Tag Archives: White Stripes

Hey Yoshimi, Battle This…

More white lies from the Detroit duo uncovered.

The White Stripes seem to invite conspiracy theories. From misleading statements regarding their relationship to ill-advised promotional agreements with Japanese automobile manufacturers, Jack and Meg White tend to cause a stir. Where there’s smoke there’s fire and if the White Stripes are involved you can bet Glorious Noise will get to the bottom of it.

Continue reading Hey Yoshimi, Battle This…

White Stripes Divorce Certificate

We told you it was coming, so here it is: Jack and Meg’s 2000 divorce certificate:

White Stripes Divorce Certificate

This whole thing has been pretty silly, and while it’s been fun getting one or two high-profile links, we hope some of you newbies will stick around while we get back to doing what we’ve been doing all along… If not, thanks anyway for stopping by!

Got a couple of new items in the merch store: a Glorious Noise wall clock and a Glorious Noise flying disc (a/k/a Frisbee for all you non-stoners). The product is the hero! We’ve got lots of shit you want.

The Real Garage

Glorious Noise was representin’ in full effect on WXRT’s Sound Opinions last night. I hope I sounded better than the first time I was on that show. The show focused on garage rock, and they had us on to discuss the recent White Stripes thing we did here a couple weeks ago.

I get frustrated listening to other people talk about sixties garage rock though. It’s a subject I care deeply about, and it’s annoying to hear people throwing terms around willy nilly. As anyone who has heard Crypt Records’ Back from the Grave series knows, there’s a huge difference between garage rock (roughly 63-66) and psychedelic rock (roughly 66-70). I don’t care what Lenny Kaye thinks or what the original Nuggets album contained. Just listen to the stuff, and you can tell which is which.

Update: you can now listen to my segment online via SoundOpinions.net.

White Stripes Marriage License

White Stripes Marriage License

Glorious Noise values the truth as much as we value great rock and roll. So what’s to be done when these important values butt heads?

We go both ways.

Though the Detroit Free Press broke this story over a year ago, the White Stripes continue to propogate the rumor that they are in fact brother and sister. Now, fibs and mystery are part of rock and roll’s history. But so is laying it all on the line.

And so, Glorious Noise presents to you, for the first time on the web, a copy of Jack and Meg’s 1996 marriage license. Addresses and mothers’ maiden names have been removed to protect the innocent.

White Stripes Marriage License

Also: See the White Stripes Divorce Certificate.

Unlikely Rock and Roll: The White Stripes

Frequent GLONO Board contributor Proptronics (aka Nathan Walker) had the opportunity to check out current media darlings, the White Stripes. It’s no secret that Nate is madly in love with drummer Meg White, so here’s what happened when he finally got to see her and her brother in person…

Unlikely Rock and Roll

The White Stripes Live at Michigan State University, April 14, 2002

Two tickets to see the White Stripes at the Michigan State University Ballroom and the expectation of seeing what Mojo Magazine currently claims to be the greatest live show in the world… That’s what I had in mind when I set out for East Lansing, Michigan.

Arriving on campus, I found no one aware or even concerned that one of the hottest bands in the world was about to unleash their particular brand of blues pop noise on them. The building that held the Ballroom held a similar scenario when I walked in. Dozens of students sitting in a commons area that was circled by Taco Bell, McDonald’s and several other fast food restaurants. Was I in the right area?

I asked a group of students for directions to the ballroom and was met with a “aren’t you too old to be here?” smirk. Finally, I got directions and was on my way. At the door, there seemed to be a bit of a buzz but only on the level of seeing your buddy’s band play for the first time in a bar. Where is the excitement?

My first thought upon entering the MSU Ballroom was: high school talent show. A tiny little stage, two small speaker stacks, no smoking signs, and not a drop of alcohol in sight. How can this be rock and roll? How can the White Stripes be playing at this venue? The crowd was an unusual mix of your typical college types, twee indie kids, and a strong showing by men in their mid-forties.

Since I was about an hour late, I asked someone whether the opening band had played yet and was met with a “Hell no, but they better fucking hurry up! I can’t wait any longer.” Ahh, finally someone with that distinct tension building up in their chest as they await the appearance of modern music’s great White hopes.

