This sample tune "There's No Home For You Here" is a mite punchy, but just listen to the depth these artists get from their instruments, harmony, and play.

Back when people named Jagger and Richards taunted the very civilized of the world--not to mention the youth who listened to anything that wasn't--just by hearing one's sneer and the other's ensnaring 7th chords over your speakers could you envision the entire mood of a song and its trademark posing, prances, postures and pouts. Those trademarks and a thousand things have kept those two and their band on a continuum atop rock'n'roll and have sold their distinction to outlast everyone at the Establishment of Defiance pinnacle; only Elvis, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix and the terrifying immutability of Jimmy Page's contributions can claim par-equal importance, give or take.

Nonetheless, this is a White Stripes CD review and not a critic's diatribe on the royalty of blues-based elitistry, in a clamoring effort to win approval from the editorial cabal of pop music. What we're getting at here is the importance of an artist's distinction. And Jack White dyes the wool with his brand of abrasive suave in Elephant. Since listen one, I get the er, distinct impression that even if he's not out to conquer the world, he does rather have a grip on its tail. All it takes for him now is to get his stuff heard by the rare studio visionary who has equal part wisdom to let Jack set out his own course for the hill he's ready to climb and merely allow him every freedom. The industry exec who has the ear to do so will end up much better off by steering clear of Mr.White's ingenuity, giving ample elbow-room and lobe-space to the gifted artist's needs to further create as he sees.

How distinct are we talking? White's band, which includes his sister on drums and some vocals, in this CD makes manipulation-through-feel seem a second-nature piece of cake. They played, We heard, We want to hear again. This might be the mantra of Stripes fans before long. The sound is raw and not canned, direct and potent in its impact on us, and may affect sensitive neurotransmitters, medicated or not. Certain takes of White's vocal prowls and puh-luck-it single-string strums and vicious John Lee Hooker chords and bonesouling licks with slide guitarwork have the DNA of all the original players' source, yet they're fully owned by badboy Jack. No rocker can call him- or herself true if there's any consideration of denying that the wish exists to know precisely what the White Stripes' magic is. We've all grown weary of much of music's world gone plain. Finally, someone--and thankfully--from across the Atlantic has done something about it.

So with a tip and a bow to the White Stripes' swell English love for rock and roll, and another double toast to their taking out of the oven the just-due they acknowledge its roots, I bid to predict their candidacy for the RnR hall-of-fame should they continue their fair endeavors as they have.

-Morgan Field

reviewed in Winter 2003-2004