Satan Was Behind Me

The phrase "Music is important to me" is an understatement. Music is the cornerstone of who I am, but there is a definite limit to my indulgence. I automatically memorize song lyrics but not the band names. I rip CDs illegally but buy the ones that I want to show my full support for. I love finding the occasional band that has yet to break into the mainstream, but rarely pick up a music mag to find out what is happening on the scene.

This extends to shows. I enjoy the show from an unknown band that has some buzz (as long as my company is good). I usually front the money for bands that I enjoy listening to if they're in town and I am employed. But sometimes, shows come along that I absolutely cannot refuse for any reason. My legs never hurt from standing while they play, and I never once check my watch. Yes, my darlings, sometimes shows come through that excite the HellCat.

Like the White Stripes.

I found myself at the Greek theater tonight, sitting next to the Mighty G, sending naughty texts during the break, and making fun of Mexicans with the Mexican stranger sitting next to me (although he wasn't a stranger for long!). Before I knew it, the apple backdrop lit up a fiery red, and the magic began.

Pablo said it best. The sound that those two people create is mind-blowing. They charged through songs like Tecumseh Sherman on his way to Savannah...except they didn't kill anyone and don't inspire intense hatred from the Northerners. Anyway. Jack White played that guitar in ways that I didn't know were possible. He even worked the xylophone within an inch of its life. I actually felt during certain songs that my heart was going to leap from my chest, my legs would buckle, and I would lie helpless on the ground with a huge smile on my face.

I found myself getting awfully antsy. I frowned for a millisecond, wondering why. Then it hit me. The audience was being teased. Sexually. Songs varied in intensity, building the heat, backing off, and coming right back. That show was like a lover you've had for about three weeks that shows up at your door hot and bothered--you are familiar with their moves, but the new surge of hormones has made them animalistic and creative in ways you hadn't seen yet.

It was really hot.

Jack and Meg made their way through a great cross-section of their catalog, including most of the best songs from the new album. The show ended, but they came back for an encore. Sometimes, if any other shows were like fucking, the encore would be like pity sex. You love it, it gets you off, but it's over quickly and then the lights are on pronto. The stench of reluctance hangs in the air. This encore, though, was different. It was like they were interested in doing an entire other show. The White Stripes wanted to come back and make love to me again! Hoorah! Everybody get some water and take your pants off!

Before, I was getting excited and needed that special someone by my side to accost. During the encore, the mood changed. I felt the demons trying to get us. The demons were pressing in hard with intent to harm, but the Rock wouldn't let them. The Rock was saving us all. Jack and Meg were our champions, sending the demons back from whence they came. Jack slayed some of them with his Fell In Love With a Girl sword and Meg Seven Nation Armied them back to their caverns. We were safe.

Now I am considering driving to Morrison, CO this weekend to see them at Red Rocks Ampitheater.

Let this be a warning to you: once you impress me with your skills, be they rockin' or rollin', I can't get enough of it. I become insatiable. So gas up the tank, honey.

take, take, take. g