When a friend recommends a new album it can be like attending the sermon of a Baptist minister witnessing the Lord. They'll stress the mastery of instrumentation and songcraft or remind you how long it's been since you heard something that really moved you. Inevitably the impromptu review will culminate with the statement "You just gotta hear it." When you're friend makes their recommendation they're putting themselves on the line, of course. So they don't just give you the facts of an impartial honest review. They're selling what they enjoy to you to validate their taste and reputation. So 90% of the time when you buy the album it sucks. Because let's face it, no two audiophiles are anywhere near alike. That's sort of the whole point of being a music fan in the first place, right? But there are a few things that most good music has in common. It's the rare friend that recognizes that, and is able to take that into account with your musical taste to get it right for you. I don't know your taste at all, let alone who you are, and I can still say that you need to get your hands on a copy of White Blood Cells by Detroit mainstay The White Stripes. It has the aforementioned elements, as well as a few other ingredients thrown in for good measure, that make it nearly irresistible to any fan of rock and roll.

The music is made almost entirely by Jack and Meg White; a brother and sister or ex-husband and wife combo (depending on who you believe), and the two have a knack for cutting to the quick. When their previous album, 2000's DeStijl, was secretly lauded as the latest music to bow down to until the White Stripes were inevitably discovered, you had to wonder what form the ridicule would take when the band broke (read: sold out). "I don't listen to them anymore, not since they sold out and you started hearing them in every coffee shop in the Haight/Silver Lake/East Village/take your pick." While the White Stripes won't be selling out stadiums any time soon, or for that matter selling out period according to Jack White in a recent interview, they may actually deserve and live up to the nauseating amount of hype they've recently collected. From best album of the year from The Village Voice to the second coming from NME across the pond, The White Stripes earned more than their share of reasons for chest beating. This is partially due to the fact that White Blood Cells sounds like it was made with little or no help from anyone other than Jack and Meg White-- which is just fine because it sounds like the two really don't need anyone else's help anyway. We all love those who can pull themselves up by their boot straps, right?

It also helps that, unlike other bands currently trying to pull back on pure pop and melodic Radiohead impersonator chain-- Gun Club for example-- The White Stripes have more than a number one hit's worth of depth. The music isn't diluted. There are no ice cubes added, and it's dirty. It's like beef jerky, you put it in your mouth and chew on it for about eight hours-the album is only 45 minutes long but you'll drive the neighbors crazy with the volume knob and repeat button- enjoying the flavor all the way through. White Blood Cells is the dinner you left on the stove for too long, filling the house with aroma until you finally remember to go in and check on it only to discover that all of the broth has boiled away, and you are only left with charred remains stuck to the bottom of the pot, stripped of all presentation. It's hard to imagine that something so stripped down and intense could pour forth from a mere duo.

When you first slip the CD you notice mostly the electric guitar and Jack White's voice which seems to be taking your entire CD collection and hurling each disc at the floor like Frisbees, then jumping up and down on them for good measure. The White Stripes are good enough to let everything they do on the album speak for itself, which mostly involves Meg White wailing away on the drums like John Bonham on a good day and Jack wailing away on his high-pitched vocal chords with the aforementioned sometimes distorted electric and sometimes delicately strummed acoustic guitar, throwing in the odd organ. There is no bass, there is no rhythm guitar or background singers. You may find yourself listening to this album as if your life depended on it, which is fine since that's how The White Stripes play it. "Dead Leaves and Dirty Ground", which opens the album, gets caught in your throat as you try to swallow it. If you don't know what to expect from the band this will give you a pretty good idea of what their about. Between Jack's crackling Stratocaster and Meg's levee breaking back-beat, you'll wonder if someone's trying to break your door down. From there the album meanders between Waylon Jennings style country melody with the likes of "Hotel Yorba" and "Now Mary" to the Randy Rhoads channeling "I Think I Smell a Rat". But most of the songs find themselves somewhere in between, weaving influences from electric blues legends like Lightnin' Hopkins and country outlaws like Jennings to leather pants wearing scoundrels like Judas Priest. It creates a rarefied mix of all the music we're loathe to admit we've ever listened to in mixed company-country and western, heavy metal (as opposed to nu-metal) for example. That gives you the background for why, essentially, every song on the album works, but that's not why every song on the album works. Jack White, who acts as producer, songwriter, guitarist and singer has audibly and obviously put much thought into the arrangements. If the album wasn't so much fun to listen to, you might swear it was performance art at times, as in "The Union Forever" where the melody stops, and backed by the hammering of Meg's drum sticks Jack speculates about a certain idealized man, and wonders with wealth and fame/he's still the same/I'll bet you five/he's not alive/if you don't know his name. So don't take my word for it. Go out and get the album. I'd lend it to you, but I'm still listening to it right now.

Ari Levenfeld
3.22.02