We toured Carnaby Street, marveling that it’s still able to
trade on its name 56 years after London’s swinging creaked to a standstill. All
the modern big names are there, even though Lady Jane and Biba are long gone.
We didn’t buy anything. But at least it wasn’t closed.
The Coffee Store
My old not-very-happy
hunting ground, Patisserie Valerie, is gone now, but the tea and coffee
store a few doors down is still there. I couldn’t see any of the thick, embossed
tea bricks that so excited my imagination in those days, but you can get them
on Amazon now. No need to visit the inscrutable orient, or for that matter
Soho.
We did eat pastries from Soho – I had a Mont Blanc, which is not, as I
thought, a type of pen – from a patisserie nearby. Or it may have been a
boulangerie. In standard Soho fashion, all three square meters of the
patisserie were packed so we were sent upstairs where twenty to thirty people shrank
to fit themselves around five small tables in an area no larger than my bedroom.
At intervals, waiters and waitresses would appear at the top of the stairs and
attempt to give random pastries to punters, who would point fingers at each
other and shout out who needed what. (Each newcomer learned who had ordered
which pastry from the previous round of groans and finger pointing.) It was
like an Alice in Wonderland tea party, but the cakes were heavenly.
Also on the menu, so to speak, were Third Man Records, Jack
White’s record store, and the Sir John Soane’s
Museum, a must-see. It’s been expanded since I was last there. Like the
zoological-taxidermy addiction of Walter Rothschild, previous post, the
architectural-stone jones of John Soane was quite insatiable and the museum,
which is really just a London townhouse, holds so much carved and worked stone
that it must be constructed of Tardis-material with steel foundations reaching
below the Tube layer.
Talking of giant stone monuments, we also (after a couple of
false starts) figured out how to queue for the British Museum. This *is* a
place I visited many times while I lived in London, but seeing it again was
wonderful. We spent a lot of time on the Elgin Marbles. (I’d never paid any
attention to them before as my parents took one of their dislikes to them.) I
then spent 90% of the remainder of the time in the Egyptian Rooms, a type of pilgrimage
for me.
Below: Pictures of items from the British Museum Egyptian Collection
The British Museum, unlike most I’ve visited in recent
years, has not dumbed down for schoolchildren and I’m pretty sure the
schoolchildren don’t mind that. (There were a lot of them around, all
engrossed.) There are thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of items on
display, with cards giving basic details and there was a complete lack of “activities,”
broken machines that show videos, broken machines that show how things were made
or used, or crayons, coloring books, sandboxes or play bricks.
It would take days to properly explore the museum, but we didn't have days. We did have fun.
The Raconteurs recording Now That You're Gone and I'm Your Puppet.
Classic stuff even if Mr. No Head Keyboard Hands remains a mystery throughout. I assume it's Dean Fertita.
The beginning of Now That You're Gone is the same as the beginning of You Just Can't Win, isn't it? Not that I'm accusing anyone of plagiarism. It's just a classic guitarist noodle around some common chords. Jack's voice suits the smooth Northern Soul of I'm Your Puppet in a totally unexpected way.
While I'm at it, The Raconteurs' Blue Veins is a minor blues that tempts me every time into trying to add the words to Led Zeppelin's Since I've Been Loving You, a very similar song.
The Dead Weather are happy to celebrate the 10th anniversary of their first album Horehound today (Alison dressed in a full buffalo costume for the occasion). pic.twitter.com/1VAYHPhj6r
— Third Man Records (@thirdmanrecords) July 15, 2019
The Raconteurs (Jack White, Brendan Benson, Patrick Keeler and Little Jack Lawrence) came out with a bang to celebrate Third Man Records' tenth birthday and the release of their first album in ten years.
The "ultra" tickets to the show were offered through the Third Man subscription service, the Vault, and needless to say although I joined the online queue in time, I didn't get any, being 1081st in line. Pretty popular band. (Although I think the goodie bag, containing things like test pressings and other collectible tat also enticed a fair few of the sign ups. Along with the rare opportunity to see legendary bands like The Gories and The Soledad Brothers.)
Anyway, I wasn't there on April 6th, but surprisingly for a Jack White show, cameras were allowed, and so there are videos.
set list photo by Amanda
Youtube user VideoGremmie uploaded the videos below.
Consolers of the Lonely, with the Racs introduced by Jack's mum
Old Enough
Excellent version of the southern gothic tale Carolina Drama
The tour de force Blue Veins
A cover of the Go track, Trash, along with the Racs' new album cover of Donovan's Hey Gyp
There's at least one video of the whole set floating around and if it goes public, I'll put it here.
