Jack White - Frozen Charlotte

“Feeling content / Making content / Breaking contact / Making conflict.” Despite a recent interview explaining that his lyrics are far from diaristic, there’s the distinct idea that here – on ‘Making Contact’ specifically, and across this seventh solo album ‘Frozen Charlotte’ – that Jack White does, in fact, have something to say. Thankfully, even the more pointed line “have the computer be my ears and eyes” remains sufficiently abstract to skim the line between crotchety rock song, and well, ‘old man yells at cloud’ meme. Which, of course, many may find ironic, given that they might have already considered him to have taken Abe Simpson’s famed stance before his frontal lobe was fully developed. Otherwise, it’s dead centre in Jack’s sonic wheelhouse, his agitated, preternaturally glitchy vocal sitting distorted, veiled among similarly gnarly guitar sounds.

Ironically, one can’t help but think he’s an algorithm’s dream, even if entirely accidentally: between The White Stripes’ 1999 self-titled debut and now, he’s averaged an album approximately every one-and-a-half years. The longest gap? Just shy of three years, and that included a pandemic shutdown - and in any case, the next one followed just two months later. If consistency truly is key, this one’s pattern is as dependable as one of those iconic early, primal drum beats.

Lazily-drawn line between digital churn and the artist’s prolific nature aside, ‘Frozen Charlotte’ largely continues where its predecessor left off; the raw, scuzzed-up nature of 2024’s ‘No Name’ remains. If to say it’s ‘another Jack White record’ didn’t sound so unintentionally dismissive, it would do the trick just fine. There are no other missives to be found – in fact, his voice stays somewhat veiled for the most part, whether between layers of sound (his guitar, keyboardist Bobby Emmett’s various tools of the trade), or deliciously distorted. ‘Dollar Bill’ finds him once more using his guitar to create the hook, with some lovely slide guitar to boot; the controlled strut of ‘Derecho Demonico’ underpins some wild organ meandering; and the huge riffs of ‘There’s Nobody There’ manage to be both epic in scale, and also exist as if to shrug themselves off as effortlessly quotidian.

It’d be remiss, too, not to note the slither of hopium in opener ‘G.O.D. And the Broken Ribs’, especially between Jack’s personal Y2K throwback on ‘No Name’ and the call to action of his White Stripes Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction speech late last year. While yes, on second look, it’s far more likely a retelling of a more theological origin story, the couplet “Nobody left but one boy and one girl and one other / But you know we can’t live like a sister and a brother” must at the very least be intentionally ambiguous; and while the profundity of “Let’s do it all over again” may well only follow this delusion-adjacent thought trail, boy, it’s fun.

It’s where Jack’s mixing it up that stands out most, though – a natural continuation of the pseudo reboot ‘No Name’ offered, this is his distinctive, trademark sound delivered just a smidge differently. Take closer ‘Neighbors Blues’, with both its echoes and almost classical-indebted introductory riff; or better yet, ‘All Alone Again’, which treats the listener with both a deliciously jarring, head-scratcher of a guitar solo (think ‘Ball and Biscuit’ in both potential to sprawl and shimmer, as well as vibe), and a hint of funk: familiar, but different.

In the period leading up to the record’s release, the word “CONTENT” was shared online via his various social outlets in simple, bold, black text on white. With this in mind especially, to call ‘Frozen Charlotte’ ‘another Jack White record’ feels reductive, as if merely – like those images – suggesting a place-filler. And yet, it’s exactly that; a record on which he’s finding another way to say – mostly via those stuttering, shrill guitar solos and primal yelp – whatever it is he’s got to. If there are any algorithms being followed, they’re his own. Possibly scrawled on an old blackboard somewhere in the depths of a Nashville warehouse (or something).