The opening band was Whirlwind Heat from Grand Rapids. They pulled out some amazing, Braniac-inspired noise pop for the next 35 minutes and whipped the crowd into opposing frenzies. One half of the crowd was hooting and hollering and entirely fascinated with their experimental noise, the other half began heckling and booing these young Grand Rapids exports. One gentleman begged “Come on, give us the real shit!” as they were finishing one song in a drone of feedback. Both sides united as they announced their last song and gave them one hell of a cheer.

At this point, I was skeptical of the White Stripes. The crowd wasn’t very into it, I was standing in the equivalent of your high school’s cafeteria, and I was stone sober. Yet, still the tension was building. One of the kids running the show walked by and informed me that Jack and Meg White would be entering the stage right past me and that I should not hassle them. Was he aware of my secret crush on Meg? Moments later, with my back turned, Meg sauntered past and took her seat at the throne. How can someone so petite make so much noise? Next, coming through like a funeral procession, was Jack being carried flat on his back by five people all dressed in black. Wow.

Jumping on stage, Jack grabbed his guitar and lay on the speaker to get the effective feedback that is the introduction to “Dead Leaves & the Dirty Ground.” The crowd seemed to enjoy the first few tracks, all of which come from their newest album, White Blood Cells. The band was good, the crowd was decent but I was left wondering what Mojo was thinking. Then they hit their stride! “Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeennnne, please don’t take him just because you can.” You’ve all heard the Dolly Parton version, right? This version shook my soul! The verses were sung with a gentle guitar strum, with the chorus howled through a mic with severe echo effects and Jack’s guitar overdriven to the point of ear-piercing levels. The crowd was left stunned. The moment between their last note and the applause hung like time had stopped until we, at once, realized that this was the real thing.

They went through the next hour rocking out tracks from all three albums, covering Bob Dylan’s “Lovesick” and the traditional blues song “Angel.” Each one seemed to get angrier and more aggressive as the evening went on and the young, party crowd responded. Attempts to crowd surf, stage dive and raise general hell were too much for the slim security, and the guitar tech was left to fend for Jack whilst he played on.

The set finished with the crowd begging for the expected encore; what we got was unexpected. After a ten minute break, they came back to do two more tracks of pure blood and sweat. The beat Meg was playing seemed to be nearly double-time of their studio work and Jack appeared a wild-eyed madman as he tore through “Astro” into “Jack the Ripper.” The crowning glory came as they went into “Let’s Build a Home” that segued into a song that I hadn’t heard before. As they returned to the beat of “Let’s Build a Home,” you could feel a rage building as the pace quickened once more. The last of the chorus trailed away in the echo and Jack ripped into his guitar begging for more feedback. He ripped and tore at it, banged it against his amp, swung it around his head and eventually lost all control and fell to the floor, leaving the guitar in a wash of feedback, thanking the crowd and exiting the stage.

I was left thinking that there has been no hype circling this band — it’s all been an understatement.


Glorious Noise Continues to Diligently Track the Course of Pop Music

Johnny Loftus

Everyone – except for maybe Jonathan Davis – knows Nu Metal is so close to buying the farm, the realtor is calling to negotiate closing fees. Sure, Creed is going strong. And Linkin Park’s {Hybrid Theory} was the best-selling album of 2001. But these standouts don’t represent the vitality of the genre as a whole. Creed is a glorified (no pun intended) sports bar power trio whose sonic trailer park vibe would appeal to Camaro-driving weight lifters in any era of music, Nu Metal or not. And Linkin Park is already distancing itself from its Nu Metal packaging, as LP MC Mike Shinoda can be found rapping on the new X-Ecutioners record and branching into side projects. Remove the success of these types, and Nu Metal’s hurting. It’s no wonder. After all, you can only rage against the machine for so long. Shit, Rage Against The Machine isn’t even raging against the machine anymore. So where does that leave a bunch of dirt-asses like Puddle of Mudd? Likely wallowing in their much-maligned name choice as they take your drive-thru order.

