I’m not going to pretend to have Jack White’s character all figured out. In 2026, his Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction – as part of The White Stripes – has been contrasted by a divorce, which has come with some concerning allegations. There is a nobler aspect to White’s person, which might not compensate for whatever this aforementioned botheration is, but I admire, at least, his artistic perseverance. He finishes his seventh album with a song entitled Neighbours Blues; a life-or-death, climactic signoff that rejects Jack’s personal anguish for a subject he deems far more important; the destructive attitudes toward immigration that have cost foreigners, and those protective of foreigners, their lives. Equipped with an unsettling, nerve-pinching guitar riff, the song uses the symbolism of roosters as alarms, guardians, and announcers of new beginnings, to poetically stress the cruciality of this moment in time.
I say this as if Frozen Charlotte itself is typically a selfish album. It isn’t, though Jack’s taking on of the old, wronged blues singer role may trick the listener until believing that it is. He really leans into it on I Can’t Believe What I’m Hearing, projecting the thought of being carted out of a courtroom, and how his estranged other might react. I do like the line “I need you like a horse needs shoes”. Horses don’t necessarily require…okay you don’t need me to explain it to you.
He soothes himself by following I Can’t Believe What I’m Hearing with Thick as Thieves; a love song, whether platonic or romantic, dependant on dedication. He needs love (love is all he needs), far more than wealth or even answers, which he subtly configures over much of the album’s runtime.
He dismisses any need for greed whilst cramming as much religion and philosophy into his blues rock as possible. Musically, this album is a significant departure for White. Just kidding. Still, if Frozen Charlotte is distinct from the Jack White formula – especially when you consider just how well he perfected the formula on 2024’s No Name – that’d be due to just how assured Jack’s preference for dirty ol’ blues rock now is. I am in awe of his love and advancement of dirty ol’ blues rock, jealous even. He’s doing it near-effortlessly, and I’ve not even listened to the new Rolling Stones album yet.
Composed of the raw, transcendent energy of tour, and a calamity that overcomes the filters of a professional studio, the album is, as good as, the quintessential Jack White solo album. Combine this with those themes of money, religion and philosophy and you’ve got something that feels at least somewhat unique, definitely emotive. On Nobody Knows, he asks the funkiest questions – for example, “how do bees fly and engines die?” and “is God making fun of us?” – but as he regularly accepts, with colour and swagger, “nobody knows”.
Jack’s other source of uniqueness is the persona he has developed in recent years. Slowly, he has transformed into a garage rock evangelist who maddeningly rambles as if the fear of God is constantly jazzing him up. He’s not an uncool priest who thinks he’s down with the kids because he owns a guitar, but a cool enough priest who’s actually really good at guitar. He fuses the bible with golden era blues rock on G.O.D. and the Broken Ribs, which contains a moment of validity in his fight against capitalism’s stronghold on the final verse – “ring that bell then wring your neck / write yourself a dime novel and then write yourself a check / send yourself to hell in a hand basket, now what the heck? / I’m a penny dreadful and a frozen Charlotte and I need some more sense”. Ya know, sense, not cents.
The subject of money appears, less evangelically, on Dollar Bill too. Via tube amp overdrive and slides, its intro guitar is a nod either to Led Zeppelin’s version of In My Time of Dying or whatever blues artist Jimmy Page was ripping off with that one – mmm, revenge. All Alone Again is a Zeppelin-y jam, but unlike Dollar Bill, it doesn’t contain a guitar refrain that sounds like a kazoo – an ass-kicking kazoo – though it does contain some pretty great, combative lyrics: “if you like to read that means someone has to write / you wanna be a lover but you always end up in a fight”.
The lyrics of Derecho Demonico are far more in tune with golden era blues rock (as are You’ll Never Fix Me’s lyrics about avoiding disaster). Jack sings “I got a brand new truck, three tone, custom made / and I think that’s kind of funny for a man who never made the grade” whilst surrounded by abstract soloing, and a hard guitar tone that sounds like a clavi, which reappears on the Diddley-esque Raising the Grain, sanctified by the album’s best, shiniest organ.
Jack finds time to link golden era blues rock with the supernatural world on There’s Nobody There, and if that isn’t enough to remind you of Black Sabbath, its offbeat riff-rhythm interplay, comparable to The Wizard, probably isn’t either, but oh well. The Deep Purple reminiscence of She’s in a Frenzy is far more evident, thanks to its overdriven Jon Lord organ.
Jack White doesn’t believe in invention or reinvention, but naturally letting everything come. Frozen Charlotte has formed naturally, through bluesy worship and a growing evangelical disposition that the word ‘worship’ may also apply to. No new hat but know-how none-the, and with strong, investing themes, Frozen Charlotte validates Jack White’s quintessence.
Best tracks – Derecho Demonico – There’s Nobody There – Nobody Knows – Neighbours Blues.
Rating – 7 out of 10
(I struggle to shake spelling words like ‘neighbours’ the non-American way. Apologies).
