Review: White Mystery – S/T

March 26th, 2010 by Oswald Hobbes / Comment on this post

White Mystery really sound like Chicago. Their murkily recorded primal noise is the aural equivalent of dimly-lit bars and sludge-strewn winter streets; this is some serious fight music. The latest project from Alex White (of Miss Alex White & The Red Orchestra), White Mystery pairs her ferocious, distortion-drenched guitar leads leads and snarled/shouted vocals with brother Francis’s propulsive drumming. So, yeah, it’s a brother/sister garage rock band, and their last name is White. Whatever -- this is like the White Stripes circa-De Stijl, right before they started writing “real” songs and mostly aimed to create the most vicious electric blues racket possible, with occasional dollops of melodic sweetness to make it all officially boss.

WHITE MYSTERY LIVE AT RECKLESS RECORDS IN CHICAGO 3/14/10 PHOTO BY MATT JENCIK

But enough about the other White band. White Mystery are their own group, with their floppy red hair (seriously) and distinctly Chicago aesthetic -- the fourteen songs featured here are all authentically rude and no-bullshit in their approach and attack, clocking in at just a hair over thirty minutes. “White Widow” begins the assault at full force -- mere seconds after pressing “play” and you are White Mystery’s bitch. The main lyrical theme -- “You can’t tell us what to do!” -- appears here and guides the rest of the album like a mission statement.

With the sheer number of songs here (and their obvious sonic similarity to each other), I figured this thing would chunk out about halfway through and become a snooze. But no, some of the most serious piledrivers dominate the back half -- “Don’t Hold My Hand,” “Halloween,” and “Respect Yourself” kick up the most dust in an incredible three-track run at almost the exact point the average listener might start losing interest.

This is a remarkably consistent (and consistently delightful) record, played with maximum nerve and a slightly menacing twinkle in the eye. It’s primo shit: listening to the disc is like being in the eye of a tornado, with houses and cows and other crazy shit flying around in a whirlwind of dirt and rocks; thinking back on the experience later is like watching the movie Twister. Seeing the band live. though, is like being Bill Paxton in the movie Twister.