In the last few months, thanks to the inevitably cyclical nature of pop music (not to mention a serious commitment from M2), a diversified group of bands have been giving Nu Metal a swirly in the back of the visitors’ locker room. The Strokes, The White Stripes, Gorillaz, Jimmy Eat World, Ben Kweller, Starsailor, Black Rebel Motorcyle Club, and most recently Clinic have all weighed in as heavyweights in this new group of artists, who can only be compared to the eclectic early 90’s heyday of MTV’s 120 Minutes. Like a smarter, stripped-down version of Perry Farrell’s visionary Lollapalooza tours of yore, genuinely diverse acts with actual talent have begun a slow-burn takeover of American popular music. Though markets and tastes are completely different in the two countries, it can be said that the UK embraced this trend first. Many of the bands above – English or not – have enjoyed monstrous UK success over the past couple of years. And now, just like downloadable ring tones, America is finally catching up to what Europe has known about since before Wes Borland left Limp Bizkit: musical variety is where it’s at, chum.

The question is, what will happen next? If you recall the backlash to Nirvana, thousands of committed, talented bands were embraced by the Big Five, only to be cornholed, kicked to the curb, or worse. Now, the industry hasn’t changed. They still rip out spines on a daily basis. But two things may separate this latest wave of rockers from their forebears: the Internet, and hindsight. The former has readjusted the tenets of the DIY aesthetic, re-wiring the punk ethos into a multifunctioning mixture of marketing savvy, low-cost, broad-based communication, and of course technology. Hindsight feeds dot com DIYism. A band like Jimmy Eat World, established on their own before the majors ever came calling, has the ability to leverage their established market into a creatively beneficial (and maybe more lucrative) contract. What would the average alternative rockers have to offer an A & R guy in 1994 besides a few crusty flannels and a soundman named Pisser? The White Stripes are another example. Already having worked successfully within the independent culture, their growing domestic success is just gravy. There’s nothing wrong with appearing on Conan or having a single on the Billboard 200. Of course not. Jack and Meg White’s music deserves to be heard. But don’t think for a second that those two are letting an industry hack with big shoes walk all over them. It’s their hindsight – and one foot buried in the indie rock community – that will save them from a major label flame out when tastes change again in 1 or 2 years.

But in the meantime, why not enjoy it? Us AND them. If M2 is the new 120 Minutes, and I can hear Del Tha Funky Homosapien rapping with Damon Albarn as I wash my hands in the restroom at Hot n’ Now, then things are getting a little better. Sooner or later, a real rain’ll come and wash all the filth off the streets. But until then, why not revel in the irony of hearing “Fell In Love With A Girl” booming out a jeep?


Rocking the Caves

Waking Up After The Long Night Called 2001

Year-end lists are disgustingly difficult to write. It’s damn hard to remember what happened last February or March when you’re still trying to discern how you spent $150 on High Life at your local laundromat/tavern’s $1 beer night last week. Besides, lists are boring. And the Glorious Noise staff has always tried to think out of the blurb when discussing music. CD reviews and top ten lists? Leave those to Rolling Stone and David Letterman. Jeez, even the idiot record store savants in “High Fidelity” shortened theirs to top fives.

But my editor is screaming down the telephone line, and he isn’t telling me about his new Christmas puppy. And some musically significant things did happen during the past year. Check it out. And let’s look forward in unison to an Enrique Iglesias-less 2002.

January 29, 2001. Superbowl XXXV. Halftime. Britney Spears scampers onstage wearing tubesock wristbands and football pants, flanked by Aerosmith, Mary J. Blige, N*Sync, and a belt-challenged Nelly. Despite her supercharged co-conspirators, the event was all Britney, all the time. Followed up by a Pepsi commercial featuring her navel and Bob Dole, the high-profile appearance was tuned up as a harbinger of things to come for Ms. Spears and the ever-expanding tango of her endlessly advancing, platinum-grill’d pop culture bell curve.

Fast-forward to December. Fellow junior diva Jessica Simpson (albeit c-grade, in comparison to Spears, but that just means she doesn’t have as far to fall…) appears on the cover of the January 2001 issue of Maxim Magazine, conveniently forgetting her shirt. Mandy Moore, B*Witched, Wild Orchid, and Willa Ford have returned to previous day jobs at Best Buy, only to tearfully witness their own dancepop albums be unceremoniously dumped into cut-out bins by angry store managers. And Britney Spears sits alone in her enormous mansion, wondering why movie producers won’t return her calls.

By its November 6, 2001 release, Britney had been roundly panned, even by teen critics, and its lead single (the horridly bland, non-sexy “I’m A Slave 4 U”) was gasping for breath at pop stations nationwide. Where previous appearances on the MTV Video Music Awards had led to mountains of breathless hype, Spears’ confused, drab performance of “Slave” during 2001’s show made even her boa constricting co-star uncomfortable. Oops, she didn’t do it again.

