hen did Rock and Roll graduate from adolescent masturbation/fantasy to full blown roofie-fueled copulation? It used to be pure, personal, intimate. Rock-as-art has always been a hard sell, but it gets harder every year, as the Big Five (or is it Four now?) continue to imbibe the most palatable of the underground, loosening their snakeskin belts as they swell, all the time spewing forth semi-digested bile/product, that the poor victims lap up like the dehydrated dogs they are, thirsty for anything resembling quality. Be it aging hipsters with too little time on their hands to seek out the underground, or teens who just don’t know any better, people are buying this shit -- the overhyped overpushed music for pushovers, the uninspired bulk of mediocrity so brilliantly nutshelled on MTV, M2, VH1, Alternative Radio, and every mall soundtrack. For every good band there’s a pile of shit hanging precariously above, ready to drop at any second, should the ubermarketer decide on a whim to press the Big Red One.


Luckily for you, the discerning reader, there are still good bands, regardless of how shit-splattered their chosen fad becomes. Before the Hives were convincing you the sixties are baaack, maaaan... (1), before the Vines were bouncing around your screen with a trademark second-coming swagger (2), before J. Casablancas and his posse of Bed Head ne’er-do-wells were Teen Beat pinups (3), Jack White was there.


Boasting no ambitions, Jack White seemed content exorcising his personal demons over blistering guitar riffs and his sister’s (3) sexily-sloppy skin-pounding. That this ritual was so affecting and intense is a testament to the pure unadulterated power of rock and roll, a spectre not seen (or heard) for at least a few little years -- not in this river of filth we call the mainstream, anyhow. The White Stripes took their minimalist shtick (4) on the road with Sleater-Kinney to blast the azure waves with sonic ones, building a devout following before anyone up at Virgin took notice. Every good indie band needs a good warm up record, and their self-titled served as that -- an adequate introduction. De Stijl is their sophomore hump, blasting the previous album practically out of the water, setting new wheels turning, only some of which will keep spinning through White Blood Cells.


Unfortunately, only the least interesting aspects of this band make it to their commercial breakthrough (5). The grunge is already here, as are the songwriting chops (6), as is the loose-yet-tight guitar-drum interaction that (I assume) can only be this perfect from a pair who've swapped fluids (7).


When highlighted, these aspects are phenomenal, and the reason White Blood Cells is so outstanding. However, what the band left behind is what makes De Stijl a superior record.


The guitar riff and exposed piano of the intro to "Truth Doesn't Make A Noise" trumps any section on Cells, and the lyrics venture farther into park bench philosophy than any of that album's she-loves-me-she-loves-me-not-isms. The accelerating slide solo on "Little Bird" proves that slide guitar is one of Jack White's strong suits, and sorely missing from Cells


De Stijl is not only the best album they've put out, but one of the best of 2000 (8).





1. I’m well aware that the Hives have been around for awhile, but for the sake of argument, lets just say that they popped into existence just in time for 2002’s Swedish Invasion.

2. of Nirvana, not Jesus.

3. Well, not really. The ever-vigilant gloriousnoise.com has managed to dig up a marriage certificate (scandalous!) proving that the two were, in fact, married at one point. Whether Jack and Meg became siblings before or after this has yet to be discovered.

4. Please ignore the negative connotations of "shtick" in this instance, as I mean only that they do have a style/gimmick.

5. Not to say, of course, that the least interesting parts are anything less than great.

6. While White Blood Cells may be more consistent, in terms of songwriting, De Stijl has a few moments of such genius that this point becomes moot. "Apple Blossom" is everything Paul McCartney should have been, a sweet pop song with a darker edge, "You're Pretty Good Looking" is a prologue to "Fell In Love With A Girl," and "The Truth Doesn't Make A Noise" is simply transcendent. ("Your Southern Can Is Mine" speaks for itself.)

7. It pains me to be crass, but the brilliance of this band stems at least 50% from the extrasensory fusion of drums to guitar, a difficult task that only gets this good after years of practice or a hyperintimate knowledge of one's bandmate.

8. And, incidentally, 2002.