The Raconteurs – Broken Boy Soldiers
Broken Boy Soldiers hit like a garage door slamming shut in a quiet neighborhood. Jack White already had his name scrawled in permanent marker across rock’s blackboard, but here he lets loose in a band that feels less like a side project and more like a laboratory for loud ideas. Alongside Brendan Benson, Patrick Keeler, and Jack Lawrence, White dives headfirst into a throwback sound that isn’t afraid to get weird, loose, or messy. The result? An album that doesn’t polish rock—it scuffs it up just enough to feel alive again.
Best of…
This isn’t the White Stripes redux. The Raconteurs pull from British invasion grooves, psych-pop oddities, and ’70s glam, but they don’t treat the past like a museum. They stomp through it, leave fingerprints on the glass, and steal whatever glitters. Benson and White play off each other like they’re fighting over the same microphone—Benson’s melodic clarity pushing against White’s scorched-earth grit. The songs themselves don’t overstay their welcome, often barreling to the finish line in under four minutes, flipping moods like a jukebox with bad wiring.
At just ten tracks, it feels compact but restless, like the band knew they had to get in and get out before things got too comfortable. That tension works in their favor. Broken Boy Soldiers is raw, hooky, and a little bit unhinged—an album that breathes the same air as its influences but never settles into imitation.
Choice Tracks
Steady, As She Goes
The anchor of the album. It’s deceptively simple—two chords and a bassline that burrows straight into your spine. White and Benson trade vocals like they’re both trying to out-smirk the other, but there’s something darker lurking under the surface. Pop dressed in denim and dirt.
Hands
The guitars get nastier here. It’s blues-rock in a bar fight with itself, stumbling into falsettos and wonky time changes. The chorus hits like a sudden jolt of clarity after a haze of feedback. Benson’s knack for melody keeps the chaos on a leash—barely.
Broken Boy Soldier
Title track, and fittingly unstable. It careens from lullaby to electric fit, sounding like it was written on a napkin and recorded before the ink dried. The production stays gritty, the vocal feels like a cry through a busted amp, and that mid-song break? Pure controlled detonation.
Level
Swagger and stomp. The riff is all sharp elbows, with Keeler’s drumming locking into something tribal. There’s a manic energy here that never quite boils over, but you can feel the heat rising. It’s less about where it goes and more about how dirty the ride feels.