The thrilling debut album from this intense New York City trio makes their city feel alive once again
The White Stripes
How does this always happen? By rights, The White Stripes should be ‘over’ by now. After all, a three-chord trick can only take you so far in life. And in many ways, ‘Icky…’ is no different. Jack still plays up to his dastardly moustachioed persona, garbling like a deranged loon about some salty country stuff wut he done, and Meg still plays the drums in the style of a three-year-old who wanted a pony for Christmas instead. It’s very much business as usual. Except that it’s not, because every subsequent incarnation of this band seems like opening your garage door to discover your Mondeo has disappeared and a magical unicorn put in its place. There’s something eerie about this band’s capacity to make you hear them as though it was the first time. Always the same and yet always different, some would call it complete and utter unfiltered genius.
We’ll call it ‘Icky Thump’.
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