It's been a long time since I've wanted to hear an album every day, let alone more than once a day. Sure, to make these review deadlines, I often have to listen to a record daily, but in so many cases, it's a chore. That's not a problem with White Blood Cells. Ticket To Ride Rapidshare there. In fact, the problem now is finding time for the next album to review; all I want to do is listen to the White Stripes.

I've got it taped for my walkman in the classic cassette format-- it fits easily onto Side A of my 90-minute Maxell. I keep wasting precious battery power fast-forwarding through Side B so I can get back to White Blood Cells.

I love the rock and roll. There's always someone new coming along, taking that heavily rooted sound-- the music of the Gods-- and making the old beast sing anew. It's Christ and Prometheus, eternally dying and rising again. Jack and Meg White summon the Holy Spirit and channel it through 16 perfectly concise songs of longing, with dirty, distorted electric guitar cranked to maximum amplification, crashing, bruised drums, and little else.

They don't innovate rock; they embody it. And whatever past form of the genre White Blood Cells invokes has been given a makeover and set loose to strut the lower east side's back alleys in its new clothes. Red and white clothes.

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(The Stripes could stand to vary the color schemes of their album covers.) There's no denying that the White Stripes fall within the confines of the garage rock band. Their music is simple, stripped down and it howls the blues. But despite its simplicity, there's something here that goes so much deeper. Jack White's mangled guitar screams like a rabid catfight, its strings massacred to the point of snapping. Meg White's kit is bashed with such force you'd imagine her as some kind of incredible hulk, though in photos, she appears the prototypical indie girl-- waifish, with pigtails and a nasty smirk. Yet she whips all of her 98 pounds into a tornadic fury like E.

Honda's hundred-hand slap. Occasionally, Jack tosses an organ into the mix, or bangs on a piano like the Stones' Ian Stewart. But for the most part, White Blood Cells is instrumentally sparse, with only a guitar and drums. The last time I recall such a dense sound being wrung from rock's bare essentials was on Liz Phair's similarly Stones-inspired Exile in Guyville, though this record explores much raunchier sonic textures; rather than Phair's restrained but biting wit, Jack White opts to lay it all on the line, the unfiltered cynicism of an intelligent mind sent blaring through 1000 Hz of raw aggression. White Blood Cells surges with classic rock's grittier moments, stomping around like the MC5 and, on the instrumental 'Aluminum,' Sabbath. The guitar echoes the second half of Neil Young's Rust Never Sleeps. But Jack's vocals are pure indie rock-- bratty and unashamedly so-- and in his upper register, his voice yowls and cracks with pissed adolescence.