Last night I saw Jack White with The Peacocks. Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love Jack White, but he is really disappointing live. It’s like he tries to take on too much, refuses to play anything straight, and monkeys with the timing of his songs in a distracting and annoying way. I’m all for clamor, but the first two songs were a hot mess.I want to love the lady band The Peacocks, but the whole scene felt like a fucked up Loretta Lynn homage with a sinister Carrie undertone. Wigs, polyester gowns, I was waiting for the bucket of pig blood to drop out of the sky. Within his self-created world of nostalgia, Jack White fetish-izes women. Very Virgin Suicides.Sloppy start notwithstanding, we enjoyed some excellent drumming from Carla Azar. She clearly resisted the sister-wife uniform. (Note, these pictures are from the Paris show; the over-all look at our show was much more circa 70’s Nashville.)Jack divided the set among a hearty serving of his solo album, a sprinkling of White Stripes – including a toned-down and unexpected Fell in Love with a Girl, and a track or two of The Dead Weather and The Raconteurs – (set highlight Steady As She Goes sing along). The well-rounded set list was as good as any I could have hoped for, and they powered through with barely a pause before breaking for the requisite Seven Nation Army encore. Photos by Jo McCaughey who I can only assume was the showy chick clomping around the stage in stacked mary janes and short-shorts taking pictures throughout the performance. She was serving a little side performance of her own. Plaza Queen.
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