Isn't it a bit ironic people blame a less than perfect concert (if it was that) on a "lame crowd"? The performers are giving the performance, not the crowd.
White Stripes: Rocking Is Fundamental
By David Segal
Washington Post Staff Writer
Monday, November 24, 2003; Page C01
When medical science can build the perfect garage rocker -- and surely, we're just years away from that glorious day -- lab workers should acquire a double helix or two from Jack White, the multi-gifted frontman of the White Stripes. The guy has just about every strand of DNA you'd need for the ultimate test tube guitar god. Power-chord mastery? Check! Intensity? Check! Unruly black hair? Check! Ghostly pallor? Oh yes. A voice that can screech in the loud moments and lilt through the soft ones? Absolutely.
This once-in-a-decade talent brought a crowd of more than 4,000 to George Washington University's Smith Center on Saturday night. The White Stripes -- Jack and his ex-wife, Meg White, who plays drums -- are the most heartening musical story of 2003, and their ascent marks one of those rare and wondrous moments when you look at the Billboard charts and think: Sometimes the system works. The band's fourth album, "Elephant," has outsold Madonna's latest, which is astounding given that just 18 months ago, hardly anyone but dedicated Spin readers knew their name.
If you've never heard them, the White Stripes are a bit like Led Zeppelin on a pauper's budget -- the same dedication to metal and melody, but without any of the frills, and most notably, without a bass player. On albums, the duo's leanness seems a virtue, a demonstration of how powerful rock can be when it sticks to the essentials.
But in a concert, the White Stripes' asceticism presents a challenge. How does a guy and his guitar and a gal and her drums entertain a venue as large as the Smith Center? A couple of dozen thrashy songs will get you much of the way there, but it takes more than music to drive an audience this large into that goggle-eyed state of rock-concert euphoria. It takes showbiz. It takes shtick. It takes whatever it is that compels Bruce Springsteen to tell hokey stories, or causes Iggy Pop to leap headfirst into crowds, or spurs Andrew W.K. to invite fans to leap on his back.
This is the one rock gene that Jack White lacks: He doesn't do shtick.
Well, on Saturday night he did a little shtick. He dressed, as he always does, in red; he spoke with an accent that is certainly not from his native Detroit; and he referred to Meg as his sister, although by now everyone knows she isn't. But from the outset, a shredding version of "Dead Leaves on the Dirty Ground," he seemed a bit overwhelmed, or shy, or perhaps just nervous. Maybe the just-business style is simply his style. Aside from some rushed pleasantries that were hard to understand, he barely acknowledged the audience, and considering the dizzying impact of his guitar playing, he came across as a bit reserved.
So the concert was two radically different things, almost at once: goose-bump great and a little dull, on fire one moment and strangely subdued the next. The audience, even near the stage, seemed more like gawkers at a zoo than fans in a frenzy. It was as if they were waiting for a sign to go berserk, and the sign never came.
Though low on showmanship, the concert made an irresistible case for the music of the White Stripes. Switching in nanoseconds between rhythm and lead guitar, the Whites ambushed a batch of tunes from "Elephant," including "Seven Nation Army," "The Hardest Button to Button" and "Ball and Biscuit." With a screen behind the pair projecting geometric shapes in primary colors, the Whites paid homage to their forefathers and -mothers: a cover of Bob Dylan's "One More Cup of Coffee," a glowering take on Burt Bacharach and Hal David's "I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself" and a tingle-inducing version of Dolly Parton's "Jolene." Blues legend Son House was resurrected through an electric slide re-imagining of "Death Letter." Meg stepped to the mic for her one tune, "In the Cold, Cold Night," but mostly spent the evening pounding the basics on her drums, and yielding the spotlight to Jack. The show ended with an abrupt "thank you," followed by enough cheers to bring the group out for a handful of encores.
"I hope you enjoyed the basketball game," he said, a little enigmatically. "We're going home to hug our mother." With the closer, "Boll Weevil," Jack White finally interacted with the crowd, inviting everyone to sing "I'm looking for a home" in unison. Everyone obliged, but the show could have used another dozen moments like that. The reality is that if the White Stripes played the very same set in a tiny venue, you'd probably quit your job and follow the band for the rest of your life. But these crazy kids have gone national, and when you go national, it's hard to show up with nothing more than songs.
No doubt if the White Stipes had played the very same set in a tiny venue, Jack could have babbled in Dutch and it wouldn't have mattered. But with so much acreage to fill, the band could use some razzle-dazzle in the program. That's the thing about catching on. The rooms get bigger and then it's not just about the music anymore.
This isn't news to the band, of course. Here are the lyrics to "LIttle Room," a 50-second outburst from their second-to-last album.
When you're in your little room
And you're working on something good
But if it's really good
You're going to need a bigger room
And when you're in the bigger room
You might not know what to do
You might have to think of how you got started
Sitting in your little room.
