Jack White leaves such an indelible stamp on any project he touches that a solo album from him almost seems unnecessary: nobody has ever told him what to do. He's a rock & roll auteur, bending other artists to fit his will, leading bands even when he's purportedly no more than a drummer, always enjoying dictating the fashion by placing restrictions on himself. And so it is on Blunderbuss, his first official solo album, arriving five years after the White Stripes' last but seeming much sooner given White's constant flurry of activity with the Raconteurs, Dead Weather, Third Man Records, and countless productions. Here, he's once again placed restrictions on himself but they're not quite as clearly defined as they've been in the past, as when he's gotten great dividends by working with a limited palette. All the restrictions are entirely of a comforting variety: he's abandoned the primitivism of the White Stripes, something that came easily with Meg White bashing away on the drums, and has chosen a quieter, polished route, rotating in different musicians for different tracks. Jack still pulls out some standards from his bag of tricks -- clenched blues explosions, squealing guitars, and a cool breeze of electric piano -- but musicians matter and this bunch of pro players tightens and softens his attack (sometimes to its detriment, as on a clumsy cabaret version of Little Willie John's 'I'm Shakin'). When Blunderbuss gets furious, it's hard not to miss the chaos Meg brought to the Stripes -- with her at the drums, 'Sixteen Saltines' would fly off the rails -- but it's a mistake to think of this album as a professionally produced White Stripes record as it relies as heavily on ideas White explored on his handful of old-timey acoustic cuts and the '70s guitar rock of the Raconteurs. If it resembles any Stripes album it's Get Behind Me Satan, the dark, odd 2005 set written in the wake of a breakup and filled with songs of paranoia and recrimination. This too is a divorce album with every song concerning love gone wrong, yet it's easy to ignore all the pain roiling underneath because Blunderbuss plays so sweetly, its melodies easing into memory and its surface warm and pleasant. Contradictions are nothing new for Jack White but he's never been as emotionally direct as he is here, nor has he been as musically evasive, and that dichotomy makes Blunderbuss a record that only seems richer with increased exposure.
Title/Composer
Performer
Time
Stream
1
03:27
2
02:37
3
02:51
4
02:37
5
03:06
6
02:50
7
04:19
8
03:00
9
03:20
10
03:03
11
02:37
12
03:55
13
04:10
blue highlight denotes track pick
“Who the hell’s impressed by you?” demands Jack White while juggling the emotional conflict of ‘Hypocritical Kiss’. “I want names of the people that we know are falling for this.” For a debut solo record there’s a lot of history being exorcised here: whether it’s divorce, death or self-doubt, Jack White is prepared to wash his laundry in public. But rather than bemoan the world with a weary guitar, he has crafted an astonishing record which marks a musical progression for an already great artist.
Blunderbuss is White’s redemption for a period in the “White” brand wilderness, as though he’s been in training with rock’s sensei; finally able to wax on a vibrant musical depth while garage rock’s gritty dogma is waxed off, its primer role fulfilled. It’s testament to his creativity how he’s sought resolutions to his shortcomings. A pop angle was needed, so Brendan Benson taught him to swing with Raconteurs while Dead Weather equipped him with the humble compromise of a band environment.
You see, Jack White’s a hustler who gets people to reveal their talent, then nicks their trick shot before unashamedly sucker-punching with his ability to do it better. “The people around me won’t let me become what I need to, they want me the same/I look at myself and I want to just cover my eyes and give myself a new name” White mourns on Blunderbuss’ Faberge highlight ‘On And On’, signifying he cannot help absorbing his surrounding influences, as though building a seven note army, before executing them with incendiary virility and reaming refreshingly reinvented.
This layered melting pot at Blunderbuss’ heart is raw during ‘Sixteen Saltines’, with its Clash intro whooping into arena-crunching drums. On face value it’s nothing more than FM friendly rock, until the disjointed structuring of the Dead Weather’s disjointed Hammond and Benson takes over, revealing it as Whites’ essay on what he’s learnt, a snappy abstract before the real knowledge is explained on ‘Freedom At 21’. With its death cello, stutter-hop stomps, skulking riff, and yes, slight rap, ‘Freedom At 21’ takes White into the realm of unique aural mastery.
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White has discovered a new reliance on keyboards rather than the easy guttural grind of guitars. Album opener ‘Missing Pieces’ uses Wonder-esque organs to gently shuffle between lullaby rhythms while a guitar solo is only sparingly deployed as an extension of the keyboard groove. Likewise ‘Take Me Where You Go’ gently parades a harpsi-lite saunter before Steinman chords break open Carla Azar’s phenomenal drumming. The shifting of guitars into the background is most beautiful during the title track, with pedal steel and piano framing calls of passion.
Musically Blunderbuss is vast, pushing the bookends of what constitutes a rock record and giving it a concept album feel, which unfortunately exacerbates the record’s weakness. There’s invigorating innovation, juxtaposed with a tiresome homage to classic ’70s R&B rock which places a third of the record between Elton John and the Faces, making it completely forgettable.
In particular ‘Hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy’ is Dennis Waterman doing his honky-tonk cockney lad thing with Wings, while ‘Trash Tongue Talker’ is nothing other than a soul blues racket which even The Commitments would find too cheesy. Jack White’s Third Man Records are the flag wavers for exciting vinyl releases, producing a 7” inside a 12”. Yet Blunderbuss is an advert for buying individual mp3s, as four of the album’s tracks are completely unnecessary.
Nevertheless, Blunderbuss is Jack White’s greatest recording, overshadowing much of the White Stripes career; it’s musically accomplished, traditional and emotive. That said, it’s far from prefect as its reliance of mellow club blues belittles the forward-looking nature of the album’s masterstrokes. But this is who Jack White is: he’s not perfect, and he’s constantly learning. Even with the emotional and musical conflict at the core of this astounding album driving him to new peaks, his distinction as a true 21st century legend remains just out of reach.