Meanwhile, tickets for the Raconteurs' north American shows go on sale tomorrow.
Raconteurs recording in the studio in Nashville, October 28th, 2018. Sign up for Third Man Records Vault Package 38, featuring their first NEW MUSIC in ten years, by Wednesday at midnight CT:thirdmanrecords.com/vault
If you have not previously been a member of the Vault, it's Jack White's subscription vinyl service. To get this package you would need to sign up in the next two days. Don't sign up too late because you won't get it. You'll be charged the same amount and get the NEXT package, which hasn't been announced yet and could be anything. Well, any Third Man Records thing worth around $60.
I am, shock horror, not an OG White Stripes fan. I gave up on rock music by the late eighties, and although I moved to the US at around the same time, where I could be expected to ride the grunge wave, I didn't. Ending up close to LA, where the scene was pay-to-play Sunset Strip hair metal, I wasn't persuaded that things were any better. (I didn't have a lot of exposure to Orange County punk, otherwise things might have been different.) So, from 1990 to 2008 I was just listening to hip-hop and EDM and that's it. About then, late oughties, I asked a friend from a legacy Led Zeppelin group, newly energized by the 02 reunion, if there was anything equally exciting in the world today, and that's how I heard about the Raconteurs.
I really dug the Racs. They had the power-pop sensibilities to write the hooks and melodies and yet had the attack of a hard rock band. By the time I was turned on to them, it was already too late for new music from them, but when the Dead Weather formed in 2009 I was all over it. I forget how many times I saw them - 6 or 8 - and I unambiguously loved them. In some ways, I thought of them as LARPing heavy rock music, but in an affectionate and very accurate way. The Raconteurs were vastly different with their Tin Pan Alley hooks, but equally effective. The common denominator was Jack...so I bought all the White Stripes albums. I liked them but they've never been on my heavy rotation playlist.
Although I bought the subsequent Jack White solo albums they haven't, to me, alway had that savage attack and hard edge I prefer in music. For every High Ball Stepper there's a plaintive ballad. For that reason, I hadn't gone to any solo shows, until yesterday.
But, it was a sojourn. Bakersfield is a long drive for us. It was enlivened by a truck full of tyrannosaurs racing us from Irvine to LA in heavy traffic.
Once through LA and the byzantine single-lane mazes the I5 takes, it was straight sailing up the Tejon Pass and through the Meth Desert to Oildrillerville, stopping only to briefly get lost in Valencia, home of Six Flags Magic Mountain.
(That picture of Six Flags wasn't taken yesterday - it's from December, taken by a colleague at one of my previous work places in Valencia. The hills were on fire at the time.)
The hotel we'd chosen actually attaches to the Rabobank Theater. So, although it was 106F out, the rest of the evening was the most civilized experience I've ever had at a gig. There were Yondr people there to intercept and redirect the foolhardy who did not have a paper ticket and could have locked their phones in their Yondr bag prior to getting in. The will-call people were polite and organized. We had seats. There were ushers with flashlights to get us to our seats. The beer queue was manageable. You could drink beer in the seats. (You were specifically enjoined not to bring in "cans or other projectiles" but apparently cans bought inside the venue are not potential projectiles.) The lights went down at almost at the advertised time.
The pre-show music was all hip-hop, which was fine by me. Toes were tapped. The lights went down and the man in front of me, who I swear was Jerry Garcia, lit up a joint. How he did it without an open flame I'll never know, but there it was. (Folks, he bogarted his joint. Maybe it wasn't really Jerry.) The support act was William Tyler and I'm sorry but no. The music - unaccompanied guitar - was pretty good and would be stellar on the player if you're painting a room or having a nice garden party or something, but as a warm up act for Jack, it just cooled me down. I'm convinced he played Led Zeppelin's Going To California eleven times, sometimes on acoustic, sometimes on electric and once in a slightly ragtime way. He was a very polite, humble southern gentleman and did not overstay his welcome.
He cleared off and a large number of what I've called Homepride Flour Men
arrived, prompting STB to wonder out loud what Jack's trilby budget is for the tour. A few minutes later, the screen behind the stage started showing the countdown clock. Every now and again the silhouette of Jack would turn up and wind the clock back or move it forward. This clock is great - nothing is as engaging as a counter, as anyone who has written or seen one of those movie scenes where "it's a race against time!" can attest. As soon as anything is "on the clock", whether it's disarming a bomb or getting to the hospital while in labor, a timer automatically generates interest and excitement. I nominate Countdown Clock for support act of the year.
