The Dead Weather is sometimes passed off as (just) another Jack White project, one where he gets to sink even deeper into the swampy blues-rock that he's built his name on. But without the pop aspirations of the White Stripes or the classicist bent of the Raconteurs, the Dead Weather has filled the gaps in its filthy, wiry sound with sex. Get rid of any idea that involves "making love"; the band has a motor that runs on lust, covered in sin-black leather and bite marks. White can't take full credit for the band's coital appeal—that prize belongs to Alison Mosshart, whose involvement in the Kills has positioned her as a darkly alluring femme fatale, an image that she's brought wholesale to the Dead Weather. Mosshart's vocals slide between soul-woman wails and 1-900 breathy come-ons, ringed with enough violence to make you believe that a black eye comes with every one-night stand. White still has his finger on rock's pulse, but it's Mosshart who's making that pulse race. With Harlem. 18+.
Wed., July 28, 8 p.m., 2010