Poor Meg White.  Somewhere in Detroit she lies in her robot casing, collecting dust, wondering when Jack will encode her directives for a new White Stripes album.

Now, that last statement likely borders on the outskirts of Crazytown but a Web site does exist that proposes the conspiracy theory that Meg White is indeed an android — referring to her as Megbot 2000 — programmed to play only basic MS-DOS versions of drum sets.  (Hence, her limited 500-word vocabulary during interviews.)  And, to those of us who followed The White Stripes the past six years, a scheme of robotic type proportions is not out of the fray of reality, the common perception among music critics — professional and amateur alike — being that Jack is Gipetto to Meg’s Pinocchio.  This began since the worst secret in rock - that Meg and Jack are not siblings, but divorcees - came to light.  So it’s not surprising the same critics cast dubious looks upon Mr. White’s latest project, The Raconteurs; a full five-piece band that leads the pack of early ‘70s reverb retro rock acts.  (Wolfmother, The Black Angels, and The Gossip to name a few.)

During the press circuit for Broken Boy Soldiers, White adamantly denied notions that they are a supergroup and, indeed, this is true.  No one has ever heard of these three other guys.  The Greenhorne’s Patrick Kessler and Jack Lawrence (fellow Detroit rockers whose songs bear a strong resemblance to The Yardbirds) back White along with soloist Brendan Benson sharing vocals/guitar.  In fact, everyone who talks about The Raconteurs refers to them as “that band where Jack White has a bass player” or “they sound like the White Stripes but with a bass and organs.” 

But, these are no Megbots. 

Since Elephant, Jack White has applied his indie cred to push projects beyond The Stripes’ brutal but Spartan sound.  His flight out of Detroit to Nashville, the producer credit on Lorretta Lynn’s last album, the folk song contributions to the movie “Cold Mountain” (albeit through the nepotism of then-girlfriend Renee Zellweger) are all newly connected dots for White to arrive at this point: the American revival of psychedelic rock. 

And with the heavy axes of Benson and Lawrence, The Raconteurs press this neo-psychedelic heavy guitar blues to the limit.  And then pushes some more.  Throughout their Hard Rock set, influences of rock’s royalty permeate.  Remnants of Neil Young’s “Cinnamon Girl” are expanded on “Intimate Secretary,” and The Beatles’ vaudevillian “Lovely Rita” is detected on “Yellow Sun.”  But, it’s the cover of Bowie’s “It Ain’t Easy” where Benson on vocals turns the Thin White Duke’s classic into a power ballad neatly packaged in a leisure van, airbrushed with a flamed eagle.  A solo artist by trade, he effectively imitates White’s voice on choruses but provides a more melodic option; removing the piercing shrill Jack is prone to croon with.  As such, Benson might be the Jimmy Page that Jack seeks.

If Benson and the Greenhorn boys have the most to gain from The Raconteurs it is Jack White who has the most to lose because of his implanted fame.  The persona he created expands beyond the sparse garage sounds of The White Stripes (albeit “White Orchid” was a step toward the Raconteur’s obvious Led Zeppelin inflections).   The evolution now appears inevitable when paired with the Greenhorne’s homage to 1960s The Yardbids.  (The origin of Zeppelin is now rock lore: Jimmy Page, the lone remaining Yardbird, formed what is arguably the greatest rock n’ roll band in history and then climbed a stairway to heaven.)   Like Page, White is destroying all that he has conjured before for the investment of something greater. 

It’s odd that this once forefront dandy now sits in the background.  In fact, The Raconteurs might be the most publicly sincere move White has made since entering the collective radar.  He is no longer a 1950s kitsch character.  With The Raconteurs he is just an extremely talented musician in a precise rock band performing thoughtfully orchestrated songs.  But, even with actual creative input from fellow bandmates, the self removal of Jack during some songs still makes his influence that much more glaring.  At one point during “Intimate Secretary” he pulls a Jim Morrison and sings with his back to his audience.  An obvious notion to extract his own fame from the proceedings but the overt nature of it just adds to already established reputation of intentional machinations.  

If anyone is looking for truth in rock n’ roll, their infinitely naïve.   Rock’s molecular makeup has always been P.T. Barnum-sized showmanship.  The more an act plays up their roles, the more we the audience dig it up whether it be the harlot (Madonna), the grizzled troubadour (Dylan, Willie, Cash), the prodigal prince (Timberlake, Michael, Usher), the rogue (Biggie, Eminem, Jerry Lee Lewis) or the dandy (Jack White, Elvis).   Having hung up the peppermint-candied attire, Jack comes across more subdued in Ryan Adams wardrobe (plaid western snap shirt, corduroys) along with the restoration of pigment to his face in place of the customary pallor complexion.  But, this version of “quiet Jack” is tossed aside in favor of rousing bombastic treats like “Level” and “Store Bought Bones.”  In the end he is more comfortable allowing his band’s talent speak for the group.  He knows when to release the dandy when duty calls.  The result is a band that performs as if it has been together as long as the era it pays homage too.   One cannot help but question the shelf life of The White Stripes.  (I mean, who really wants to work with their ex-wife . . . forever?)

Now, I may be going overboard in pronouncing The White Stripe’s demise along with The Raconteurs’ ascension into rock’s pantheon.  But, I am confident White’s taste will shift as often as the music consuming public’s does even if he does revive the Stripes. 

So, don’t fret MegBot 2000.  Use this time off to charge your batteries.