Then the band arrived and started jamming, leaving us in suspense for a minute or two before Jack White appeared. I was prepared for the band to know the new, solo music inside out. To be perfectly rehearsed and yet able to jam. To follow the bandleader's cues and yet be loose enough to shine. And they did all that perfectly. I wasn't prepared for them to accompany Jack as he did some of the hardest, quietest, rawest and most emotional of his tracks, old and new. He sung his heart out with You've Got Her in Your Pocket and I'm a Martyr for my Love for You. The band stayed out of the way while still supporting Black Math and I Think I Smell a Rat. The gentle Humoresque was a jaw-dropping experience. Jack seems so vulnerable singing some of these songs that it often seems he's lonely even with all these people behind him and all the audience in front of him. The White Stripes songs that seemed abstract to me on the old albums came alive - I could finally see what the long time fans see in them. I don't ever recall going to another show where the artist seemed so open and truthful. And rocking and banging and heavy, and light and ethereal.
Because I'm me, I'm going to catalog some irritants. The LED blue lights are too blue. It's overwhelming. If you pay good money, you expect to have the whole spectrum or at least cyan, magenta and yellow.
Second, the stage set up. The semi-circular enclosure that lifts the other musicians above him bothered me. It looks much steeper and deeper than in the official photograph (above) from my Section E Row OO. At first, I spent several songs thinking it privileged him over the other musicians, which might not be surprising given he's the headliner, but separating the band members is not rock'n'roll. It's odd to see the guitarist literally on another level from his band and I kept thinking it made him look like a diva, a Shirley Bassey or Beyonce, divorced from his backing band.
After a while, I thought it disprivileged him. It made him look like he was the slave in the arena in the coliseum, left to battle lions alone while the freemen and nobility sat in the tiers above, absolved from responsibility to fight.
Thirdly, the picture of the coliseum floor looks universally blue in the photo. It doesn't look like that in real life. In the moment, you can see that the fretcloth of the antique amplifiers is not blue, but a greyish beige, a faded 60's color. The LED blue surrounding it emphasizes the workmanlike mid-century look of the little pile of amplification inside the curve of the band's risers. It looks like a museum piece, a diorama featuring a critically endangered Homo rockus in his natural habitat. That bothered the hell out of me. I'd prefer the amps to be behind, where they're supposed to be, rather than showcased with Jack. They're superannuated, and even if they're essential for the sound there's no reason to foreground them in 2018. The White Stripes are, genuinely, over.
It did occur to me that the steps up to the band only exist because Jack has so much energy that he'd boil and blow up like a steam locomotive if he didn't have flywheel steps to run up and down at critical moments.
Excellent 2001 video documentary of the Detroit Scene from 2001. Features the White Stripes (of course) along with Mick Collins of The Dirtbombs and half a dozen other faces of the time.
Mick Collins has the best laugh in rock music. It makes you happy even though most of the time he's doing Deep Thinking. (So follow him on Twitter @BroknHeadphones !) Among the others featured is Arthur Dottweiler, who was the White Stripes manager at the time (in the same sense that Jack White and Meg White were brother and sister at the time). I love Arthur Dottweiler for some reason and he can manage me any time he likes. (The names Dottweiler/Dattwyler/Tutwiler are some of my favorite names too. Dr. Ray Dattwyler is a Lyme Disease researcher which means he's tangentially related to Peromyscus; Tutwiler is the city in Mississippi where W. C. Handy first encountered the Blues.)
Anyway, that's nothing to do with this documentary which is all about the time when Detroit was an organically happening place. Makes me wish I had a time machine and some spare air miles.
Over and Over and Over, from Jack White's forthcoming album Boarding House Reach and The Kills' List of Demands.
The Kills: List of Demands - a cover of the Saul Williams' song
Jack White: Over and Over and Over
The Kills are leaning a bit on the MOR side for me, but it's an excellently produced track that will sound good for hundreds of listens, and the video is memorable. I still want to be Alison when I grow up. The Jack White track brings the riffage, and the lyrics (that I can make out) are pretty deep, but overall I'm not quite as taken with it. The backing singers sound bolted on, like an aftermarket spoiler on a street car. And the bongos. Man, what's with the bongos? I assume he can afford an Amen Break sample like everybody else.
