The Dead Weather - Horehound
Words by Max Feldman
Jack White is an unremitting puzzle. From the raggedly retro fancies of The White Stripes to the bar brawling, brazen, Raconteurs, he has been the foremost source of croaking, Country, tones for the last decade. These hallmarks- a prestigious purism a fiery, fuzzy, muddle- continue with his latest project, The Dead Weather. Here, we see him entering ‘supergroup’ territory as if it were second nature. Their first product, Horehound, is a disconcerting, dusty swell, a Southern Gothic summoning of the spirits of Gene Vincent and Eddie Cochrane. Squealing and jagged, it’s the howl of wide-open Country, of tradition, snarling its way through its’ members collective legacy that somehow shambles into being greater than the sum of its parts. Horehound documents a world where the 1980s never happened, where electronics are expensive imports to be regarded with a Christian caution. Here, men fight with their fists and tip their hats. A nakedly uneasy, jarring, racket, it eschews all of the pop-sensibilities that somehow shrieked into play on Elephant.
As ever, it still sounds like it was recorded in a drunken uncle’s garage, but there’s a sense of accomplishment to these accidents. ‘I Cut Like A Buffalo’ and ‘Rocking Horse’ are animalistic urges charged with analogue voodoo and an insatiable sense of scuzz- Youth and Young Manhood’s devil-ridden, ostracised, older cousin gleefully teaching the kids all the dirtiest tricks in the book. It’s all delivered with a leaden, polluted, crush where echoes abound and the space, the crashing size of it, is never less than salacious. It’s humid and immensely difficult to listen to without being led into temptation; it gyrates and coos, and ‘No Hassle Night’ suggests anything but undisturbed domesticity. Much like The White Stripes before them, and regardless of Jack’s return to a percussive position in the group, Horehound spews a diseased gasoline danger. Thus, it’s probably best to steer clear lest you burn.
Posted Wed, July 22, 2009