Where the duo’s self-titled debut laid out the blueprint of classic rock-via-the-Delta-blues by way of Southwest Detroit, the Whites are now decorating the rooms of their mansion with Dylan-worthy introspection and minimalism, primal howls and cathartic regression (oh, yeah, and the occasional "rock anthem"). Translation? It’s fucking brilliant.
You’d have to be truly sick not to relate at least a little to Jack White’s insights, declarations of insecurity and boy-next-door-with-the-crooked-grin vocalizations. It’s the attention to detail that wins the day, though. Cuz on a broad, obvious level, there’re still lots of folks who’ll say "Whud is that? Some guy trying to sound like Robert Plant or sumpthin'." (Please affect "dolt" voice for the preceding sentence). And you very well may get a passing hint of Mr. Zimmerman ’round here. But I think that’s only because Jack White’s going to the same deep well to draw the sounds for his own hearth and home.