Third Man, where more guys in black suits and yellow ties usher us into an anteroom that’s like a mini White Stripes museum, with records, posters, tchotchkes (USB flash drives in the shapes of Meg and Jack Russian nesting dolls, Meg and Jack Holga cameras, a Raconteurs stylophone), plus old photo and phone booths. Then we’re given hand-painted, limited-edition Dead Weather 45s and sent to coat check, where we drop our cell-phones and recording devices in yellow-and-black plastic bags (the color scheme dates to White’s Third Man Upholstering business in Detroit) and receive a yellow-and-black claim check and, upon turning around, are offered a flute of champagne and a yellow-and-black napkin (marked with the Third Man logo). A 20-foot collage of rare White Stripes posters covers the wall to our right, and black-and-white films flicker on a doorway and wall to our left. Then it’s on to a listening area, dotted by vases of yellow tulips, for a mock press conference where White does a geeky cub-report-er spiel and testifies that he wants to create something “tangible” at Third Man that isn’t “ rewind-able” or “fast-forwardable” (and at this point in the spit-out-by-technology Depression narrative, who can afford to quibble with his supposedly quaint notions?). He envisions a day when a band or artist can swing through Third Man, rehearse, record at his nearby studio (located in a former candy factory!), have a vinyl record made at United Record Pressing a few blocks away, do a photo shoot, get the photos developed, design the sleeve, have the package done at a printing plant around the corner, and head home with a snazzy objet d’art (which will also be available on CD or digitally or “however people want it,” White
58 JUNE 2009 / BE HEARD. GO TO SPIN.COM
“Not a day went by that
PUNCH ME
IN THE FACE.
Alison Mosshart
stresses). First up, singer-accordionist Rachelle Garniez, who has performed with Elson’s New York cabaret troupe the Citizens Band, and Kentucky goth-rocker Mildred.
Finally, the Dead Weather album is played, and afterward the band disappears into the back room—basically a small rock club with a stage and sound system—to prepare for their first public performance, assisted by roadies dressed, naturally, in black suits and yellow ties. By this point, most of us are either half in the bag or on the payroll, but it’s hard to argue with an immaculate white Gretsch guitar and bass cranked to squall and thud, shoved by a beat that hits like a home invasion, while the singer prowls around the stage, tossing her black mane and threatening to grab you by the hair. Finally, the lights come
KNIFE AND EASY That is a dagger White sees before him.
up, and we retreat to the common area, where silver trays of desserts are presented. Gradually, the fairy tale begins to wind down, and our host lights up a cigarillo and walks around checking to see if the guests are enjoying themselves.
“I feel it, you feel it—we’re all struggling with the trouble that this industry is in right now,” says White some weeks later. “And it’s not about sales; it’s about beauty and romance and a relationship to art that’s turning invisible, and it’s affecting people’s perception of music. It’s affecting whether they think of it as a viable art, because it’s so fucking disposable. It’s not about being modern or retro or a Luddite or being hopeful or pessimistic about the future; it’s about clinging on to what makes sense of our lives, and what gives our lives value, and what gives us a commonality and a feeling of belonging.”
We all may be out of a job tomorrow, and the street outside may be full of desperate overflow from the neighborhood rescue mission, and we may need heavily armed escorts to safely depart if we loiter too long, and artfully convulsive rock’n’roll may be turning into a limited-edition boutique item for insiders, but on this blur of a March night, the strawberries tasted like strawberries, and the snozzberries tasted like snozzberries, and we were the music makers, and we were the dreamers of dreams.
Goodbye, Mr. Wonka, um, Mr. White. Adieu. Auf Wiedersehen. Gesundheit. Farewell.
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READ OUR REVIEW OF THE BAND’S FIRST PUBLIC GIG, IN NEW YORK CI T Y. > spin.com/dead-weather
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