custom tinkered
tele.
Carolina
Drama appears. I loved this one from my first listen. A great story song from
the Raconteurs that twists and turns with blood and milk all over the floor.
I’m not sure if there is a point to the story but I’m glad he decided to tell
it again.
The
set ends with bluesy Ball & Biscuit. Some guy asks his buddy behind me if
this is a Dead Weather song. “No! It’s the fucking Stripes!!!” He screams.
Straight up hard blues. Let’s have a ball, girl and take our sweet time about
it.
During
the encore break, I was marveling at the hundreds of mostly Italian names on
the plaque in the hallway – IN HONOR OF THE MARRIED COUPLES WHO MET HERE –
ROSELAND DANCE CITY. Mr. & Mrs. Sal Lo Piccolo 1973. Mr. & Mrs. Michael
J Lovullo 1947. Wow. The keyboard player for the Alabama Shakes appeared and
read it with me and I congratulated him on the success of the group. He humbly
admitted it was a blast since he had only joined a year ago. “Europe was great
but we’ve only had one day off and we are all completely fried.” He also let
slip that although the Shakes had been playing together for 4 years, it had
only become real recently. As in the bass player had just quit his veterinarian
job in December.
A
loud rumbling noise emerged from the side of the auditorium where Jack appeared
on a sidestage mid crowd with his boy band Los Buzzardos. New band, new sound,
new angle, special treat. Black Math: Punk guitar riffs and machine gun drums.
VIPs who were sitting on that side stage watching the front stage were running
around wild. Holding up iPhones and sticking them in Jack’s face as he
screamed. It was like American Bandstand where the band plays amid the fans.
Now the place went nuts. Everyone missed the girls but these guys could bring
it too. They started to Cut Like a Buffalo and the boy bass player strutted his
stuff. The crowd was heaving and humping hard to this one. Apex of the show.
Jump jump jump we all went. Is that you chokin? Or are you just jokin? The
slippery slide guitar appeared for an extended Catch Hell Blues. Roseland
Ballroom is transformed into a Mississippi juke joint. We are sweating, moving,
banging our heads, raising our arms. Try and catch me!
Jack
finishes up and smiles at the crowd. Somehow spontaneously the crowd starts to
hum/sing the intro to Seven Nation Army. He smiles bigger. We hum/sing louder.
He delivers and now we are stomping. I’m gonna fight em off! After a
burning tour de force he’s gone.
Back
out on Broadway, Billy and I hail a cab. Where we going now? I’m not done, says
Bill. Me neither. We head back to Brooklyn for beers and a plate of fried chicken
and collared greens. I just didn’t want to stop feeling and tasting.
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