What exactly do we know about Jack White? Well he's a restless oddball for starters. Since ditching that fetching outfit of red trousers and a red t-shirt he's not only started to change up his wardrobe but his music's taken a bit of a shaking as well.
After ditching Meg White for a bit of Brenden Benson and forming The Raconteurs, White began to show his hunger to grow as a musician. Where the Stripes were far from a non-experimental straight-down-the-line outfit, it seemed sensible for the Detroit eccentric to embark on pastures that would allow him to create something greater.
Alongside Benson and Jack Lawrence, White seemed to flourish. The Raconteurs were, and still are, a solid gang of musical outlaws. But as fidgety as ever, that clearly wasn't enough for Jack. He has an outlet that needs to be exposed, a creative flare of rock and roll that he needs to release, and where the rough-scuzzy edge of the White Stripes was a little hiatus in the Raconteurs Jack has once again embarked on another mission, a dirty bluesy-punk one. Enter The Dead Weather.
Miss Alison Mosshart of The Kills, the modern lady of rock'n'roll (that's right, screw you Ditto!), fronts the band as White, Jack Lawrence and Dean Fertita (Queen of the Stone Age) swap instruments and band roles like young'uns swap football stickers.
Taking this project by the horns, the band cut the CD in just three weeks, stripping the production process back to basics and leaving those unpolished edges as rough as you can without sounding like a self-produced Babyshambles album.
The term 'super group' has been used countless times to label this band, with White undoubtedly being the focal point of these descriptions. He's clearly the most accomplished musician in the group, and maybe for some, the reason why you may purchase this record. But let it be known! Mosshart is the character who clearly comes to form. The dirtbag biker howl of the Kills frontlady casts darkness over this album. Mossheart's screach is followed by a gloomy, satanist storm-cloud that casts a shadow over the beating heart of the Dead Weathers mystical collaborative cult, elevating you to the Arcadian alt-punk heavens and back down to the damp corners of depressive loneliness.
The devilsh squeal on 'New Pony' is as menacing as the guitar growls that scale its gritty surface, while 'Treat Me Like Your Mother' intensifies the icky thump-ness of White's unforgettable two-piece past. 'I Cut Like A Buffalo' provides an unexpected funky edge to a seemingly carnage-causing record as it's rippling guitar-organ bubbles like a cauldron of funk-punk filth.
Sorting the record in three weeks was an ambitious effort. It's easy to appreciate the jagged brink of this album because over production usually means over kill, but it's the songs that lack that certain dazzle. 'So Far From Your Weapon' is almost there with it's underhanded psych-echo but it soon becomes hard to distinguish, or really remember the songs. At first it's an exciting piece of work. Exploding with noise and an undeniable rock ethic but the tracks leave little long-lasting, memorable effects.
Once your in 'Horehound' you're a frantic mess, excited and taken back by its forceful blow, but once you're of the express train, it leaves you sitting comfortably wondering what was that last Dead Weather track called?
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