One couldn't take more than three steps without overhearing conversations extolling the virtues of Mr. White's talents. In current form this truth is evidenced in the secondary, out of spotlight duties he has as drummer for the Dead Weather. For those keeping score at home, the Dead Weather marks White's third 'the' band after the White Stripes and the Raconteurs. In addition to a trio of successful bands there's also Third Man records, bringing to life the dreamed trifecta scenario of all idealistic musicians - record label, recording studio, and record store. It all makes for a true modern empire built on a foundation firmly set by virtues of rock purity, excellent aptitude for music production and a fiery dexterity for navigating the choppy waters of an industry blinded by perpetual self-destruction. Did I mention all this happened in ten short years since the release of the White Stripes debut self titled album? Right.

Success begets further success and expectations are a bitch. That is my offering for a catchy, throwaway quote to join the annals of conventional wisdom with regards to the music business. No other band at the moment captures the paradox of the statement like the Dead Weather. Let's face it, if you rewind to the world as it was before the Dead Weather announced themselves and was to offer a fantasy band lineup including the Kill's Allison Mosshart, Jack White and role players from the Raconteurs, Greenhornes and Queens of the Stone Age, I'd venture to guess the imagined band's imagined throughput would fit better and create a lot more interesting sounds than what the initial output from the Dead Weather actually presented. To use a simultaneously dated and timely sports analogy, it's the disappointment of Michael Vick as NFL quarterback in spite of preternatural throwing and running abilities (nevermind the criminal stuff). The Dead Weather should be much better than what we heard on Horehound, it's an album that as a whole, never really leaves the ground the way you'd expect. But alas young grasshopper, have you seen them live?

"Hang You From the Heavens"

If the lyrics from "Hang You From the Heavens" are not the most apt for wildchild Mosshart to sing than there is no truth in the world. Violent imagery of hair pulling and alternate afterlife destination dragging seems like a regular Thursday afternoon for her. The words play into the myth that she embodies as sex symbol to rock kids. To simply claim she fits this rockstar fantasy via tight jeans and out of control hair is an understatement. Her long modelesque gams are hidden from view but not imagination by poured into, practically painted on black pants. She oozes with desire that only escalates with every crack of her head sending globs of sweaty, untamed hair flying. And not solely for the dirty minded boys either, her style provides appeal for girls too - the rockstar as fully liberated heroine keeping up and holding her own with the fellas. Mosshart is too often, arguably unfairly, caricatured as a drugged-out, heroin-chic greaser living perilously close to the edge, teetering for the eventual cliched self-destruction. Whether accurate or not, the rough elegance vibe is one that works.

Dead Weather - "Cut Like a Buffalo"

At this point the best Dead Weather song is easily "Cut Like a Buffalo". A Jack sung song fraught with organ hits and jerky turntable like effects from the guitars. Rich in sonic depth, it's a rhythmically blessed arrangement capturing the best of what the Dead Weather should be, can be and I hope, will be. Live it was a revelation. Loud, powerful and reaffirming.

Speaking of reaffirming, the last song of the night, the thrashing garage rock style of final encore, "New Pony" was a showcase for the band. Set up like a tug of war between the authoritative, convincing growl of Mosshart and an infantry grade pull from the driving, attacking guitars weaving through a minefield disaster of beautiful distortion. The band finished up looking shell shocked from the fruits of their own talented labor. Dripping with sweat and facing out to the exuberant crowd looking like they just gained consciousness amidst a room full of rabidly cheering people. You could tell they were way into the music, lost even, like a sensory overdriven soldier walking back to his foxhole after a particularly bruising battle.