MERGED-->New White Stripes Album - "Elephant"
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yertle-the-turtle
ONE love, blood, life
Fun 'Elephant' fact - the rubbish that is the NME has decided to call it the 37th best album ever (or something of the sort) even before it was released.
I'm going to get it, of course.
I'm going to get it, of course.
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
yertle-the-turtle said:Fun 'Elephant' fact - the rubbish that is the NME has decided to call it the 37th best album ever (or something of the sort) even before it was released.
I'm going to get it, of course.
But don't press get advanced copies? "Elephant" was distributed to press on vinyl this time.
Oh, bloody hell, I want a copy of this SO BADLY...
*thinks of the next holiday*
Hmmm...Easter...
*wonders if I can convince Dad that the Easter Bunny should put a CD in my basket*
*thinks of the next holiday*
Hmmm...Easter...
*wonders if I can convince Dad that the Easter Bunny should put a CD in my basket*
Bonochick said:*wonders if I can convince Dad that the Easter Bunny should put a CD in my basket*
If you put your mind to it, you can do anything!!!
I really think you'll enjoy it, it's quite a rocker! I've listened to it twice all the way through already today!
yertle-the-turtle
ONE love, blood, life
Yeah but seems a bit like the hype machine in overdrive to me.
I need to get into the White Stripes, man.
I need to get into the White Stripes, man.
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
oh dear gawd.. this album... 
Basstrap
ONE love, blood, life
- Joined
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I didn't really like the first album and pitchfork only gave this one a 6.9 so I doubt I will get it.
A little too raw for my liking...thumbs for for covering Robery Johnson though
A little too raw for my liking...thumbs for for covering Robery Johnson though
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
Ball and Biscuit is at once hilarious and exquisite.
Elvis Presley
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
Pitchforks review..........
The White Stripes
Elephant
[Third Man/V2; 2003]
Rating: 6.9Church's Fried Chicken now sits at the crossroads of Highway 49 and Highway 61 in Clarksdale, Mississippi like an unaware, prefabricated neon mausoleum. While you can no longer barter your soul to Beelzebub for guitar-picking prowess, The Man will gladly exchange your eternal being for a place on the fryer and a hairnet. Or one may just opt for the Sweet Biscuit Crunchers and some Purple Pepper Sauce for a dollar. The tragicomic irony of a fast food joint squatting on the Valhalla of Delta Blues out-tarnishes our collective lore more than the Bus Stop of Gethsemane and adjoining Mount of Olives Hotel. And when you toss one of those sugary Sweet Biscuit Crunchers or gooey Honey-Butter Biscuits into your fat maw, you can let your mind drift to the thinly veiled sexual euphemisms of the blues, where biscuit almost certainly means "vagina."
The Blues had been raped, exploited, stolen, diluted, rediscovered, reforgotten, and rendered meaningless countless times long before the Russian Mafia kept hot on the heels of the Blues Brothers 2000 and the House of Blues primarily showcased Wu-Tang side projects and Godsmack. Now, nearly a century after its birth, a non-ironic, post-Jon Spencer form of the Blues has risen again, ever so stubbornly and somnolently-- and naturally, it's being led by white kids. Jack White *ahem* not only name-drops Robert Johnson, he covers him. Summons him. Wears the same little derby as him. On "Ball and Biscuit", the album-stretching stomper of the White Stripes' fourth album, Jack White moans, "Let's have a ball and a biscuit, sugar," and it's all too plainly clear what he means.
What's less clear on the track and the rest of Elephant, however, is just what Jack White intends. Certainly, one of his goals is to simply Rock, which his shit-hot guitar solos do bombastically. Those Sears-Roebucks pickups buzz and screech like atomic harmonicas on the album's best songs. Past this, though, White struggles to tenuously weld a growing amalgam of contradictions and genre experiments held with a veneer of schtick, persona, and Fonzie cool, while Meg's pancake-handed drumming and the two-piece format drips solvent over the whole experiment.
