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Published on 7/24/08
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In the Raconteurs, Jack White achieved the impossible: He made himself boring. Gone was the creepy, mustachioed huckster with a tricolor wardrobe, an undomesticated guitar, and a drummer alternately recognized as his sister and ex-wife; in his place stood a restrained indie-rocker surrounded by a sturdy and somewhat generic band of dudes. The side project was akin to a literary novelist publishing a genre book—its unforeseen success was testament to White’s monstrous songwriting skills, but also to listeners’ predilection for the straight and narrow.
On Icky Thump, the singer returns to the berserk duo that consecrated him as the Bush era’s one true rock star. Though the album lacks the cohesion of White Blood Cells and Elephant, it loudly reestablishes White as rock & roll’s preeminent weirdo, as well as one of its rowdiest guitarists. Like the Ramones, the White Stripes are an obsessive-compulsive’s dream band, and their career is defined by self-imposed limitations. These constrictions have a liberating effect: Whereas the Raconteurs’ conventions muffled White, in returning to the narrow scope of the duo he is unshackled, roaring the type of blues-rock that traditionally has emanated from armies of hairy men. As on its less ferocious predecessor, Get Behind Me Satan,Icky Thump adds slight tweaks to the band’s sound, including theatrical bagpipes and mariachi flourishes that could open a Tarantino movie. But the emphasis inevitably rests on White, who seems overjoyed to revert to his original character: mythic modern bluesman, nonpareil.—Jay Ruttenberg
