June 2003, Mizner Park Amphitheatre, Boca Raton, Fla.
I’ve said this before, and I’ll probably keep on saying it: There is nothing musically that Jack White has done that isn’t fantastic. The guy doesn’t make mistakes. His personal life seems to be a total mess, but when it comes to music — leading his band (White Stripes), playing in a band with others (Raconteurs, The Dead Weather), going out solo, running a record store/recording studio (Third Man Records) — the guy bats .1000. He could release and album of elevators opening and closing and I’d listen to it.
Perhaps of all he’s achieved, Elephant is the greatest. With White Stripes bandmate Meg White, Jack created a tapestry of guitars, drums and vocals (without the use of computers) that is unparalleled — and he did it in two weeks. Bands takes years to churn out albums, and Jack and Meg produced a masterpiece in a fortnight. It doesn’t make any sense.
I found The White Stripes, like most people, with White Blood Cells and gathered up De Stijl soon after. There is nothing like Jack and Meg, a combination of a master guitarist and songwriter with a self-taught drummer who dabble in blues and Detroit punk. And the back story — brother/sister or husband/wife? And always wearing red and black? Weird, wonderful.
Even seeing this band in Boca Raton was odd, at an open-air amphitheater attached to an outdoor mall. It’s what made the experience so great because you just aren’t supposed to see anything like this.
I went with my wife for the general admission show, which was crowded but not packed. We ambled up close to the stage (though a mosh pit would form at the foot of the stage, kids will slam to anything nowadays) and waited for the pair to appear.
Meg came out in all white while Jack was dressed in a red shirt with pants in alternating colors — one leg red, one leg black. The drum set was set back to the left while Jack’s mic was center stage, maybe three fives steps from the kit. He stepped to the mic, shook his head of crazy black hair, and opened with “When I Hear My Name,” an obscure song from the band’s self-title debut album.
Yep, that’s about right.
In Ramones cadence, the band went from one song to the next, barely stopping, stuffing in almost 25 songs at breakneck speed. Amidst the brilliant songs from Elephant (“The Hardest Button to Button,” “Black Math,” “Ball and Biscuit”) were covers (Bob Dylan’s “Love Sick,” “Son House’s Grinnin’ in Your Face,” Blind Willie McTell’s “Lord, Send Me an Angel”) and White Stripe favorites (“Fell in Love With a Girl,” “Hotel Yorba,” “You’re Pretty Good Looking (For a Girl)”). Jack was wild and frantic, playing solos in a crazed frenzy, yearning for a loud, churning sound. Meg was reserved and composed, even while banging the crap out of the drums. Jack was colorful and at ease with the stage, Meg looked like she wanted to do something else, and the tension made for a great stage drama.
It shouldn’t work, but it did.
When it came time for the encore, Jack came out alone, playing “We’re Going to Be Friends” and the Lead Belly cover “Boll Weevil” before sending off the crowd into the vast expanse of the high-end mall outside the gates.
I never saw a band or show like this before, and I doubt I’ll see ever one like it again. I hate the word unique because it’s used improperly — there are so few things that are the only one of its kind. But that’s what The White Stripes are — one of a kind.
