White Blood Cells
The White Stripes; "Aluminum"; Amazon Warehouse
Few bands have hit me as hard as The White Stripes. They were, in a way, local heroes. Though they hailed from Detroit, they had ties to a nearby suburb through the Soledad Brothers—a garage-blues revival outfit connected to some of the guys at my favorite record store. Realizing I was just two degrees removed from the people playing with Legos in their MTV music video felt like the peak of cool.
You might notice this musical memoir spends little time talking about the band itself. That’s because their music wasn’t always the direct inspiration for me—it was more about what they represented. Sure, I enjoyed the songs, but the real lessons were elsewhere. The White Stripes taught me about the power of a consistent aesthetic, about presenting yourself as a Gesamtkunstwerk, about doing it yourself with thrift store guitars and a tape machine when everyone else was chasing polished perfection—sandpaper instead of chrome.
Still, the music had its moment. I went through a phase of studying the songwriting on White Blood Cells, dissecting the unique, sometimes idiosyncratic choices Jack and Meg made. Lots of the songs were riffy, but interspersed with things that could have been from a 1930’s balladeer’s songbook, or straight out of the Mississippi Delta. On countless hazy summer evenings in my friend E’s barn, we’d gather a crew to jam over blues progressions or mimic Explosions in the Sky melodies. E had a drum set, a 300-watt amp, and let me store my bass stack there—a piece I’d scored from my high school band director. But no matter how deep we got into the grooves, 15 minutes in, I’d catch myself thinking, This version of “Dark Star” is nice, but why can’t we put together a tight, three-minute pop song?
While house-sitting for E during a family trip, I took the chance to turn the barn into my personal recording studio. After feeding the horses, I’d set up my SM57 mic and his drum kit and go to town on White Stripes covers. My guitar skills were passable at best; my drumming was raw, all brute force. Still, I managed to piece together a rough medley in GarageBand—“Let’s Shake Hands” into “I Think I Smell a Rat” into “Aluminium” into “The Big Three Killed My Baby.” I played it live-style, no setlist, just instinct—like Jack and Meg.
E’s turquoise G&L guitar provided the demo tracks, while I double-tracked the drums, setting one mic close to the snare and another to capture the barn’s natural reverb. I played so hard I broke a drumstick and busted the drum head by the session’s end. Inspired by Jack and Meg’s minimalist ethos, I even toyed with squalls of feedback like Lou Reed crafting Metal Machine Music. I dreamed of pressing these recordings onto a 7” vinyl, just like The White Stripes would have done.
But the dream ended when my hard drive failed years later—just as one-off lathe-cut vinyl records were becoming affordable for amateurs. Score another point for analog recording I guess, because I’d still have the master tapes. Alas.
Verdict: Keep
Would you ever start a band with your significant other?