Sucked into an eccentric’s strange, gothic world
Jack White revels in giving the impression of being an analogue rock star in a digital world. The yesteryear shtick was writ large at this, the first of three shows at London’s Hammersmith Apollo, before the 42-year-old had even taken the stage.
Against the backdrop of a retro clock counting down, roadies in suits and pork pie hats were checking his vast array of vintage gear. Everything screamed “authenticity”. It made me want to rip open the sealed pouch into which I – along with 5,000 other people – had been forced to put my smartphone, and Google the difference between “artistry” and “overkill”.
That’s because the American’s carefully constructed retrospection seems increasingly at odds with his music. Back in the days of The White Stripes – his back-to-basics, bluesyrock duo from 1997 to 2011 – it would have made sense. However, White’s third solo album, this year’s Boarding House Reach, melds hip hop with raging Prince-like funk, gospel, jazz and Black Sabbath-grade riffs. And played live, songs such as Corporation and Ice Station Zebra (complete with a rap) felt blisteringly modern: a wild fusion of diverse influences overlain with a certain glitchy weirdness, rather like life in 2018.
White’s guitar playing was fierce and ragged. Lazaretto, from 2014, was explosive. Old White Stripes numbers such as Hotel Yorba and Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground were keenly received and harked back to a time when White’s musical canvas was simpler. My Doorbell, now 13 years old, saw White play a second drum kit to complement the meaty drumming of Carla Azar. I’d never have expected such a wispy twee ditty to incite moshing. With blues music (and now hip hop) as their nucleus, White’s tracks too often dealt in textures, not tunes. Over and Over and Over, for example, was less a song than a looped riff. And you kept expecting ballad Connected by Love to have another level of melody. It never quite came.
Still, it was hard not to get sucked into White’s strange, thrilling, gothic, occasionally shrill world. Rolling Stone once dubbed him the Willy Wonka of rock ’n’ roll, and this show was defined by White’s uncompromising singularity and occasional genius.
However, there were also flashes of an eccentric’s impetuousness. With five minutes to go before the 11pm curfew, White still hadn’t played what was a remarkable rendition of Seven Nation Army. Rather than get on with it, he pointlessly had a go at the Mayor of London for imposing time restrictions. The answer’s simple: get on stage earlier (9.20pm is a late start). Perhaps his analogue watch broke.
Shows sold out. Touring again in the autumn. Tickets: jackwhiteiii.com