White Blood Cells may have been a reaction to the amount of fame
the White Stripes had received up to the point of its release, but, paradoxically, it made full-fledged rock stars out of
Jack and
Meg White and sold over half a million copies in the process. Despite
the White Stripes' ambivalence, fame nevertheless seems to suit them: They just become more accomplished as the attention paid to them increases.
Elephant captures this contradiction within
the Stripes and their music; it's the first album they've recorded for a major label, and it sounds even more pissed-off, paranoid, and stunning than its predecessor. Darker and more difficult than
White Blood Cells, the album offers nothing as immediately crowd-pleasing or sweet as "Fell in Love With a Girl" or "We're Going to Be Friends," but it's more consistent, exploring disillusionment and rejection with razor-sharp focus. Chip-on-the-shoulder anthems like the breathtaking opener, "Seven Nation Army," which is driven by
Meg White's explosively minimal drumming, and "The Hardest Button to Button," in which
Jack White snarls "Now we're a family!" -- one of the best oblique threats since
Black Francis sneered "It's educational!" all those years ago -- deliver some of the fiercest blues-punk of
the White Stripes' career. "There's No Home for You Here" sets a girl's walking papers to a melody reminiscent of "Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground" (though the result is more sequel than rehash), driving the point home with a wall of layered, Queen-ly harmonies and piercing guitars, while the inspired version of "I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself" goes from plaintive to angry in just over a minute, though the charging guitars at the end sound perversely triumphant. At its bruised heart,
Elephant portrays love as a power struggle, with chivalry and innocence usually losing out to the power of seduction. "I Want to Be the Boy" tries, unsuccessfully, to charm a girl's mother; "You've Got Her in Your Pocket," a deceptively gentle ballad, reveals the darker side of
the Stripes' vulnerability, blurring the line between caring for someone and owning them with some fittingly fluid songwriting.