Not the White Stripes

I was at a party last night. There was a band there doing filming some clips for their newest video.

“Don’t compare them to the White Stripes” mumbles my friend to me, passing the words over his half-empty bottle of Hahn Superdry. “They hate it. They look like them,” (no kidding - long-haired skinny guy singer / guitarist in tight pants and and shorter, girl drummer with noticeable boobs) “but they sound nothing like them.”

The song starts. It’s definitely the epitome of garage rock; they’re playing in a friend’s kitchen that’s covered in Bob Dylan and Joy Division posters with “Echo and the Bunnymen” heckles written on the wall. There are 2 lights covered in coloured paper. People are crowded out the door. Singer has 5 pedals on a tray in front of him and the drummer has a broken Zildjian crash. The are 3 amps in the room and the mic is taped to its stand.

They start to play. It’s grimy, 12-bar-blues derived rock with a yelping, growling vocal and simple but driving kick beat. The songs are snappy and powerful and the singer throws himself over his skinny legs to thrash out some gnarly chords when the lyrics end.

I turn to my friend. “Dude, they sound EXACTLY like the White Stripes.”

They play a couple more songs crossing the spirit and structures of Hello Operator and Jack the Ripper, then the amp dies and the show is announced as being over with a humble smile.

Many drinks later I chat to the drummer who tells me about the strangess of seeing her singer transformed from a nobody on the street to a teenager’s musical idol on stage, and I observe the tender, loving but not-quite-togetherness that they have for each other.

Moral: If it looks like the White Stripes, sounds like the White Stripes, and tastes like the White Stripes, then no matter how much they may protest, it is the White Stripes.