Britney Spears’ year-long flameout is just one example of the Popstardom tailspin that will likely put all the boy-bands and bombshell jezebels in the poor house by summer, 2002. At least until 5 years from now, when they resurface, Joey McIntyre-like, with “serious” solo albums featuring synthesizers and laser beams.

July 6, 2001. The White Stripes at Empty Bottle, Chicago. The Strokes weren’t the only American rock band with the British press on their bozack in 2001. The UK got all weepy for Detroit City’s White Stripes over the past year, too. Two like-monikered miscreants with no use for a bassist? What’s the big deal?

That’s what a bunch of Chicago scenesters were mumbling early last July when Jack and Meg White arrived in town for their first appearance since Rolling Stone and NME began writing sonnets about their chop-shop blues juju. But in Chicago, if your band can make 300 jaded hipsters jive like Elaine Benes at a Christmas party, you must be doing something right.

Like those elegant bachelors in The Strokes, The White Stripes are deserved of their exposure, and most likely would have hit paydirt even without all the top-drawer dishing. In the year to come, it will be interesting to see what effect the band’s significant press and wider audience has on their hometown rock scene, which has a lot of potential, and even a few bands that feature a bass guitar.

August 1, 2001. Radiohead performs outdoors in Chicago’s Grant Park, and rocks 40,000 spectators with quiet desperation. After 1997’s OK Computer lauched Radiohead into an epoch of stardom they did not expect, the group reacted with the primer for clinical depression chronicled in “Meeting People Is Easy,” Grant Gee’s composite tourfilm of 1998. But Thom Yorke and his chaps rebounded brilliantly with 2000’s Kid A, an album whose protean rhythms were almost entirely devoid of the chiming guitars and hooks the size of Greenland that typified OK Computer.

Despite Kid A’s debut at number 1, despite the record’s smoldering genius, there was still some confusion in 2001 about Radiohead’s direction. And after months of scheduling and re-scheduling the location of their Chicago gig, many of the pale indie types soaking in the rays on that hot day last August had arrived almost out of curiosity. What would Radiohead do? How could they POSSIBLY combine their earlier material with odd jibboom of Kid A?

As it turned out, meeting people really is easy. The band did not perform behind blinking and whirring mainframes. They didn’t stare intently at their shoes for 35 minutes before walking silently, shoulders haunched, off the stage. In fact, Radiohead turned in an almost 3-hour set of music that effortlessly spanned the sonic differences between their early and more recent material. Yorke made faces in a camera mounted on his organ. He was charming. He was funny. And his bandmates filled up the impossibly pristine soundsystem with precision rock and roll and no less than 4 encores.

With their summer tour, Radiohead gently, but firmly, asserted what they had been saying all along, during all of those interviews for “Best of 2000” articles: KID A’s subdued nature was the logical progression of a rock band in flux. Amnesiac, Kid A’s stylistic companion piece, arrived without guitar heroics, and this time no one was up in arms. Seeing and hearing Radiohead quietly illustrate their chosen musical direction with passion and power along Chicago’s lakefront on a hot summer day was a great way to be convinced of their once and future greatness.

“America: A Tribute To Heroes” was the first, and one of the best, of the entertainment industry’s answers to the tragic events of September 11. At VH-1’s “Concert For New York City,” NYC’s firefighters, police officers, and emergency workers were treated to an all star bash in their own backyard, and their onstage participation helped lend the event a casual, backyard feel – as if you invited your favorite rockers and movie stars to a traditional American hoedown. Celebrities mingled freely with the real heroes, as a packed Madison Square Garden cheered it all on.

But arriving so soon after the attacks as it did, September 21st’s “Tribute To Heroes” unfolded in a more somber mood, concentrating on performances that captured the mourning heart of America, while still offering hope for the future.

Bruce Springsteen (“City In Ruin”) and Tom Petty (“Won’t Back Down”) were only two of the standouts among the multi-network event’s myriad of inspired performances. But special recognition goes to Neil Young, whose performance of “Imagine” accomplished so much without any attempt to re-work John Lennon’s original version and vision. With his straightforward, clear-eyed performance, Young not only encapsulated many Americans’ dreams and hopes for a more peaceful world; he also stood defiant against the misguided notions of Clear Channel Communications that had placed the song on a list of tracks deemed “lyrically inappropriate” in the wake of 9/11.

