Yeah, she’s built for speed like a black castrum doloris/Good for the needy, like Nietzsche, Freud and Horace/But I’m skin, flint, broke, making no money, making jokes/But baby, I won’t joke with you
from That Black Bat Licorice lyrics by Jack White
Although it immediately feels slightly cheesy (thanks to the vibraslap), White’s rap-like lyrical speed and preacher-passionate delivery pick up the slack left by his blues-scale dependence. A lot of this album toes that line due to blues’ limitations after eight albums and countless other works; [LISTEN].
