What’s so mind-boggling about the complaints about White Stripes mania is that the whiners think they just came out of nowhere. They’ve been around for SEVEN YEARS, for crying out loud. It’s like complaining that The Beatles hadn’t paid their dues in 1969, as they completed their final two albums. While the Stripes are no Beatles, let alone Stones or Led Zeppelin, they have accomplished more in four albums than most bands today. Starting with the hyper-minimalist debut that tackles Robert Johnson and Bob Dylan with two-chord garage punk that somehow sounded fresh, the Stripes expanded their influences on De Stijl to bubblegum pop and The Kinks. The 2001 breakthrough White Blood Cells temporarily abandoned the overt blues influences, which returned for Elephant.
Nearly every White Stripes song is larger than life. The secret weapon is Jack White’s stellar songwriting abilities. Even if he wasn’t an exceptional guitarist, the songs would still sound colossal. Every turn of phrase, economical hook and melody seem perfectly in place. Like all great music, you don’t question White’s songs, wondering if they’d sound better if they were done differently. They’re already perfect. The furious “Seven Nation Army” begins with what sounds like a bass, but is actually his guitar played through an octave pedal. When the guitar comes in, it roars. Recorded at London’s Toerag studio with all pre-1962 equipment, the sound is thick and loud, better than anything recorded at that time. “Black Math” begins with a standard repetitive two-chord riff, but again breaks down in an ear-shredding, cantankerous meltdown. “There’s No Home For You Here” sounds like a sequel to the vocal melody on the previous album’s “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” but offers another surprise with a multitracked chorus a la Queen. Bacharach’s “I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself” starts innocuously enough, until halfway through White lets out a bloodcurdling shriek that sounds uncannily like Robert Plant, kicking some serious ass. “In The Cold, Cold, Night” features Meg on vocals, exuding some detached, sexy Peggy Lee coolness. “I Want To Be The Boy To Warm Your Mother’s Heart” and “You’ve Got Her In Your Pocket” are two of White’s most heartfelt, tender ballads, with the former recalling the country-blues of Let It Bleed. “Ball And Biscuit” turns a 180, flicking on the predatory sexual braggadocio — “Right now you could care less about me/But soon enough you will care by the time I’m done/Let’s have a ball and a biscuit sugar/And take our sweet little time about it.” Meg’s insistent bass-pedal booty-beat drives the point home for 7:19, pausing only for Jack’s suggestive solos. “The Air Near My Fingers” is a standout, with a lazy rap-drawl similar to Aerosmith’s Stephen Tyler, and a fabulous organ solo. “Girl, You Hve No Faith In Medicine” is another frantic romp, making excellent use of the word “acetaminophen” in the chorus.
The album closes with a jokey throwaway, “Well It’s True That We Love One Another.” Amazingly, its charm is sturdy enough to withstand repeated listenings. Sometimes a band need not be groundbreaking to be special. To have an album so full of enduring near-classics is radical enough nowadays. Elephant is The White Stripes’ most assured album so far. And it could easily be the last, so climb up its trunk, take a ride and enjoy the view while it lasts.
