Is there currently a more electrifying performer of rock music than Jack White? Channelling driven craziness at the piano at one point tonight, his kinky black bangs flapping wildly, he conjures a dark phantom of the Killer himself.
Indeed, there is more than a little of Jerry Lee Lewis's mania - and machismo - about the man born John Anthony Gillis, somewhat north of the Mason-Dixon but whistling Dixie in his crib. He plays with old-fashioned values, sometimes creditably, sometimes in a way that feels weirdly reactionary, but always on an edge of jeopardy that's been filed down to a predictable dullness by the majority of his contemporaries. Guitar strapped on, he marches convulsively about the stage, interrupting himself and bandmates with squealing guitar solos that always appear to burst out of nowhere, out of the moment.