By Ben Richardson
It seems that in the time since the White Stripes regaled their fans with a mind-bogglingly well-received one-note concert some weeks ago, the distaff half of the the perpetually color-coordinated duo has developed a case of “acute anxiety,” at least according to her publicist, and will be canceling numerous dates on their upcoming tour. Improbably reported in the FoxNews entertainment section, the story is sure to put the Stripes’ fanbase into an “icky” mood. But while Jack White’s hand has seldom strayed far from the rock-critic drool faucet since the release of the band’s first single, anyone with at least one functioning ear should have been able to grasp the fact that his faux-sister counterpart plays drums “like Steven Hawking with an arm cramp,” to use a simile coined by the waggish Fark.com submitter who brought this story to my attention.
So tell me, White Stripes acolytes (and you’re out there…by god, you’re everywhere out there): did Meg finally realize that she can’t play to save her life? That her role as a full half of one of the most lauded bands in the country lies somewhere between “gimmick” and “puppet”? That even with a purported musical genius guiding her every note, she struggles to keep time, and can barely manage anything other than most basic and boring quarter note walloping?
While it is certainly not nice to make fun of people with medical conditions, the absolute ineptitude of Meg White – and the deafening critical silence that accompanies it – renders this story fully mockable. As a drummer myself, it galls me to the core to see such a rank amateur feted around the rock clubs of the world, especially when said amateur can’t even manage the kind of improvement that you’d think international exposure and a dedication to a career in music might eventually bring. Call me an asshole, but I like to think that the band’s next three months of canceled shows are the direct result of Meg experiencing a kind of “suckitude epiphany,” in which the sheer incompetence of her fumbling attempts at percussion suddenly came crashing down on her. Maybe it was the fact that the new material was even more of a struggle than the old material. Maybe someone finally introduced her to a metronome. Maybe Jack finally snapped and said something extra-mean. Either way, Meg, grab yourself some Xanax and fucking practice already.