The problem being that Jack White wishes to honor his diverse heroes with a limited palette. Imagine paying tribute to Edward Hopper, Ansel Adams, Robert Colescott, and Georgia O'Keeffe in mural with a foot-pump-operated Wagner Power Painter, a bucket of red, and a bucket of white. You're going to get a pinkish, art-student Pollock knock-off. "Hypnotize" valiantly strives for The Stooges. "In the Cold, Cold Night" swings its hips across an unfurnished saloon. "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine" gives four fingers up to a butcher's knife on the altar of Led Zeppelin. In the end, it should not have to be spelled out in detail that Jack White is no Jim Page nor Osterberg. Suggestions to the contrary will earn you an explanation at the end of the Questionable Musical Taste line on judgment day. Meanwhile, Meg White pleads to her man like a coy Mo Tucker or Georgia Hubley-- more so than take-no-sass Patsy Cline or Dusty in Memphis. Linty in Arkadelphia, perhaps.
The White Stripes' two strengths lie in their understanding of the physics of "rock 'n' roll" and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, their ability to craft a beautiful little boy/girl ditty. As for the former, guitars kick in at the mathematically precise moment. Drums drop out of the atmosphere in their window of opportunity only to knock you back like a returning pendulum. And for the latter, "You've Got Her in Your Pocket", like "We're Going to Be Friends", makes one wish this whole new Foghat rock thing would blow over and make way for the Badfinger/Splinter/Fairport Convention revival that's been long overdue. Therein lies the contradiction of The White Stripes. How do you combine the shit-hot with the "twee?" Elephant's shortcomings suggests the enterprise is futile. Similarly, the na?vet? of Meg's playing deflates any Big Rock aspirations. The child-like imagery of candy and Howdy Doody shirts renders Howlin' Wolf-like braggadocio transparent.
More importantly, the Stripes' multilayered contrived personas, both within individual songs and as the greater public face of the band, fogs sincerity. The useless, cheeky album closer, "It's True That We Love One Another", sums up this last obstacle. Piling on the Meta like Charlie Kaufman scripted the lyrics, the hoe-down toys with the Jack and Meg relationship "mystery" that was made abundantly clear in the 459 press articles on The White Stripes over the last two years while throwing Holly Golightly into a threesome of unfunny winks. When Jack sings, "I've got your number written in the back of my Bible," a theoretically rich image from a much better unrealized song is wasted on an in-joke.
The album title refers to the endangered animal's brute power and their less honored instinctual memory for dead relatives. Essentially, The White Stripes admit to the contradictions in their music, but run through their hall of fame like a mad pachyderm. In a climate of kitchen-tinkered, designer cuisine pop, the album offers buckets of batter fried guitar crunch. On tracks such as "Black Math" and "Little Acorns" the grease and grunge of cheap guitar ingredients cover slim-pickings from the songwriting chicken. People who just want some fried chicken may drive-thru and get a quick fix, but remember that underneath the spirits of the heroes are waiting for a true seance.
-Brent DiCrescenzo, March 2nd, 2003
The White Stripes
Elephant
[Third Man/V2; 2003]
Rating: 6.9Church's Fried Chicken now sits at the crossroads of Highway 49 and Highway 61 in Clarksdale, Mississippi like an unaware, prefabricated neon mausoleum. While you can no longer barter your soul to Beelzebub for guitar-picking prowess, The Man will gladly exchange your eternal being for a place on the fryer and a hairnet. Or one may just opt for the Sweet Biscuit Crunchers and some Purple Pepper Sauce for a dollar. The tragicomic irony of a fast food joint squatting on the Valhalla of Delta Blues out-tarnishes our collective lore more than the Bus Stop of Gethsemane and adjoining Mount of Olives Hotel. And when you toss one of those sugary Sweet Biscuit Crunchers or gooey Honey-Butter Biscuits into your fat maw, you can let your mind drift to the thinly veiled sexual euphemisms of the blues, where biscuit almost certainly means "vagina."
