There’s little fresh light to shed on the Raconteurs, a band headed by the famous (Jack White) and backed by the grateful (Brendan Benson, who shares vocals and guitars, and the Greenhornes’ Jack Lawrence and Patrick Keeler, who anchor the rhythm section). No doubt the latter members lie in bed at night with wide eyes and quick hearts, praying for Meg White to develop arthritis or something. In any case, their debut album, Broken Boy Soldiers, which reads and listens like a high school yearbook, dizzies the line between two main sentiments: “This album rocks and rocks hard”; and “This better not mean the end of the White Stripes.”
It seems old Jackie boy has traded his peppermint pants, incestuous mystique and hot blues for plaid, sunny harmonies and power chords. And who’s to stop him? The oh-so-relevant Noel Gallagher of Oasis could only muster up that Jack White looks like, “Zorro on donuts.” And now Jack has shaved the mustache and recorded a record that is brash in sound and meager in scope.
The difference between the White Stripes and the Raconteurs is a rhythm section and a more colorful sense of humor. Broken Boy Soldiers is bigger and trashier and more psychedelic than Get Behind Me Satan, White’s loamiest and funkiest work to date. Though the new songs are half as interesting, they might give Foreigner fans and NYU types a boner. Call it overproduced cock rock and stamp it cool; neither gimmicky nor entirely convincing, the album runs thin in places but certainly enjoys some good times.
Their album presents psychedelic swagger (“Level,” which sounds like a Hendrix-fronted James Gang) and acid-tongued dirges that call to mind cocaine and cheap motel rooms and love-gone-fucked (“Call It A Day”). Benson’s vocals are broken pearls alongside tender organ strokes on “Together,” a standout in which he combines good lyrics (“You want everything to be just like/The stories that you read/But never write”) with shabby ones (“You gotta learn to give/And wait your turn/Or you’ll get burned”). The new single, “Hands,” has a badass hook it underemphasizes, while the closer “Blue Veins”—carried by a surf guitar choking on dust—is either a so-so ending to a better than so-so side interest or a cliffhanger, depending on White’s next move.
At this point it’s fair to say that the Raconteurs have become popular on their own merit. They backed Lou Reed as the house band at the VMAs and landed the opening slot for much of Bob Dylan’s fall tour. The album reviews were rock-steady, and their live performance has consistently earned raves. Even their first single “Steady, As She Goes,” which lifts the bass line from Joe Jackson’s “Is She Really Going Out With Him” before finding a fiery chorus, cracked the Top 10.
For years many have grumbled over Meg White’s simplistic drumming and the Stripes’ lack of a rhythm section, claiming that Jack’s playing would blossom in defter hands. In the name of treble and mystique and bloodcurdling guitar, I argue that a rhythm section only muffles this electrifying talent, who has fashioned some of the most savage mainstream music of this young century. Perhaps it’s unreasonable to set Jack White to the standard he created. Albeit a perfectly palatable one, the Raconteurs are a side project that I pray will remain a side project. White looks comfortable in the confines of a band, and Benson displays an indisputable flair for pop. To the former: it’s been fun, but here’s to finding your blues again.
Sept. 25-26. Roseland Ballroom, 239 West 52nd St.
(at Broadway), 212-247-0200; 6:45; $37.
