The Big Three Killed My Baby by The White Stripes

The artist:

Having burst into public consciousness at the turn of the century, confusion initially reigned supreme as to the nature of Jack and Meg White’s relationship. Claims of being brother and sister were later disproved and evidence of a 1996 marriage between the pair emerged. It really ought not to have been a huge shock that they weren’t genetically related, considering the disparity in natural musical talent between the multi-genre-inducing guitar-keyboard-vocals-mandolin-glockenspiel virtuoso and master of intense heartfelt lyricism that is Jack, and Meg, who hits drums quite hard.  

Meg’s drumming ability was often the subject of above such ridicule during the White Stripes’ time, which in fairness was and is harsh as she provided the perfect platform for Jack’s incredible array of talent to shine. The only relevant outcome is the music and as a contributor to six stunning albums of outstanding quality and variety, not to mention one of the most iconic anthems of the 21st century, it’s fair to say Meg probably wouldn’t trade places with most of those who sneer at her – myself absolutely included.

The album: The White Stripes (1999) 
The White Stripes’ self-titled debut provides something of a definitive definition for lo-fi garage rock – in that it genuinely gives the impression that they’re in a garage. 

While perhaps the most straightforward of all the White Stripes albums in terms of consistency of tone, it is not without variety. Tracks like Wasting My Time (blues rock so intoxicating you phone in sick the next day) and Jimmy the Explorer (pogo stick headbang) are tempered by delicate country serenades like Suzy Lee and Sugar Never Tasted So Good. The likes of Cannon and Broken Bricks are good old-fashioned walls of distorted noise, while covers of Robert Johnson’s Stop Breaking Down, Bob Dylan’s magnificent One More Cup of Coffee and the uncredited St James Infirmary Blues merely add cheeses of intrigue to a smörgåsbord of musical delight. 

The vibe:

This has all the vibes of a key character in EastEnders having a breakdown upon discovering their spouse’s affair and trashing the Queen Vic. Images of Phil Mitchell throwing a pint glass at the gents or Ian Beale labouring to tip over a table are invoked as Jack raises the anger and pitch with each verse. 

In fact, if you play it in the background, it really captures the emotion of Barry’s commendable effort to trash Pat Butcher’s place from 1:55. (Turn Barry down but not off so you can still hear his distant roars) 

Lyrics:
The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Their ideas made me want to spit
A hundred dollars goes down the pit
30,000 wheels are rollin'
And my stick shift hands are swollen
Everything involved is shady
The big three killed my baby

The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Why don't you take the day off and try to repair
A billion others don't seem to care
Better ideas are stuck in the mud
The motors runnin' on trucker’s blood
Don't let them tell you the future's electric
Cause gasolines not measured in metric
30,000 wheels are spinnin'
And oil company faces are grinnin'
Now my hands are turnin' red
And I found out my baby is dead

The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Well I've said it now, nothing’s changed
People are burnin’ for pocket change
And creative minds are lazy
And the big three killed my baby

And my baby's my common sense
So don't feed me planned obsolescence
Yeah my baby's my common sense
So don't feed my planned obsolescence
I'm about to have another blowout
I'm about to have another blowout

Investigation:
Everyone loves a murder mystery, even when it concerns the particularly morbid crime of infanticide, so allow me to don my detective’s hat and get to the bottom of this one. Jack White pins culpability for this callous crime on a non-further elaborated ‘big three’, so let’s examine the suspects on the basis of the clues he gives us.

‘The Big Three’ colleges
- Harvard University
- Yale University
- Princeton University

Case for the prosecution
Affiliated to various hospitals in the area and home to scientific departments conducting experimental research, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that a baby could die under the ‘care’ of one of these institutions. If they do indeed have medicinal equipment ‘running on trucker’s blood’, as Jack claims, then it’s quite easy to see how this could pose a danger to patients. 

Case for the defence
These are highly respectable institutions and infant death by medical negligence is a very serious accusation indeed. As institutions that sit on a combined endowment of $80.8bn, I find it tough to believe that not only would they collude to murder a child, they’d rob the parent as well (‘no money in my hand again’).

‘The Big Three’ at the Yalta and Potsdam Conferences of 1945

- Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom (Later replaced by Clement Atlee)
- Franklin D Roosevelt / Harry S Truman, Presidents of the United States
- Joseph Stalin, Communist Party General Secretary of the Soviet Union

Case for the prosecution
Well, when it comes to murder, it’s fair to say Stalin has a track record. Supposedly capable of crushing a bird in his hand upon his deathbed, it probably wasn’t beyond his capabilities to strangle a child. Lyrically Jack asserts that ‘everything involved is shady’, and Yalta and Potsdam certainly meet the definition, what with giving Eastern Europe to Stalin while giving him a nudge and a wink about having the deadliest weapon in human history. The 30,000 spinning wheels could be a reference to tank movements across the continent at the time. 

