Just as Radiohead and their melodramatic pallbearers were lifting Alt-Rock into the gussied, experimental stratosphere, Jack walked into the wrong metaphorical room with a garage rock revolution in tow, ready to revise their progress. At the height of his duo’s fame, they fractured; his solo return subverted the hopes of longtime listeners with coffee-house rock and a disciplined adherence to tradition. Just as the kids trickled out and the boomers waded their way in, he estranged his fanbase yet again with Boarding House Reach and its subsequent experimental followups, more in tune to RateYourMusic forums and psychedelic trips than his recent easy-listening trend. His oddity is his greatest virtue, unbeholden to sense or common ideals of artistic progression. Now, as record releases are relegated to a single button press on the Spotify creator page, and instant gratification is the moral compass of the music industry, White injects some long-forgotten mystique into the process. It should be stated with idiot-proof verbiage that the only “rock” that “died” was the idealised portrait of Boomer-Rock once controlling the airwaves; everything exists at all times, in multitudes, for those willing to plunder the underground depths. What White is the solemn reminder of, however, is a moment in time where records were hard-fought to create, yet purposefully obtuse to find. In the race for the listening public’s attention, one that has dominated algorithms for a decade, he has the pedigree and confidence to take the scenic route. Much like Cindy Lee’s Diamond Jubilee, No Name is content to wait and let those willing to find it earn their keep. It wasn’t too long ago where you could go to a GeoCities site and download a third-string bootleg tape of a White Stripes house show, and it seems fit that he rather just up and do it himself nowadays. It’s ironic that he has chosen now to release No Name as a physical-only release at select Third Man Records locations on a singular day, with no forewarning to fans or employees; doubly so because it’s the type of record longtime fans have been pining for the most. White has returned to garage rock; punctual as always. Both sides of the record deal in lo-fi recordings and White Stripes era crunch; Jack’s increasing persona as the Willy Wonka of rock naturally leads him to chaotic narratives and high-pitched vocal freakouts. Whereas his recent material has gained him the reputation as the everything-and-the-kitchen-sink producer, throwing in complex rhythms, disparate synths, and surreal soundplay to accentuate his sound, No Name plays it straighter than The Birdcage. If even for a moment you imagine an organ or piano riff seeping through cracks created by the distortion bombardment, you are lying to yourself. While a full band surrounds him, all that functionally matters here is White. The tracks live and die by his presence, not unsurprising given that we’re dealing with a uniquely possessive auteur. There is no predictability in the White canon; the strengths of one release can be the hinge falter of another. This is entirely indebted to the caliber of artist dealt with when mentioning this record collector from Detroit. He shoots for an internal vision, and whether it translates outwards, or is readily available to be heard, is tertiary at best. Modern music releasing has made easier the focus-grouping, corporatization of music, but also the hyper-individualization of art. You can cut your tree and let it fall extravagantly, and if it’s never heard by another soul, that’s your mystery to keep. White lets a new mystique seep through on every release, a different angle into a wondrously fretful mind.