The White Stripes: A kindof obituary

the twang of country I normally can't stand besides  from the lips of the old greats like johnny cash and patsy cline is made soft and bearable through the white stripes.  The screechy banjo to haunting beats that lead you from blues to country to rock and back again that alternatively or simultaneously hook and numb. The lyrics sing of a nostalgia of the hardships and culture of the midwest and appalachia, a nostalgia that I never will fully understand, nor do I particularly want to.  Compassion perhaps, but never real empathy.

The indescribable role that meg plays in the background.  Her sparse beats hesitant and naive.  There is no doubt that there are thousands of others that play percussion better than her, there are thousands that play just as badly as her.  She is seen and not heard and yet she adds a tangible hint of peculiarity to the duo.  A hint that a female, but not just any female can add.  Her awkward posture is intriguing.  A femme fatale lithe and graceful would not add the same intrigue.

Sometimes it seems like it might as well be the jack white band.  with his numerous other endeavors that are arguably more idiosyncratic.  Songs like blue veins where jack wails like a wounded cat vaguely scatting.

But it's because of Meg that they are the White Stripes. The white and red band.  Without Meg, it's just The Stripes.