Case for the defence
These guys were busy people, and no matter how critical Jack is of the post-war agreement, it seems a bit of a stretch to imagine they’d kill his child in response. Furthermore, with this meeting of the big 3 often seen as the start of the Cold War, they didn’t agree on much, least of all targets for assassination. 

The Big Three – Merseybeat group best known for 1963 recording of Some Other Guy
- Casser (Rhythm guitar, lead vocals)
- Adrian Barber (lead guitar, vocals)
- Johnny ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson (drums)

Case for the prosecution
Supposedly The Big Three were once seen as rivals to the Beatles – Johnny ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson once claimed towards the end of the 1950s that the Beatles “weren’t worth a carrot”. Considering their contrasting fortunes from thereon in, it is easy to see how this group could end up being embittered out-of-pocket arsons for hire (‘people are burnin’ for pocket change’), and you can’t rule out Jack’s child being an accidental victim. Jack’s mention of ‘creative minds [being] lazy’ could be a pop at The Big Three’s complacent inability to capitalise on the original popularity of the Merseybeat scene.

Case for the defence
A lazy, unoriginal and offensive man might suggest that these Scousers are responsible because there’s ‘no money in [Jack’s] hands again’. They might link ’30,000 wheels are spinnin’’ with some kind of hubcap theft.

This is patently ridiculous. 10,000 hubcaps per man is far too much. 

The Big Three infectious diseases
- Malaria
- HIV/AIDS
- Tuberculosis 

Case for the prosecution
Well it’s not difficult to see how a combination of these three would be tough even for the most resilient newly born to resist. Jack is likely to have been in close contact with his child during the infection process, which might explain why ‘[his] hands are turnin’ red’ and/or why his ‘stick shift hands are swollen’. 

Case for the defence
It seems unlikely to me that an infant would catch all three diseases at the same time – it would require not only a horrendous run of luck, but exposure to all sorts of ill-advised conditions. Which would suggest that, even if true, Jack as a parent should accept ultimate responsibility.  

VERDICT:
For me the Second World War leaders have probably the least regard for human life out of all those on the suspect list, including the non-sentient diseases whose existence is tied up in killing humans. However their bastardism was almost always tied up in some sort of self-interest, and I can’t for the life of me pin down a motive for having the KGB and CIA collude to kill a non-politically aligned kid at the same that Greece is ravaged by left v right civil war. Not to mention the chronological difficulties involved here. INNOCENT

I can’t accept that the US colleges would engage in such behaviour – not just on the basis of institutional reputation, but also because Jack White actually spoke at Yale last year. Would seem a bit odd if he held them partly accountable for the death of his first born. INNOCENT

Malaria, HIV and TB are shits yes, but in the western world they rarely hunt in packs. INNOCENT

Quite honestly I just can’t shake the feeling that The Big Three of Merseyside have something undoubtedly ominous about them. Perhaps reaching conclusions regarding murder on the basis of one photo isn’t the most forensic approach to detective work, but tell me that these guys aren’t capable of burning down a house for a few quid because they heard that Paul McCartney lived there.

GUILTY

Ultimately I wouldn’t imagine that they intentionally set out to kill anybody, rather this was a vandal attack gone horribly awry. I imagine they wept in horror when they realised the house actually belonged to Jack White and was occupied at the time. As such I would recommend a lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter*.


*- If The Big Three of Merseyside are litigious types, I am officially not advocating a charge of involuntary manslaughter. 

This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us by Sparks

The artist:

It’s very difficult to put your finger on Sparks. It could genuinely take you many, many listens before you gave up trying to establish what gender the singer is. Hell, with singer Russell Mael here being the one on the right, even the picture doesn't make it especially clear. It should be noted that his brother Ron was the only man on the planet still willing to sport the Hitler 'tache, 29 years after the collapse of the Third Reich.

The album:
Kimono My House (1974)

Falling In Love With Myself Again is the either the ironic waltzy manifestation of rock bottom alcoholism, or the unbelievably assured waltzy declaration of self-adulation from a man at the peak of his powers. It’s difficult to tell which. Thank God It’s Not Christmas is the result of putting Fleetwood Mac into a festive blender, combining with chamomile and star anise.  

Overall, the album is probably what it would be like to take a speed-ketamine cocktail in a Japanese kindergarten run by a cult.

The vibe:

This hyper glam rock tune, a number 2 hit in the UK, places you into a real life adaptation of a Crash Bandicoot/Mario Kart style game. One could be racing against a gorilla of some kind, perhaps through a strange stormy city, being subjected to random assaults from bizarre little Far Eastern creatures who populate the roads and fire cartoonish weaponry at your vehicle, like crab mines or octopus bazookas. 