House of Blues, July 2010. I was there! I love the twin lead guitars. I have to say there's been some drastically crap dual lead guitar playing over the last fifty years, but this works, possibly because Dean and Jack show no signs of even knowing there's someone else on the stage. Off in their own little worlds, reacting to the music. I also like the way it's been filmed in B&W by a mole person with a camera that fought every step of the way to only focus on the little light on one of the amps.
Thanks to uploader acquiescefc, Jack White's Love Interruption from his debut solo album Blunderbuss, performed with his male backing band The Buzzards - and Alison Mosshart.
When It Might Get Loud came out in 2009, I was just getting into Jack White’s music and at the peak of a rediscovered Led Zeppelin fanaticism. I loved the hell out of the idea of the film. Thesis: take three guitarists and examine the role of rock guitar in music, and what drives the players to learn and excel at it – starring Jimmy Page, Jack White and The Edge.
The premiere was in LA and when I phoned up for tickets, they said there were two premieres. I asked what the difference was, and she didn’t tell me the truth, which is how come I went to the second premiere that didn’t have Jimmy Page and Jack White in attendance. But never mind! I saw it another two or three times in the cinema, and then bought the DVD. I gushed about it several times on my blog, and other bloggers – cooler heads, one might say – did try to tell me it wasn’t very good, but I wasn’t having any of it.
I re-watched it just now. There’s things I still love about it. Jack’s laconic gunslinger outsider shtick, Jimmy’s palpable excitement at listening to Link Wray’s Rumble and his enthusiasm with the other players; Edge’s self-deprecation and brief Wanderer-of-the-Wasteland episode ending when the looming tangle of trees suddenly resolves into perfect rows with clear paths between them; the cows listening to Jack’s Diddly Bow; the slide guitar jam near the end; the White Stripes performing for a room full of puzzled Chelsea Pensioners. And although the three men seem to be mostly there because they were the three who answered the phone, rather than anyone’s idea of a broad selection, they settle into their roles as Jack (heart), Edge (head) and Jimmy (groin).
The cooler heads were right, however. The exercise was flawed in numerous ways. Neither producer Thomas Tull nor director Davis Guggenheim demonstrate an understanding of the guitar nor are they able to pull together a cohesive account of the electric guitar or its place in rock. The narrative used is a three-act drama, which means that at the top of the second act, someone had to have a crisis, reach rock bottom and be forced to develop new strengths to overcome adversity and ultimately triumph. This is a really strange thing to have in the middle of a factual film that is not a biography. It’s shoehorned in by bending poor old self-effacing Edge’s story, having him go into exile to learn songwriting skills. Which he does, but the sought-for emotional catharsis is blunted by its artificiality. As a more concrete example of a flaw, Jimmy’s first electric guitar is labeled onscreen a ‘Stratocaster’ even though it’s a Grazioso, and Jimmy was one of the least likely rock musicians to be seen with a Strat at any point in his career.
More obviously (and loudly) two of the three guitarists refuse to stick with the script. Jack’s first love is the drums, and he’s portrayed as switching to guitar mostly because his upholsterer boss Brian Muldoon already played drums and he wanted to jam. Apart from a fair amount of drumming, the bulk of Jack’s music in the film is thumped out on piano, so Guggenheim must have been overjoyed to get hold of the footage of him bleeding for his art all over a guitar pickguard. Jimmy loves guitars – literally – but spends a lot of time talking about producing music (mostly drum sounds) and plays a lovely mandolin bit. At least he can tell his spooky story about the guitar “intervention” when his first guitar turned up mysteriously in his house just as he became interested in music. Edge sticks to guitar, but his style – very simple riffs compounded into lacy ruffles by echo, delay and other effects – means that the film spends most of its time marveling at his equipment and following his guitar tech around.
The ’summit’, where all three guitarists meet for the first time, with their equipment set up around them, is evidently supposed to be a climax. In the event, all three seem a little shy, and you watch The Edge, ever eager to please, trying to keep the conversation going by asking Jimmy questions but aware that he needs to avoid the minefield of disallowed inquiries that have tripped up many a professional journalist and gotten them yelled at by an irate Page. (He steps in it with the Kinks question, but manages to get out with both feet intact.) They demonstrate one of their famous riffs each, teach it to the others, and then join in on the ultimate song of the movie. It’s… The Weight, that old chestnut, played on acoustic guitars, and there’s nothing about it that you wouldn’t see at any house party where three or more of your friends brought or found an acoustic instrument and downed sufficient beers to have a loose jam.
It’s worth watching, because we care about the people and what they have accomplished, but as a movie, alas, it’s strictly third-tier.
