The Dead Weather’s Antidote

With The Kills’ Allison Mossheart’s stoned, dreamy vocals riding like a musky breeze over Jack White’s surprisingly adept Keith Moon impression on the kit, QOTSA guitarist Dean Fertita and Raconteurs’ bass man Jack Lawrence round out The Dead Weather – a high-octane passion collection of well-known influence and inflections that culminate in a mean, desert-buzz bastard blues strut. In three weeks’ time, the band went from a one-off occurrence to a wildfire of creativity – and productivity. The result is Horehound, a writhing gut-punch of an album that would serve well as the soundtrack to a Tarantino Western.

There’s a whiskey-in-the-ashtray grit to Horehound’s production, soaked in immediacy and itching for a fight. Recorded live with almost no editing, the album is a lurching blues-punk utterance where attitude hits just as hard as any instrument, and could very well be the most important member of the band. Evidence hits right from the gate on opening track 60 Feet Tall, a mood-setter that would do PJ Harvey proud, provided that Polly were cool with some very heavy cymbal rides. The same goes for lead single Hang You From The Heavens, a mildly masochistic fuck-funk jam built on two sharp hi-hats and a jabby, trash-can snare in repetition.

With Jack White handling both the drums and production duties, it’s safe to say that he’s the de facto leader of the group – especially given that Horehound is the first full-length release from White’s Third Man label. This would explain not only why the drums are so foregrounded, but also why White’s nits-n-grits, in-your-face style stamp is all over the project – as well as the fact that White Stripes and Raconteurs fans are on this like bears on beehives. Jack frequently takes vocal command, trading phrases with Mosshart over his own beats  on the Tarantino wet dream Rocking Horse and throwing “Time to manipulate!” into Treat Me Like Your Mother every so often, asking “Who’s got it figured out?” …as if the answer weren’t perfectly clear.

Despite White’s dominance from end to end, Mosshart’s no slouch by any means. Her bombastic sexuality shines on the band’s cover of Dylan’s New Pony, projecting to match the siren swing of the strings (the choral-call “How much longer?” part hits the ears like nails on a chalkboard, but it’s a necessary evil in its own right, given the source material and the live delivery). “Come over here pony,” Alison screeches to Lucifer (her pony, not the lake-of-fire one) over bursts of guitar, “I wanna climb up one time on you.” Her bratty slithering in triplicate all over Bone House is downright scary, echoing over a fuzz-siren riff. “Always get… the things I want,” she purrs. Fertita’s apparent use of something called a guitar-organ, a ’60s novelty that never caught on, is ghostly and gorgeously epileptic.

The psychedelic doom-groove of instrumental track 3 Birds is dripping with suspense, bearing resemblance to the Beastie Boys’ Electric Worm. It’s an atmosphere piece that builds and recedes, but without any ultimate payoff. It’s a palette-cleaner before the bass-fuzz sway of No Hassle Night and party’s-over album closer Will There Be Enough Water, the latter of which sounds to have been recorded on a back porch in the summer night, with crickets chirping under gentle, slowly descending piano chords and bass/snare drops. “Just because you caught me,” White and Mosshart offer in smug, defiant synchronicity, “doesn’t make it a sin.” It feels like the final house jam after a long night of hard drinkin’ with friendly strangers, watching the black fade blue in the east before closing it in.

For all its last-man-standing charm, the album’s immediacy could be its only achilles’ heel; the spontaneous bursts of jittery, dissonant combustion that the band seems framed upon (at White’s insistence, in all likelihood) prevent songs like Treat Me Like Your Mother from having any substantial market flare. Can the hitmaking public can handle Jack kinda-sotra rapping over a reggae beat in between screeching vinyl scratching impressions on guitar (as in I Cut Like A Buffalo)? Not likely, but then again, that may very well be the point. They may be the hot-topic darlings on music blogs at the moment (or so we hear), but The Dead Weather strike the ear as much more a spontaneous passion project than a carefully plotted money harvest. Then again, a premium membership in Jack’s version of the Third Man fan club will run you $240 a year – a shamelessly high price, but if he’s to be trusted, it could be well worth the cash.

In Horehound’s final moments, you can hear everyone put their instruments down, moving on to other things. There’s plenty to do, after all – each member belongs to at least one other active band, and there’s plenty of color waiting to be added to the tapestry that is the new classic rock. But Horehound has its place, and The Dead Weather is a step in the right direction.

Horehound
July 14, 2009
Third Man Records

1. 60 Feet Tall
2. Hang You From The Heavens Lyrics
3. I Cut Like A Buffalo
4. So Far From Your Weapon
5. Treat Me Like Your Mother
6. Rocking Horse
7. New Pony
8. Bone House
9. 3 Birds
10. No Hassle Night
11. Will There Be Enough Water?