I can tell you the exact date I became a fan of The White Stripes: April 23, 2003. I was fourteen (coincidentally, the same spring that I read Catcher in the Rye). I was at Coachella music festival wading my through a huge crowd, trying to see the Blue Man Group (somewhat of an obsession of mine at fourteen). To get to the BMG I had to pass the stage TWS were playing on. I stopped to watch them play three songs, “Black Math,” “Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground,” and “Jolene.” It would be the only time I would ever see them live.
I went home, bought both their first album and Elephant, and have loved them ever since. Despite the fact that I came on board kind of late (six years and three albums after they got together), I was still the first among my friends to listen to them/extoll their endless virtues. Even when I would only listen to a band of it had both screaming and breakdowns, I still loved them.
Meg White was my first, and most enduring, celebrity crush. She is the only female celebrity to grace my walls or the background of my computer. I never got anyone’s gripe with Meg’s drumming. It’s brutal and simple. It’s the essence of rock, almost punk in its ferocity.
Personally, I think Jack White is the greatest/most original rock and roll guitarist in the last thirty years.
I also happen to think The White Stripes are probably destined to be known as the last great rock’n’roll band.
Part of me has no idea why they decided to break up now, and part of me knows exactly why.
I’m sure you don’t care all that much what I think about The White Stripes, and are more interested in what it’s like here in Cusco, but in a way I feel like my dog has died.