I heard Catholics from Detroit are pretty cool

I decided that I had to blog this, to record it, if only because I can't get it out of my head--Jack White is the Johnny Depp of rock. Of music in general, if you will. That is, if Johnny was a musician, he would look and sound like Jack White, doing everything himself, mixing genres and style, and filling his lyrics with both captivating arrogance and disarming humility. If Jack was an actor, he would pick roles that are brooding and then crazy and then downright fun as hell, and make them all his own with an array of interdisciplinary influences from characters both classic and obscure. And, as Michele so wonderfully added, if Jack dies a sudden and tragic death and becomes the subject of a film. . . you know who would play him.

As Jack white walked out on to his hyper-stylized stage at Red Rocks--red carpet, white palms, black trim--wearing a flared black jacket over red pants, and a Victorian style top-hat, he looked like a hipster version of Johnny's new Willy Wonka. And as he danced around, song after song, sometimes singing, sometimes wimpering, sometimes screeching, I realized that, like Johnny among the Hollywood crew, there is no one hotter and more interesting to watch in front of a microphone.

Although there are many similarities that I could list, such as their working-class roots, their interest in religious and cultural mythology, and their affinity for European models, there is one in particular that fascinates me, and particularly in Jack White: they both exude that aura of passionate, solitary, wild, tortured artist-hero, yet they are both unquestionably devoted to their women. Johnny has run away to France with his lover and is a doting father to his children (one of whom is named Jack, by the way). And although Jack is apparently married to some British model, and had a brief relationship with "Renee" (can I say tragic mistake? eew), he is very clearly, deliberately, devoted to Meg White.

And for the most romantic of reasons. It's no secret that Meg is as good a drummer as any marginally experienced percussionist. But if you ask Jack, her sticks are the only one to back up his songs for the White Stripes. Her style is the only one appropriate for his music. For him, her lack of skill becomes "an innocence and childlike quality" that helps anchor and define their band. And he'll do whatever it takes to make her shine. On stage, he whispers instructions to her between songs. He writes a few for her to sing in her quivering, slightly nervous voice. At times, she can't keep up with his furious strumming, and he will look up, slow down, adjust to her incompetency, and pretend like he mistook the tempo change. You can almost hear him coaching her--don't worry, Meg, your effortless style is exactly what I need here. You're perfect. He gazes at her with such affection, and not without cause. Which brings me to my other point: Meg is as hot as he is behind her drum kit. She bounces with every step on her bass drum, her long hair flowing and her red scarf giving her a classic movie-star aesthetic. Is it a coincidence that Jack is obsessed with that aesthetic in Rita Hayworth? We'll never know.

All I know is that somehow Jack is right to insist on playing with Meg, and right about her style and particular kind of "skill." She's awesome in her innocent, childlike way, and the perfect compliment to his self-assured dominance. It's quite a sight to see.