The Dead Weather: live @ Boston Arms, London

The year is 2009, and you are curious about the latest mega-band to storm the indie scene, The Dead Weather. You know the band is comprised of The Kills' Alison Mosshart on vocals, Queens of the Stone Age's Dean Fertita on guitar, The Greenhornes and The Raconteurs' Jack Lawrence, and The White Stripes and The Raconteurs' Jack White.

From some light YouTubing, you've gathered that The Dead Weather hit heavy on the smoky blues-based rock n' roll with some intriguing spurts of fast-attack noise. And, who are you?

If you are this reviewer, go to page 89.

If you are a self-respecting "real" person with a self-respecting, non-music industry job, go to page 7.

Page 7

You are surfing NME on Sunday and see a banner for a special show for "Jack White's new band."  You go into work early on Monday to make sure you are online when ticket sales go live.  You feel a little less smug about your cleverness when you see there are still tickets left around lunchtime.  All the same, you are very excited, and it's time to get to the gig!  All right!  Go to page 24570264.

Page 10

You've never been one to lose sight of your principles (even if they are founded in pure subjective dislike), but refusing to enjoy at least some of the glory in front of you is just foolhardy.  Frontwoman Alison Mosshart steals the show, hands-down.  Her projected virility is so potent that within the first few bars of the set opener, you feel certain that she has impregnated her mikestand and most of the first three rows of audience members with devil-horned triplets.  This is not to say that the other three Weathers are not capable of stirring up their own tempests, but Alison's cloud nearly eclipses them all.  You are guessing that they've rehearsed to play larger spaces, where every member can shine through Alison's wicked haze.  Unfortunately, the aura clutter of so many rock stalwarts clustered in relatively spare arrangements also results in aural clutter, as spaces carved out to showcase guitar hero Dean Fertita and bass whiz Jack Lawrence seem too cramped for comfort.

You find Jack White much better served (and more tolerable) in the backseat backbone role.  Like in the case of Dan Deacon, you believe that his greatest talents lie in his magnetic ability to cull energy and talent from others in order to push music in a new direction.  But is this truly a new direction?  You keep waiting for the spectre of genius to materialize, having been told by promoters, radio adverts, the band's site, and the side banners in your Gmail inbox that The Dead Weather are legends in the making.  You can certainly hear early rock n' roll, blues and spiritual influences meeting post-rock-leaning shoegaze drone, which all gets cut winningly by occasional hip-hoppy break beats.  But you wonder what the destination is, especially with quintessentially cryptic lyrics like "I cut like a buffalo."  The ultimate samey effect of the set leads you to think that the four could only agree on one type of sound, with a few variations in tempo, structure, and success--TDW lose momentum with their ballads and excel in their furious breakdowns.  Jack and Alison cozy up to a single mike for a duet that is more memorable for the sizzling image of the two crooning coif to coif than for the actual song.  You admire the style and the execution, but would have liked to see the quartet tear into a little more mindblowing songwriting.  When the debut album comes out, you may consider spinning the tracks that don't feature Jack White on lead vocals for background music during some whiskey drinkin' and grizzled conversation on a porch somewhere.  You leave unconverted, but appreciative.  The End.

Page 16

You lock into the rocking groove of The Dead Weather as an ambitious progression of The White Stripes' quirk-rock.  For the added star- and sneer-power, you are rewarded with an epic sound and musical maturity from a seriously in-sync ensemble.  Alison Mosshart sounds to you like a female Jack White, and that's a great thing, but she's blocking your view of Jack White, which is a bad thing.  Meanwhile, your boy Jack W. is tearing it up on the drum kit, and placates your need to see him more by adding backing vocals and doing a song or two.  Then you have too many beers.  You start heckling, "Jackie!  That's it, Jackie boy!"  You really outdo yourself during the uncomfortable pause before the encore, when the primary sound heard from the audience is you yelling, "C'mon, get on with it, you fucking scenesters!"  You may or may not remember how much you enjoyed the band when you wake up with your hangover.  The End.

Page 89

You wake up to an excitable instant message from your editor asking if you want to go see The Dead Weather tonight.  You think this is a joke, because you are notorious around the office for having an extreme and nearly irrational distaste for Jack White's offerings.  The editor strongarms you into it, and you make a mental note to warn the readers about your massive prejudice, and to offer another perspective or two to maintain some semblance of fairness.  You frantically rearrange your life and get to this gig, being told all the while how lucky you are to have this rare opportunity to preview such a star power-fuelled band in a tiny venue the night before they play a giant stadium.  Ooh, the anticipation. Go to page 24570264.  

Page 97

It's showtime.  The band tumble onto stage with enough ensemble rapport and bedhead to suspect a pre-gig quickie foursome.  Do you try to give The Dead Weather a chance at chipping the stone from your heart?

If you say, "Yeah, sure," go to page 10.

If you say, "@#%.  NO." go to page 123.

Page 108

It's showtime. You dance around cutely to the old time rock n' roll 45s the DJ spins to warm the crowd up for The Dead Weather. Some really grumpy industry people are lurking around, but they can't wreck your fun--you're going to see Jack White and those other guys!  They slink onto the tiny stage in monochrome black with shades of grey--Alison Mossheart is in bell-sleeved greyscale leopard print, fun!  THERE'S JACK WHITE! You cheer vigorously. The Dead Weather launch into "60 Feet Tall," and...

You love it! Go to page 119.

You're not so sure. Go to page 235.

Page 119

Why?

If you love The White Stripes, go to page 16.

If you love sexy, talented women, go to page 209.

Page 123

You make a point of matching Jack White scowl for scowl and choke on the smoke from Alison's third or fourth devil-may-care onstage fag.  Congratulations--you've managed to have negative fun watching some seriously talented musicians.  You lose.  The End.

Page 209

You have fallen head over bone for Alison Mosshart. You can't get enough of her leering, seething, smouldering stage persona.  Even when she lingers back behind Matilda-haired bassist Jack Lawrence, clutching a coffee mug (where did that come from?), it drives you wild. Her pitch-perfect, honey-rich, and loin-fire-resonant growl of a voice teases you as it sells weird lines, like from Dylan's "New Pony:" "COME OVA' HERE, PONY!!!"  You want to be that pony, desperately.  You'll even let her "grab you by the hair and hang you from the heavens."  And lucky you!  Alison is nice enough to emerge after the show for a few meet-n'-greet moments.  You get your picture with her.  You die happy.  The End.

Page 235

It's all right, you suppose. You don't know too much about music, but you do know what you like, and this gets a little boring after a while.  You do appreciate when Jack White comes out from behind the kit to do some singing and guitar soloing, because then it sounds more like The Raconteurs and Stripes you know and love.  But this--it's just not bouncy or catchy enough. Like, where's "Hotel Yorba?" You may like The Dead Weather better when they get more airplay and become more familiar-sounding.  You return home to surf NME.  The End.

Page 24570264

You are stuck in a big queue outside of Boston Arms.

If you are still this reviewer, go to page 97.

If you are still a self-respecting "real" person, go to page 108.