The White Stripes
– White Blood Cells
When White Blood Cells was released, Jack and Meg White had already sparked confusion with their matching outfits and faux-sibling story. But this record? It didn’t care what you believed about them. It came screaming out of Detroit with busted-knuckle garage rock that felt both raw and deliberate, like punk written with a fountain pen dipped in battery acid.
Best of…
Jack plays like a man possessed by a box of old 45s and a head full of distortion. His guitar snarls, wails, collapses—never polite, never smooth, and always right on time. Meg’s drumming is primitive in the best way. No frills, no fills, just a thump you can build a house on. There’s a kind of magic in their minimalism—two people making enough noise to rattle drywall across the street.
But what makes this album special isn’t the volume. It’s the heart. Jack’s howling about love, loss, rejection, and self-worth like someone trying to tape his guts back together with duct tape and fuzz pedals. It’s garage rock, sure. But it’s also soul music disguised in a red and white peppermint swirl. Every track feels like it could be the first thing they ever recorded—or the last thing they’ll ever be allowed to.
Choice Tracks
Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground
The opener crashes in like a ghost slamming a door. That guitar tone is pure storm cloud, and Jack’s vocal comes shredded and desperate. It’s less about the lyrics and more about the wreckage they leave behind.
Hotel Yorba
Front porch punk. It’s jangly, loose, and joyful in a way that somehow doesn’t undercut its edge. The kind of song that makes you want to dance barefoot in a dive bar.
Fell in Love with a Girl
A two-minute sugar rush of lust and frustration. The tempo barely holds together, and that’s exactly why it works. It’s a love song if your heart is running on Red Bull and rejection.
We’re Going to Be Friends
The gentle acoustic ballad no one saw coming. Sweet without being saccharine, nostalgic without being corny. It’s a lullaby for the days before the world got mean.
The Union Forever
Built on a Citizen Kane sample, it’s a theatrical, almost surreal detour. Jack throws on his best Orson Welles impression and goes full noir. Weird, bold, brilliant.
White Blood Cells is where The White Stripes stopped being a gimmick and became a force. It’s loud and imperfect, and that’s the point. No polish. No compromise. Just blood, guts, and tape hiss.