Photo by: Wes Orshoski
If bombast and
gimmickry have turned the White Stripes into an arena band—at least in New
York—when you strip away the tired brother-sister charade, candy-striped
staging and costumes and even Jack White’s frenetic flailing about, what
remains the most interesting thing about them are White’s sheer musical ability
and instincts: his chops, his sense of melody, his selection of smart covers,
his eclectic taste.
And so it’s no
surprise that on their debut in Gotham’s
most-hallowed hall, it wasn’t shtick that stole the show, but rather
musicianship, and even calm. If White’s frayed riffing and shredding were
titanic, it tended to bleed one song into another. Several of the best moments
came when he gave weary eardrums a rest during songs like the acoustic encore
“We’re Going to Be Friends”—one of the times where he locked eyes with fans—the
old-school “Hotel Yorba,” the slow version of “Fell in Love With a Girl,” even
their take on Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.”
The
Tuesday-night crowd even seemed better suited for these breathers anyway, as
the chilly Garden was unusually sedate most of the night (only a small
percentage of ticket holders could access the livelier general-admission area
in front of the stage). “Come on, the Mercury Lounge can get louder than this,”
White said, referencing the popular—and cozy—downtown bar.
For all the
hype orbiting the band, this gig should have been triumphant. Yet it wasn’t
much different than most two-hour arena shows: The crowd rose to its feet at
the beginning, lost interest in the middle, then rose again for the swaggering
“Ball and a Biscuit” and the too-obvious closer, “Seven Nation Army.” Honorably,
that didn’t deter White, who thrashed about the stage, howling and wailing,
switching instruments, and impressively navigating between songs that called
for distorted crunch, spooky Delta picking, tender strumming and/or sheer
volume.
Beforehand, longtime
Grand Old Opry host Porter Wagoner
took the stage to an empty arena, charming early-comers with his country charm
and classics like “Green Grass of Home,” before a pro Nashville band featuring Marty Stuart and
Kenny Vaughan. Grinderman, Nick Cave’s midlife crisis—a group of guys pushing
50 playing nasty, sexual, man—slightly caveman—music
fare better, winning over MSG with the likes of the primal, brilliant “No Pussy
Blues”—even if those clapping neither knew Cave or understood his heavy-rock
detour. Wes Orshoski
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