The Raconteurs, a supergroup made up of Jack White, Brendan Benson, and Jack Lawrence and Patrick Keeler (the rhythm section for Cincinnati's garage-rock stalwarts the Greenhornes) are coming to town to tell us some stories. Dirty, lowdown, rock-and-roll sagas that bear all the touches of Mr. White, and some sunnier, '60s-tinged tales of love and loss from the brain of Mr. Benson.
Listening to the Raconteurs' first album, the fun, frustrating, and ultimately kinda satisfying Broken Boy Soldiers, is an exercise in narrative. Each song, steeped in rock tradition from America to Zeppelin, is resonantly rich, harking back to a day when all there was to think about was the party you were going to that night. In fact, if you listen closely, there's a story to be heard not in the lyrics, but in the music of the album.
"Steady, As She Goes": You're driving across town, a half-rack in the back, listening to "Black Dog" through the crappy speakers in your Monte Carlo. It's one of those perfect summer nights, sun going down, the sky opening up behind the dry hills in the distance. In fact it's so perfect that you wonder if the rest of the evening can measure up.
"Hands": But as you pull into the driveway you hear guitars roaring through—could it be?—a Marshall stack? Some house party. You step out of the car, grab the beer, and head toward the house. The ground is shaking, a girl leans out of the second floor window, screaming at someone. Then you see she's waving at you.
"Broken Boy Soldier": Inside, someone is banging pots and pans together in the kitchen. You down a beer as the music swirls around you; people you don't know are dancing in the living room as great clouds of smoke waft down from the landing.
"Intimate Secretary": You begin climbing the stairs, a little buzzed already, pleasantly disoriented. The girl finds you—she's saying something and you can't figure out what it means, but who really cares? You feel great. This could be the best night of the summer.
"Together": She takes you by the hand and leads you through one of the bedrooms out the window onto the roof. The stars are out now and a big fat moon coats the perfect lawn with its viscous light. You kiss her. She's talking to you, but you don't really listen. Everything's too beautiful to worry about what's being said.
"Level": But suddenly you start feeling nervous. The girl gets up and walks to the edge of the roof, teetering there in the breeze. A scream comes from somewhere inside the house and you realize you don't even know this girl's name.
"Store Bought Bones": When she jumps, everything goes crazy. Cops scream around the corner, blue-and-reds flashing, everyone's running. The girl is lying on the grass below, one leg curled under her body. There's only one thing to do, though you don't want to. You jump.
"Yellow Sun": When you get to her, she's laughing and then she kisses you. This is one messed-up girl. You crawl back into the bushes and watch as the heavy-footed cops storm the party. She offers you a flask and you sip from it, savoring the taste of her lipstick, sweet before the bite of the whiskey.
"Call It a Day": She's already got that faraway look in her eyes, though. These things never end well. She opens her mouth and all these words come out: excuses, protestations, declarations of affection. You don't buy any of it, but she's lovely, perfectly unpredictable, and not to be taken too seriously. When she kisses you one last time and then leaves, you're not surprised.
"Blue Veins": The cops are gone and the house is dark. Your car is there, but you think you'd rather walk home and so you do, stumbling through those dark suburban streets, feeling a little bit sorry for yourself, a little bit pleased with the adventure. After all, you think, it's only Friday night. Who knows what will happen next?
Who indeed? But the next chapter of the story may well play out at the Moore Theatre—and I wouldn't want to miss what may well be the best '70s house party of 2006.
cmccann@thestranger.com