The terrorist attacks effected America’s musical landscape in ways both immediate and longterm. But so quickly after they happened, it was comforting to see musicians we respect and admire (or even some of those we normally deride) use their art and talent to give us all a sonic bear hug.


Best reissue of the year: Shugge Otis, Inspiration Information (Luaka Bop). One of the great “should-have-beens” in music history, Otis’ inspired work from 1974-5 contains effortless funk, dreamy island soul, and plenty of mojo that is beautifully indefinable…Oukast’s Stankonia finally gave Big Boi and Andre 3000 the crossover audience that their genre-cluttered hip hop genius deserves. They were even able to release a primer of sorts in 2001 that showcases the many highlights in their older material…Galactic Californian space-rockers Grandaddy toured with Coldplay. Here’s hoping the casual radio fan of “Yellow” skipped the third Amstel Light and went into the venue early…As mentioned above, Clear Channel’s whoring tactics only got worse in 2001. After assimilating approximately billions of radio stations in multiple markets and formats nationwide, the whoring juggernaut went after live venues, so as to force all echelons of the industry to do business with them, or not at all. No one’s suggesting that the rest of the industry isn’t fucked up. But Clear Channel is definitely at the top of the shit list. Watch out in ‘ought 2. You might wake up a subsidiary.


White Stripes: Painting the World WHITE

Detroit’s White Stripes embark on world domination

By Phil Wise

It wasn’t so long ago that Detroit was the butt of all jokes. Everyone from Jay Leno and David Letterman to the writers of Kentucky Fried Movie were taking whacks at the Motor City. But it seems times have changed and Jack and Meg White of Motown’s own White Stripes are laughing now.

Not in recent memory has an indie band commanded so much attention as the White Stripes. With mentions in Entertainment Weekly, Time and twice in Rolling Stone, the White Stripes seem to be America’s sweethearts—or peppermint lollypops. Now the Stripes are taking their red and white fleet to the UK and finding the fickle British music press more than willing to sign on for a ride.

Last week’s NME had a one-page, full-color spread of Jack and Meg soaked in their Detroit sweat and signature red trousers. The headline screamed “White Noise, White Heat” as a double nod to Detroit’s only political/musical movement of worth, The White Panthers, and to the White Stripes’ Velvet Underground-influenced affinity for stripped-down jams. By reading the gushing write up you’d think Jack White was the second coming of Wayne Kramer, not the snotty little brother of John Spencer. But that was just a shot over the bow.

The coup de grace has this week’s NME features our heroes on the cover and declares them the “Sound of NOW!” How do they do it? I’m a fan of the Stripes and wish them all the best, but how have they seduced the media to the point of turning mild-mannered Arts & Entertainment editors into multi-national spinmasters?

The White Stripes have pulled off a major marketing coup with this media assault and the rewards could be great, but dancing with the British media can also be dangerous. If you thought the American media’s treatment of Milli Vanilla was bad, you should have seen what the NME and now defunct Melody Maker did to Johnny Marr when he left the Smiths. You’d have thought he killed Paul Weller!

So forge on, White Stripes, and find your fortune on the high seas. But beware the English congeniality, for even the great Spanish Armada met its brutal match at the hands of a British gentleman.

White Stripes on Kilbourn: Is There Stroh’s In This Green Room?

It’s hard to rock when you’re surrounded by faux wood paneling and a studio audience that’s been paid with pizza. But that’s exactly where The White Stripes found themselves on Tuesday night, as the current keepers of Detroit’s rock lamplight got set to perform on CBS’ “Late Late Show With Craig Kilbourn.” Wedged into five minutes at the tail end of the show, Meg and Jack White did their best to tear the cover off of the ball with the same energy displayed on their recent tour. And if it’s possible to convey all of that grit and soul while performing on the decidedly soul-less “Late Late Show,” then the White Stripes hit a home run.

The worst thing about the band’s “Late Late Show” appearance was having to endure the hijinks of Kilbourn, a puffy-skinned worm of a man who is smarmy in ways we have not seen people be smarmy before. Watching him ooze all over Playmate of the Year Brande Roderick on a recent episode was just embarrassing. Yes, she is Playmate of the Year. But at least wait til the afterparty to jump her bones. Watching Kilbourn’s train wreck of a show makes me long for the Wilton-North Report. Nevertheless, whoever’s booking bands on the “Late Late Show” is doing a bang-up job. The performance space/hallway occupied by the White Stripes’ dualistic rock show has held the likes of Supergrass, Duran Duran, and intriguing up-and-comers The Josh Joplin Group. It may be a comedic backwater hosted by a blond-haired horny sloth, but it’s still exposure on national TV.

