Allow me to gush for a second. I see a lot of shows. Like, a lot. And honestly, Wanda Jackson wouldn’t be my ideal choice of leisure music. But Sunday night at the El Rey was the kind of special occasion that happens very rarely, and served as a reminder to appreciate the blessings in life and never take anything for granted. Yeah, I know I sound like a hippie. But it wasn’t just me appreciating the gifts of life on this day. Both Jack White and Wanda Jackson washed the crowd in appreciation of the fans’ attention and mutual appreciation of each other, making the show the kind of love-fest at which it is easy to scoff but just as easy to lose yourself. I chose the latter and feel all the better for it.
Haunted George provided the opening services for this evening and he received the warmest welcome I have heard for an opener in a long time. Maybe the crowd expected the headliner, but regardless, the super-sold-out venue (tickets were going for more than a hundred on the street) gave the three-piece their undivided attention and Haunted George did not disappoint, playing a brand of intensely-dark folk that suited the evening perfectly. We never got an answer as to what was haunting George (aka Steve Pallow), but from the hunting trophies, human skull and his story about his dog’s recent brain aneurysm and death, the sky was the limit. The singer used his feet to play a kick drum and high-hat, and looked mechanically efficient in his guitar playing, proving the rest of the group to be mere accessories rather than necessities. I have no idea how this all comes across on record, but live, it was neither dull nor unpleasant, and at thirty minutes, it was brief enough to keep the energy of the building high, or even allow it to grow further.
As I mentioned, this was a tough Los Angeles ticket. Coming down from the balcony I brushed past both Beck and Edward James Olmos (Admiral Adama!) and the rest of the crowd ran the gamut from teen hipsters to rockabilly babes to Wanda Jackson’s original fanclub. It was a crucible. It was Los Angeles condensed into a room.
Then the Third Man House Band took the stage. The band laid down some big-band backing music, then followed with an introduction of Jack White, more jamming, and Wanda Jackson’s introduction. One of the joys of watching the set was the tradition that every aspect of the performance was steeped in. One of Wanda’s “cupcakes” handed her the microphone every time she would approach the stand, and Jack White took to the microphone only to introduce the band, which he filled-out with cheesy, fifties inspired humor that made Wanda feel right at home and transported the crowd to a different era. It was like the next step in nostalgia rock, where instead of having some hipsters fantasize about a better time, Jack White put together a project to literally transported the audience to a simpler, more innocent era. Luckily, that period allowed for guitar shredding. Luckily.
Wanda Jackson’s joy and enthusiasm could not be concealed, nor her adoration of Jack White for making this all possible. The good-humor was palpable, as the fire aisles were clogged with people, with security letting most of the safety violations slide in honor of the exuberance present. Sure, the iPhones held above people’s heads were pretty annoying, but I couldn’t help but be moved at the way people were reacting to the show. This is Los Angeles. It’s a land where under-appreciation and entitlement are as prevalent as palm trees. But even these Hollywood-types put their egos aside and became fan-children for an hour, gracing both Wanda Jackson and Jack White with the kind of fanfare they have earned.
Musically, the show was solid. Everything from the racy Amy Winehouse tune “You Know That I’m No Good” (Jackson vocalized her discomfort with the lyrics, but noted that she would basically follow Jack off a cliff) to the yodeling yodel-heavy yodel jam “Blue Yodel #6,” was full of life, which may not sound like much of a compliment, but when the singer is 73 years old, the alternative is more real than most would like to imagine. Of course, the highlight was the encore/ripper “Shakin’ All Over,” which not only showcased Jackson’s abilities to warble, but offered the 35,237,592,478th opportunity for Jack White to destroy the audience with his guitar-work (at one point earlier, Jackson looked over to him and asked “are you quite finished?” to which he gave an apologetic and joking affirmative). It was a joy to see White unleashed, and you know, in a small room. But even most impressive was White’s ability to lead the big band, which included former R.E.M. and Beck drummer Joey Waronker, as he was always playing quarterback for the group and audibly directing all elements to pure perfection.
So yeah, I told you I was going to gush. But this show deserved it. The Jack White produced Wanda Jackson album “The Party Ain’t Over” won’t sound quite the same to me after seeing this show, as it will be reminder of how lucky I am to get to do stuff like this, something that was not lost on the performers, and, amazingly, not lost on Los Angeles.