Lyrics:
Zoo time is she and you time
The mammals are your favourite type, and you want her tonight
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
You hear the thunder of stampeding rhinos, elephants and tacky tigers

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Flying, domestic flying
And when the stewardess is near do not show any fear
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
You are a khaki-coloured bombardier, it's Hiroshima that you're nearing

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Daily, except for Sunday
You dawdle in to the cafe where you meet her each day
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
As twenty cannibals have hold of you, they need their protein just like you do

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Shower, another shower
You've got to look your best for her and be clean everywhere
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
The rain is pouring on the foreign town, the bullets cannot cut you down

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Census, the latest census
There'll be more girls who live in town though not enough to go round
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat

You know that: This town isn't big enough, not big enough for both of us
This town isn't big enough, not big enough for both of us
And I ain't gonna leave 

Annotation:
In this number, songwriter Ron Mael relates to an unidentified person his belief that the town in which they reside does not possess adequate capacity to accommodate both individuals. A strange notion one must concede - a town not big enough to size just two people suggests either a very small town indeed, probably more worthy of being defined as a village or hamlet, or very large humans, or perhaps a combination of the two. Regardless Ron uses his musical platform (as performed by brother Russell) to highlight the numerous instances in which this discrepancy of size has caused problems for everybody involved, including the infliction of some kind of heart condition upon the song’s subject.

Oh shit

Starting with perhaps the most dramatic example, Ron details how a number of dangerous wild animals were able to escape from captivity, perhaps on account of this person’s giant lumbering hands destroying the zoo's protective fences as he attempts to get a closer look at his beloved ‘favourite’ mammals and impress his date for the day. (The mere presence of elephants, the world’s largest land animal, and indeed a zoo full stop, would appear to immediately eliminate the very small town hypothesis.) Why Ron considers the tigers in this zoo to be particularly garish and distasteful is not clear, perhaps they have had their fur painted or dyed in some kind of unnatural colour. Either way, it’s not especially relevant.  

Next up, Ron details a curious experience whereby our gigantic friend finds himself operating a civilian aircraft in a military capacity, the ‘bombardier’ having somehow found himself in a position of flying a domestic Japanese flight to the southern city of Hiroshima. Ron once more points out how this particular voyage isn’t good news for the pilot’s heart, presumably because of the stress caused by operating a small domestic aircraft as some kind of unwieldy goliath dressed as an air force bomber, flying towards a city of great historical significance and a population of over one million. While not taking place in the setting of their hometown, Ron has probably invoked this anecdote just in order to further emphasise that this person is really quite big. 

Hiroshima: no more bombardiers please

Again, in verse 3, our lyrical directee’s size proves awkward even in the setting of his daily coffee with the missus. Remarkably he is of such an enormous stature that as many as 20 flesh eating passers-by are not only able to descend upon him and attach themselves to him in whatever way they can, but they also consider him a plentiful source of nutritional goodness. I would wager that if it were me sitting in the same café, at most three cannibals would find me of a suitable enough frame to keep them adequately fed for the afternoon. That would make this individual around 6 and ⅔ times larger than me, rendering him around 40ft tall. This is clearly a café with a tall ceiling.  

Verse 4 cruelly points out the difficulties of showering when at this height, tempering it with the good news that, should he be on the receiving end of a gang shooting, regular sized bullets are unlikely to fell him. Finally Ron consults the town census to confirm that there are simply not enough adequately sized females in the area to please a man of his magnitude – I am guessing the aforementioned girlfriend walked away from the whole affair following cannibal-café-gate.

Throughout these verses Ron outlines his forthright view that this individual’s size is of such an absurd scale, causing danger to himself and unto the wider community, that it is only right that he take his leave.

Conclusion:
My immediate hunch is that Ron and Russell are probably right on this one. No one likes to evict a man from his own home, but when you are enabling some of the world’s most fearsome creatures to roam free from their previously domesticated setting and when you are attracting disproportionate numbers of cannibals to previously quiet cafés, it is probably not going to be long until you are made to feel fairly unwelcome as local businesses have to pick up the pieces. That is not to mention the health implications upon the giant himself, approaching ever closer to a heart attack. 

Whether our songwriter and songsinger friends have this kind of eviction power is not known, but it is probably only right that the giant be given some form of right of reply, whether through the courts or through another song. My primary concern is that even if he were to move to a larger town, perhaps even a super-conurbation or urban agglomeration like New Delhi or Tokyo, it is still difficult to imagine that a 40ft man would be easily accommodated, where overpopulation is already an issue. Indeed, more densely populated areas could prove even more dangerous, presenting further scope for accidental destruction or the attraction of flesh eating species.  

A new life? 

It could be that the two brothers have reached the right conclusion for the wrong reasons. It is probably best this enormous man leave the area, but not because of the inadequate size of the unnamed town, but rather because it is actually too large and poses too many inherent dangers within it. Instead, the giant should perhaps look to find a place in a remote rural destination, such as the Hebrides or the west coast of Ireland. The local tourist boards may even be able to utilise his freakish and most likely record-breaking nature to attract much needed visitors to the region.