two person army

Friday night I saw the White Stripes perform at the Greek Theatre in Berkeley. I was more or less unaware of the Stripes until SPIN magazine named Elephant the best album of 2003. I went out and got it, and was pretty blown away. I picked up their new album a couple months ago, and have been grooving to it, too. Still, I haven't really considered myself a serious Stripes fan.

The show was magnificent. White is mesmerizing as he struts around the stage, singing into a variety of differently placed microphones. He first appeared in a black costume reminscent of a 19th-century snakeoil salesman, but soon shed the overcoat and hat and sported a tight red t-shirt and black flared trousers. He alternated instruments, playing at least two different guitars, marimba, and piano. He milks his guitars for every ounce of sound he can squeeze, and his voice is a consumate rocker screech-and-wail. A typical complaint about the Stripes is that they have no bass player. But White plays bass and guitar--at the same time, and on the same intstrument. At times his voice recalls Robert Plant. Despite his costume (which he shed fairly early on in the show), Jack isn't prone to visual theatrics; his movement is controlled and measured. But his voice evokes plenty of drama.

But for me the real show stopper was Meg White on drums. Meg is often dismissed as a non-drummer--the less-than-kind argue that she can't drum at all, while those more generous are apt to charcterize her as a naïf. It is true that there is a primal quality to her drumming, not so far afield from the great Moe Tucker's pounding when she was drummer for The Velvet Underground. But Meg seems completely in control of herself, and, at times, of Jack, as well. She falls into a trance-like state in which she sways back and forth and flings her long hair back and forth across her face. Only occasionally does she seem to make eye contact with Jack, and when she does, she seems to be inviting a show down with her bandmate.

Our group included four straight men and a set of traveling binoculars, whose primary function was to close in on Meg's impressive rack. Now I'm not a tits man, but Meg's breasts are noteworthy, and her drumming only accentuates their amplitude. Even when her bongos aren't bouncing along with her drumsticks, however, Meg exudes sexuality. The simple motion of her hip moving up and down as she pumped her kick drum is saturated with eroticism. She created her own world with her beats, and I couldn't help but wish I could enter it with her. Watching her work her kit, and given the appreciative reception she received by the men in our group, I wondered why there aren't more women drummers.

The Stripes played all the tunes I'd hoped they would, including the singular covers of Dolly Parton's "Jolene" and Burt Bachrach's "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself." The rest of the tunes ranged from the sweet ditty, "We're Going to be Friends" to the driving rock of "Blue Orchid." The Stripes cover a lot of territory, musically and sonically, and I was convinced that they are one of the great bands recording right now. If you get the chance to see them, take it. It will be the sort of show you can tell your envious kids grandkids about years from now.