The Blues had been raped, exploited, stolen, diluted, rediscovered, reforgotten, and rendered meaningless countless times long before the Russian Mafia kept hot on the heels of the Blues Brothers 2000 and the House of Blues primarily showcased Wu-Tang side projects and Godsmack. Now, nearly a century after its birth, a non-ironic, post-Jon Spencer form of the Blues has risen again, ever so stubbornly and somnolently-- and naturally, it's being led by white kids. Jack White *ahem* not only name-drops Robert Johnson, he covers him. Summons him. Wears the same little derby as him. On "Ball and Biscuit", the album-stretching stomper of the White Stripes' fourth album, Jack White moans, "Let's have a ball and a biscuit, sugar," and it's all too plainly clear what he means.
What's less clear on the track and the rest of Elephant, however, is just what Jack White intends. Certainly, one of his goals is to simply Rock, which his shit-hot guitar solos do bombastically. Those Sears-Roebucks pickups buzz and screech like atomic harmonicas on the album's best songs. Past this, though, White struggles to tenuously weld a growing amalgam of contradictions and genre experiments held with a veneer of schtick, persona, and Fonzie cool, while Meg's pancake-handed drumming and the two-piece format drips solvent over the whole experiment.
The problem being that Jack White wishes to honor his diverse heroes with a limited palette. Imagine paying tribute to Edward Hopper, Ansel Adams, Robert Colescott, and Georgia O'Keeffe in mural with a foot-pump-operated Wagner Power Painter, a bucket of red, and a bucket of white. You're going to get a pinkish, art-student Pollock knock-off. "Hypnotize" valiantly strives for The Stooges. "In the Cold, Cold Night" swings its hips across an unfurnished saloon. "Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine" gives four fingers up to a butcher's knife on the altar of Led Zeppelin. In the end, it should not have to be spelled out in detail that Jack White is no Jim Page nor Osterberg. Suggestions to the contrary will earn you an explanation at the end of the Questionable Musical Taste line on judgment day. Meanwhile, Meg White pleads to her man like a coy Mo Tucker or Georgia Hubley-- more so than take-no-sass Patsy Cline or Dusty in Memphis. Linty in Arkadelphia, perhaps.
The White Stripes' two strengths lie in their understanding of the physics of "rock 'n' roll" and, on the opposite end of the spectrum, their ability to craft a beautiful little boy/girl ditty. As for the former, guitars kick in at the mathematically precise moment. Drums drop out of the atmosphere in their window of opportunity only to knock you back like a returning pendulum. And for the latter, "You've Got Her in Your Pocket", like "We're Going to Be Friends", makes one wish this whole new Foghat rock thing would blow over and make way for the Badfinger/Splinter/Fairport Convention revival that's been long overdue. Therein lies the contradiction of The White Stripes. How do you combine the shit-hot with the "twee?" Elephant's shortcomings suggests the enterprise is futile. Similarly, the na?vet? of Meg's playing deflates any Big Rock aspirations. The child-like imagery of candy and Howdy Doody shirts renders Howlin' Wolf-like braggadocio transparent.
More importantly, the Stripes' multilayered contrived personas, both within individual songs and as the greater public face of the band, fogs sincerity. The useless, cheeky album closer, "It's True That We Love One Another", sums up this last obstacle. Piling on the Meta like Charlie Kaufman scripted the lyrics, the hoe-down toys with the Jack and Meg relationship "mystery" that was made abundantly clear in the 459 press articles on The White Stripes over the last two years while throwing Holly Golightly into a threesome of unfunny winks. When Jack sings, "I've got your number written in the back of my Bible," a theoretically rich image from a much better unrealized song is wasted on an in-joke.
The album title refers to the endangered animal's brute power and their less honored instinctual memory for dead relatives. Essentially, The White Stripes admit to the contradictions in their music, but run through their hall of fame like a mad pachyderm. In a climate of kitchen-tinkered, designer cuisine pop, the album offers buckets of batter fried guitar crunch. On tracks such as "Black Math" and "Little Acorns" the grease and grunge of cheap guitar ingredients cover slim-pickings from the songwriting chicken. People who just want some fried chicken may drive-thru and get a quick fix, but remember that underneath the spirits of the heroes are waiting for a true seance.
-Brent DiCrescenzo, March 2nd, 2003
Basstrap said:I didn't really like the first album and pitchfork only gave this one a 6.9 so I doubt I will get it.
