At 9pm sharp at the 890-capacity Islington Assembly Hall, Jack White laid out his terms and conditions. “Anybody who stands still and doesn’t move their bodies tonight will be arrested,” he declared while stalking the stage like a caged animal. What followed was less a concert and more a prolonged assault. The momentum was so sustained that White’s three-piece band continued playing between songs. At the end of the night, a walloping version of Steady, As She Goes – his first song with previous outfit The Raconteurs – sounded like an explosion in a Led Zeppelin factory.
Despite having decoupled from previous bands, the taste-making 2000s duo The White Stripes, as well as The Raconteurs and Dead Weather, as a solo artist, Jack White remains a reliably popular draw both on record and onstage. In north London, his towering presence, fizzing with mania, provided a welcome sight. After all, what is rock and roll without its genuine rock stars? Naturally, it was sensational stuff. If the hall’s cream and maroon walls and its wooden stage gave the impression of a school theatre, the sight of Jack White tearing through any number of guitar solos put me in mind of Marty McFly, in Back To The Future, “inventing” rock and roll by running wild through Chuck Berry’s Johnny B. Goode. Elsewhere, when referencing his hometown of Detroit, the 49-year-old was like a reincarnated Wayne Kramer, the late great lead guitarist from the MC5. Throughout, much that is good about loud and organic music seemed to have been amassed under one roof.
With his percussive technique setting the tempo, White combined the roles of frontman and bandleader with frenetic aplomb. The sight of him whispering, or yelling, in the ears of his pummelling ensemble suggested on-the-fly jams and improvisations that gave the performance an air of electric unpredictability. The filthy blues-style shuffle of Archbishop Harold Holmes, from the recent No Name album, sounded like the soundtrack to an orgy in a swamp. White Stripes bangers such as Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground, Fell in Love with a Girl and Seven Nation Army saw those downstairs bouncing on the balls of their feet. In the pronounced heat, at least one person fainted.
Perhaps one shouldn’t expect anything less from a man who looked like he’d come to rock and roll all night. As the evening entered its final throws, White spoke with disdain of the constraints of a curfew that must surely have been anticipated in a venue affixed to a town hall. He decried decibel restrictions without which an audience of 1,400 people would likely have gone deaf.
The night’s most telling moment, though, came in the thick of the action. “This is not the kind of rock and roll you get at Wembley Stadium for £400,” White announced in something approaching a scream. Well, no, it is not. While erstwhile people’s bands such as AC/DC, Green Day and Oasis have bought into the video-screens and three-figure-ticket-price racket, Jack White appeared to be waging a one-person campaign for the soul of rock and roll (and for the rather reasonable sum of 55 quid a head, at that). This war, of course, may not be one he can win, but on the strength of his showing in north London, he’ll die trying.
Jack White plays the Liverpool O2 Academy tonight and Brighton Chalk on Sunday.
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