Last night, I picked up a new CD--something I haven't done in a loooong time. Okay, okay. You caught me: I have friends who engage in a little illicit burning. I will never give up their names. Do your worst.
The White Stripes self-titled album. Amazing. The album itself is no White Blood Cells, and definitely no De Stijl (my personal fave of their catalogue). An illustration, Reader. My friends Dave and Leslie liked to strap their toddler into her car seat for long rides, and then show her nothing but Tom and Jerry cartoons on the portable DVD. By the time they turned her loose, she was a whirling dervish of frenzied action and speech. She would turn in circles, generating her own electricity in a flurry of flying barrettes, sliding glasses, and impossibly slurred speech. Jack White, metaphorically, is that toddler locked up and fed Tom & Jerry for hours. The fury with which he attacks each track stuns the listener into a rapture that is akin to addiction. No wonder these people got a record deal.
My current favorite track:
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