A little too raw for my liking...thumbs for for covering Robery Johnson though
If you mean White Blood Cells, that was their third album.
People, please dont take Pitchfork's reviews too seriously. I swear they get the people who hate certain bands to write most of the reviews, just so the review can be humorous. Then again, we shouldnt really take ANY review too seriously, they're usually always biased one way or the other.
I like to decide on my own if something is good or not, but usually if something get's good enough reviews all across the board I'll take a look into it.
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~LadyLemon~
I Serve Larry's Stick
Ball and Biscuit...wow. Brings to mind Zeppelin...but that is just some rockin' shit man!
~LadyLemon~ said:Ball and Biscuit...wow. Brings to mind Zeppelin...but that is just some rockin' shit man!
I totally agree LadyLemon. I've always thought White Stripes had a "garage Zeppelin" feel to their music.
That is a good song though. Whole album is pretty rockin' for the most part.
zonelistener
ONE love, blood, life
Damn pitchfork people are too wordy. Although I sadly know where that Church's Chicken is in Clarksdale, Miss. (if you do get down there, go to the Delta Blues Museum - it is in the library in Clarksdale. )
I can't wait to hear it tonight (Elephant that is...)
)I can't wait to hear it tonight (Elephant that is...)
Saracene
Rock n' Roll Doggie VIP PASS
I've listened to the album three times over, so here are my impressions: good stuff, but IMO not as likeable and striking as "The White Blood Cells". Two songs sound way too much like the tracks from the previous album revisited with the lesser impact (take away the glam-rock touches from "There's no Home for You Here" and voila, you have the poorer cousin of "Dirty Leaves and the Dirty Ground"). There's a pretty pointless cover of "I Just Don't Know What to Do with Myself". On the plus side, there's some awesome riffage and passionate vocals from Mr Jack White, and Meg's lead vocals on "In the Cold, Cold Night" are quite lovely and haunting, just as the song itself.
pax
ONE love, blood, life
I am going to get it in an hour and a half...as soon as I get out of work.
pax
ONE love, blood, life
"Ball and Biscuit" makes me want to do bad, bad things.
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
paxetaurora said:"Ball and Biscuit" makes me want to do bad, bad things.
OMG me too.
~LadyLemon~
I Serve Larry's Stick
paxetaurora said:"Ball and Biscuit" makes me want to do bad, bad things.
Yep, me three.
LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
Bad things = all over the place
ten days lemon sis!
~LadyLemon~
I Serve Larry's Stick
LarryMullen's_POPAngel said:
YAY!!!!!!!!!!!
P.S. Is it GA?? Or are there seats on the floor? (can't believe I forgot to ask you this)
LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
~LadyLemon~ said:
I think they're seats, not sure, though, cause I looked at the seating chart of the Masonic Temple and it looks like the main floor is seating.
And the tickets don't say FLRGA (like they do for the Foo Fighter tix ), so....guess we'll see when we get there!
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
I am so unbelievably jealous of you two. Take fabulous piccies for your beloved Noodle, k?
Take fabulous piccies for your beloved Noodle, k?
LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
Sure thing, Noodle baby. 
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
~LadyLemon~
I Serve Larry's Stick
OP
OP
HelloAngel
ONE love, blood, life
I've seriously got it bad for this album. Real real bad. Like, Ball and Biscuit bad. I can't help it. Gawd. The music. The guitar. Woo hoo nellie bell.
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~LadyLemon~
I Serve Larry's Stick
The Voice....I love his voice.
Hee-hee...April once PMed saying that this smiley looked like Jack singing:
Love ya sis!
P.S. Can't forget those cheekbones either...
Hee-hee...April once PMed saying that this smiley looked like Jack singing:
Love ya sis!
P.S. Can't forget those cheekbones either...
LarryMullen's POPAngel
Blue Crack Distributor
The voice, yes. The look, I don't get. (Sorry, Noodle.)
Yes, that is the official Jack White smiley, lol.
Right back at ya, sis!
Yes, that is the official Jack White smiley, lol.
Right back at ya, sis!
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