Review Summary: rock's NOT dead
I have a confession to make. I’m one of those people with a guitar sitting in the corner of their room, untouched and untamed. It’s like a promise I once made to myself, long gone unheeded. Sure, I can fuck around with the frets somewhat, but it took a goddamn pandemic just to get me to buy one, so what will it take for me to ever properly commit to learning how to play the thing?
I’ve been entranced with the guitar and all the blissful sounds it can make for maybe longer than I have music itself. I grew up with a Guitar Hero controller in hand during the indie rock boom of the 2000s; anyone my age heard “Rock is Dead” so many times growing up that it became a meaningless cliché, but the near-total lack of discourse in its stead does not bode well. Rock will never fully die (like physical media or movie theaters, there will always be some niche audience championing the waning notable releases), but even I, a staff critic on Sputnikmusic.com, find myself increasingly floored by the latest electronic or house release compared to anything that sounds remotely like what I grew up listening to. At the very least, rock music is now on life support, in need of a savior who can somehow, someway turn an audience’s heads every few years and contemporize the genre in a way that doesn’t sound like total ass–
Jack White’s
NO NAME is not his “return-to-roots” album. It’s less a reckoning with his time in The White Stripes than a continuation of his endless hybridization of American roots music with his scuzzy brand of garage-punk. While his solo career is a Pandora’s box of sonic rambunctiousness that’s long been opened, he’s never left those roots behind. If anything, this album is a close-up of the denser guitar sound he’s established since leaving the Stripes, White brandishing his weirdo instincts to amplify his guitar wizardry to new heights. On past solo records, you’d be graced with one “Lazaretto” or “Over and Over and Over,” which do just that, but spend the vast amount of your time on bizarro spoken word interludes and country/folk ditties that neither showcase his penchant for pyrotechnics nor his significant vocal abilities–a massive but unsung factor in his genre-stretching appeal. Thankfully, neither brand of fluff is anywhere to be seen.
“Old Scratch Blues” kicks the fucking door in with some of the baddest,
meanest heavy blues I’ve heard in ages. As the central riff morphs in distortion and delivery, White’s vocals are no less malleable (one second he assures, honey-sweet, “I’m not trying to alarm you / Or harm you / But is there something that I need to know?”, the next he’s belting a thunderous “You’re gonna find out!”). The immediate follow-up “Bless Yourself” wields an earth-shakingly fuzzed-out riff like a hip-hop beat as White barks out one-liners like “If you’re a cop, then arrest yourself!!” completing a mighty opening one-two punch that crushes Royal Blood’s entire discography like a soda can. shit doesn’t slow down after that either, as “That’s How I’m Feeling” establishes itself (along with “Bombing Out” and “Number One with a Bullet”) as one of many garage-punk b a n g e r s that puts stuff the recent wave of punk “comeback” albums to shame.
White’s adventurous side is displayed in the bouncy “Underground” and “Rough on Rats,” a funky romp with a jam-like atmosphere that features White pleading for our attention over our rodent brethren’s many woes. Unfortunately, that tune is immediately followed by “Archbishop Harold Holmes,” which features similarly upbeat bluesy chords and exaggerated vocal antics (now in the form of a religious snake oil salesman) but pales in comparison to the previous song’s delectably weird verve, becoming the lone blemish on an otherwise perfect Side A.
I’ll be honest; it took me a while to get to Side B because of how fantastically catchy and commanding those first seven songs are. But
NO NAME’s second half is nearly equal in its pleasures, even if it’s never quite as surprising. Glammy cock-rock tracks like “Tonight (Was a Long Time Ago)” and “Morning at Midnight” are downright anthemic, providing White with his first bona-fide arena fodder since Meg held the drumsticks. The penultimate romp “Missionary” is far rougher than its titular position implies, while the closer “Terminal Archenemy Endling” slings deserty, expansive guitar melodies over rattling maracas and yipping dogs. From top to bottom, it’s an unskippable collection of rock music that demands attention.
Simply put,
NO NAME riffs 4 days. It towers over the vast majority of contemporary rock music with its controlled tunefulness while ever maintaining the effortless modern appeal of Jack White himself. He really does make it sound easy. Easy enough for a certain loser to pick up that damn guitar and give it another go.