“Some of these fans were musicians themselves, and they turned the stripped-down music into arena rock, complete with extended guitar solos. This raised new questions: When Led Zeppelin sings “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You” or Jack White plays a resonator guitar, can it be called the blues?
No.
As a Jack White superfan pointed out to me this morning, Jack White has only once been seen playing a resonator, and that was on a fan-only paid website. And Babe I’m Gonna Leave You isn’t a blues song. It doesn’t pretend to be a blues song, doesn’t sound like a blues song, and wasn’t written as a blues song.
Hard to believe, but Led Zeppelin recorded it 48 years ago. If you take ‘pre-war’ as a blues landmark, it’s from much closer to 1940 than it is to the present day. Similarly, “When Led Zeppelin sings” is a daft statement, since they haven’t sung it since the Manchester Free Trade Hall gig in June 1969. And given all that, it’s a much older song still, first known to be performed by the folk singer Anne Bredon in the 1950s. She taught it to her friend Janet Smith, who continued to perform it at Hootenannies, until it was picked up by folkie Joan Baez and recorded in 1962. When introducing the song to singer Robert Plant, Jimmy Page only knew of Joan Baez's version, which at that time was credited to Trad. Arr. (traditional-arranged-by). He assumed it was traditional folk music and took credit for it. Bredon's writing credit was added to the Led Zeppelin track in the 80's. Since then, she’s received half the royalties for the song.
There's no available recording of Anne Bredon, but Joan Baez’s version from 1964 is widely available. It’s folk music. Greenwich Village, Great Folk Scare folk music, as is Barbara Muller’s 1964 version from her album Double Premiere. There’s no it-sounds-Appalachian-we-could-assume-slaves-incorporated-it-into-their-field-hollers ambiguity about it; it’s an ordinary folk song that otherwise-normal New Yorkers sang. Led Zeppelin’s version is folk music, with added Spanish flamenco-style guitar and rasgueado-like flourishes. The odd version out is the you-could-call-it-R&B version by The Plebs from 1964, who also credited it as Trad. Arr.
If you were going to pick an early Led Zeppelin song to point at and say “Is this really authentic blues music?” wouldn’t you pick Since I’ve Been Loving You? Or the us-versus-them (grinning)-in-your-face dirt of Bring It On Home? Or any of half a dozen other tracks? Personally, I wouldn't have picked Led Zeppelin at all. I would have picked a band that’s actually performed some music in the last thirty years. (O2 doesn’t count – not the original members.)
Continuing the Dead Weather's Dodge and Burn album release blitz, a live performance of Be Still for you.
I note that the mannequins, including the Madonna of the Amplifier, are unable to follow the injunction to Be Still and move around capriciously. But not as capriciously as the goat, in a blink-and-you-miss-it cameo appearance.
Goats are cool.
No "how to" instrumental technique on this one, alas.
The album drops tomorrow, so I'll be at Best Buy, angling for a free t shirt.
Modern Drummer has an exclusive on a Dead Weather's video on instrument technique.
Today they are showcasing Jack White himself on drums, and three other videos will be forthcoming.
Today's is a ten minute video, starting with Jack explaining his drumkit and why it is the way it is, and (at the 6:08 mark) going into a kickass new version of Hang You From the Heavens featuring the whole band (authentic non-doppleganger version) a pile of tires and some of the mannequins from the I Feel Love (Every Million Miles) video premiered last week.
During the song, Alison plays herself. The "Alison" at the six minute mark appears to be Jack's little daughter, Scarlett. Who the "Alison" is in the first minute of the video, I have no clue. I thought was Jack at first (same nasolabial folds) but unless Jack had his Adam's Apple shaved for the part, I guess it isn't him. Any guesses?
The "live" video for the Dead Weather's new single, I Feel Love (Every Million Miles) is here.
It really works live - shame that they're not touring the new album. Jack White seems to have upped his game on the drums and Dean Fertita makes a barebones riff fill the sonic space.The video looks simple, but there's a lot going on - watch Alison's doppleganger. And why is the mysterious Madonna figure crouched over a Fender amp and not the more usual manger?
I love the video effect that makes bright white shine black, like an old Image Orthicon tube camera on some beloved old black and white show that boasted all the happening beat combos.
I sometimes mention a product on this blog, and I give a URL to Amazon or similar sites. Just to reassure you, I don't get paid to advertise anything here and I don't get any money from your clicks. Everything I say here is because I feel like saying it.
