ON NO NAME, JACK WHITE STRIP(E)S DOWN
As a songwriter, Jack White has two modes: cock-strutting rock where he says badass things that nonetheless don’t feel like they’ll lead to actual violence, and soft spoken romantic declarations that nonetheless don’t feel like they’ll lead to actual fucking. White’s retro fascination extends not only to the aesthetics of his music, but the content as well. He’s locked in a pre-1966 world where sex and drugs go unmentioned and violence is caused by street toughs doing “rumbles” among each other.
Yet, although he has a famous affinity for analog recording methods and technology, White’s no luddite, seemingly snapping up every new synthesizer and guitar pedal as it hits the market (and even designing his own, in the case of the Triplegraph, which is an octave fuzz that has olde timey telegraph keys for buttons, because of course it does). In fact, the biggest problem with his most recent albums is that their songs seemingly come from a desire to showcase his newest gadget rather than a desire to actually say anything. It’s one of music’s great ironies that once someone has purchased a full sonic palate to express themselves, they may have run out of things to say.
With his sixth album, No Name, I don’t think we have to worry that White has reached the bottom of the well, even if he doesn’t actually cover any new emotional ground. No Name is probably White’s best reviewed solo album since his debut Blunderbuss, because he strips it down to the basics: guitar, drums, a hint of bass. All the rip, he pulls out a couple of nifty guitar solos, and he doesn’t make us listen to any boring acoustic songs or genre experiments. On No Name, he makes the album closest to his beloved White Stripes, which means we get power chords, chest-pounding declarations, and white boy blooze. White made the Stripes iconic by working within well-defined constraints, and it’s no surprise that he works best that way, as this return-to-form proves. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that one of the most heralded electric guitarists of the 2000s makes his best music with an electric guitar in his hands.
Also: is that a boner, Jack? On “Missionary,” White admits that while he “can’t drive a stick” he’ll make you miss him if you put him in that position, missionary. Oh, how White of him! Of course the retro diehard fucks best in a position so archaic it’s referenced in the Bible.
A side note: No Name breaks from recent tradition of White solo albums by having either no artwork or what looks like a close up of a sapphire colored carbonated drink. Before that, he has a three album run of the worst looking cover art from an artist who I know knows how to put out a decent looking record. As much as we hate to admit it, most of the time you can correctly judge a book by its cover.
Jack White Albums Ranked:
- No Name
- Blunderbuss
- Lazaretto
- Fear of the Dawn
- Entering Heaven Alive
- Boarding House Reach