Open Letter to Jack White*
Jack. Jackie. I love you. Watching you play (the verb pales, Jack, pales) guitar makes me hotter than a thousand suns. It's as if the top of my head has popped off and been replaced with spotlight beams reflected by your Gretsch (is that what you play?) and an afro of light springs from my head. I balance all of my weight on my ten tiny toes, which hurts and is wobbly, just so I can see you over the six-foot-one bitches in front of me. They are annoying. They are wearing flowy renfair shirts with peek-a-boo backs and baby clips in their ropey brown hair. Their faces are small and the only reason I can say anything about their faces is because they keep looking back at the crowd to see who is looking at them. Like someone would choose their drab drunken faces over yours. The only way that would happen would be if some cultural anthropologist happened to be scanning every venue in New York City to locate an Edie Brickell circa-1989 look-alike for some hippie-rock research project. Then, maybe, I could see someone looking at them over you.
Question: Why do tall skinny girls always have loud tinkling laughs and the latest-model cell phones? Also, they never wait in line for drinks or carry shit. They have long hair and an air of absolute power mixed with carefree nonchalance. Oh, and jeans. Always with the jeans.
So, Jack. Off topic, off topic--I know. It happens. Anyway, your guitar playing. Right. It's fast and sloppy and sure and your whole body gets behind every note and bend and you don't care if your hair flops in your face or your shirt gets twisted in your guitar strap or you trip over PA wires and you're always perfectly in time even though your fingers are all over the fretboard. That was a boring description, but you get the idea.
Wait a minute: I just realized something. Why the hell would you need me to describe your guitar playing to you? You live it--you do it. I am officially crestfallen. Because if we were to, say, bump into each other outside of a venue or near a big gold tour bus on 50th Street (they always park around the corner--duh), or in the hallway of a Midtown hotel (let's say the Righa Royal), you would look right past me and my feeble description to the girls trilling on their cell phones with the long, ropey hair.
But I'd still stand on all ten toes to see you play.
Sincerely,
Me
* After seeing you play with your band, The Raconteurs, at Roseland, NYC, September 26, 2006.
Question: Why do tall skinny girls always have loud tinkling laughs and the latest-model cell phones? Also, they never wait in line for drinks or carry shit. They have long hair and an air of absolute power mixed with carefree nonchalance. Oh, and jeans. Always with the jeans.
So, Jack. Off topic, off topic--I know. It happens. Anyway, your guitar playing. Right. It's fast and sloppy and sure and your whole body gets behind every note and bend and you don't care if your hair flops in your face or your shirt gets twisted in your guitar strap or you trip over PA wires and you're always perfectly in time even though your fingers are all over the fretboard. That was a boring description, but you get the idea.
Wait a minute: I just realized something. Why the hell would you need me to describe your guitar playing to you? You live it--you do it. I am officially crestfallen. Because if we were to, say, bump into each other outside of a venue or near a big gold tour bus on 50th Street (they always park around the corner--duh), or in the hallway of a Midtown hotel (let's say the Righa Royal), you would look right past me and my feeble description to the girls trilling on their cell phones with the long, ropey hair.
But I'd still stand on all ten toes to see you play.
Sincerely,
Me
* After seeing you play with your band, The Raconteurs, at Roseland, NYC, September 26, 2006.
posted by mega74 at
12:36 PM
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