And into this bad trip of an LA talk-show nightmare came the White Stripes, bringing Detroit rock west under the protecting gaze of their hometown flag.


Video: The White Stripes -- “Screwdriver/Your Southern Can Is Mine” (live on Kilborn, 7/17/01)

WHITE STRIPES - Craig Kilborn Show, July 17, 2001

[Added video, 7/18/18. -ed.]


Chicago’s Empty Bottle doesn’t spend a lot of time feng shui’ing itself. The d├ęcor – mostly old handbills and spray paint – gathers on the walls like ancient gardening equipment in your parents’ garage. Scattered, tired versions of those adhesive stars that glow in the dark put up a good fight, but they can’t compete with the fog from 300 Lucky Strikes. A dilapidated bar leans in one room; another features a pool table sharing space with uprooted thrift store couches. In the far corner of the venue lies a triangular stage, adorned with colorful drapery seemingly pilfered from an Italian matron’s special “company” living room. Though tinged with grime after years of sweat, heat, and Rock and Roll, the drapes can still glimmer when the drummer’s fan blows their gold fringe around.

On a recent evening, the raiment was further accented by the flag of Detroit City. In its four corners lie the colors of France, Great Britain, and America, the three nations that have ruled the city. The city’s seal takes up the middle, with the slogan in Latin: RESURGET CINERISUS. ‘It Shall Rise From the Ashes’ – A statement that refers to Detroit’s vaunted musical history as much as to the crumbling city itself. On Friday night, D-Town’s own White Stripes brought their slash-and-burn blues rock to The Empty Bottle, and represented the vibrant, beating, resilient heart of their hometown.

Jack White plays guitar and sings. Meg White plays the drums, facing her counterpart as he leaps between two microphones. Dressed in matching red and white outfits, with their instruments continuing the motif, the duo’s look is almost Scandinavian in its plainness. Indeed; their sophomore effort, 2000’s De Stijl, shares its name with a 20th century Dutch art movement advocating pure abstraction and simplicity. This focused approach carries to the music. Clean lines of guitar flow out in an arc; Meg’s drumming is like Neal Peart with half his limbs. Their music is blues-based, but its suprising sonic punch is all Rock and Roll. Elements of and references to country & western, Brill Building pop, and even Cole Porter show up in Jack White’s guitar and lyrics, as well as his passionate vocal delivery. With his drummer follwing faithfully along, he pries torrid streams of notes from his fleet of guitars, singing along with himself in a voice that sounds almost childlike when he hits the high notes. Too many influences? Maybe. But think of the source. Detroit, a midwestern city linking two great lakes, has always been a crossroads. 3 nations have ruled it; 3 corporations now control it. The soul and groove of Motown Records shares space with the aggression of The MC5 and The Stooges, and Ted Nugent’s cock-rock soloing ties it all together. White Stripes hear all of this. Jack White spews it out of himself while Meg lays down a beat as straightforward as a Midwestern highway. And the sign reads MEMPHIS – 700 MILES.

Chicago’s music-watching community is notorious for standing still. The fellow in the big glasses and skinny pants in the front row could be seeing his favorite band of all time, and you’d only detect a barely perceptible nodding of the head. White Stripes destroyed this apathy in a wash of red, white, and reverb guitar. After propelling themselves along for almost an hour, Jack and Meg returned for an encore that reached for a third gear. With a quick “Thank You” and an embarrassed, flattered bow, Jack was gone to the green room. Meg sat down on the drum riser, lit a smoke and took in the cheers and whistles. It certainly was a sight – 200 jaded Chicago music scenesters screaming and clamoring for more of White Stripes’ stripped-down, re-built Rock and Roll. After a pep talk, Jack White returned to the triangular stage, crushed out his cigarette (had to be Marlboro – red and white), placed his feet beneath his city’s colorful flag, and with a nod to his bandmate began a final encore of aggressive, plaintive blues rock that made those drapes shimmer.

And Detroit Rock rose from the ashes.