Subject: Re: Status of Jack White's Proposed Liner Notes
As you all know, we're still about two months away from our production deadline with regard to the packaging of this latest White Stripes album. My communications with Jack had been going well enough, but we have hit a worrisome snag. I received an email earlier today containing Jack's completed liner notes for the record (included below).
I have to say that I'm more than a little perplexed. Jack has always made it perfectly clear that he wants nothing more than to continue working with Meg after she has dealt with her issues. We certainly can't begrudge Jack his side projects as we have only to gain by keeping our stable of artists fresh. In Jack's case, this creative priming tilts the odds in our favor for future White Stripes product.
Please read the enclosed materials. I will schedule a meeting near week's end. We have to determine the best course of action. Obviously, we don't want to anger Jack and endanger a reliable revenue stream. Given the notes' content, that may very well be out of our hands anyway. Can we just run with these notes? That seems risky as well. WalMart will also be an issue.
Icky Thump was a turning point for us. We were very happy with that collection of songs. It made us stretch a little. Always a good thing. Yeah sure, I like makin' a blasphemous noise with the guitar and Meg loves adding to the bluster, but it was cool to take on songs like "Conquest." Yep, we have Son House in our blood, but that ain't all. People sometimes have a hard time believing that. Hell, even after we did "Jolene." C'mon, that's not a damned novelty tune, it's a great song!
The tour really started out to be something special. Canada feels like a second home to me. When I was a kid we went on a few vacations over in Toronto. I was always amazed when that station wagon made it the whole distance. I'm not sure what attracted my parents to that place. Hell, they had to drag all of us kids with them. I didn't care. It got me out of altar boy duty for two Sundays.
Anyway, one of the best ideas we ever had was to play these secret shows at each town. Bowling alleys, metro transit buses, bars. The fans went crazy. We loved doing it for them.
Something weird started happening in the middle of the tour. Meg started to become more distant. I couldn't figure it out. She was playing great and was really into it but then we'd be talking about things and I'd realize that she wasn't really listening. I brought up the idea of covering "Grinnin' In Your Face" and she said "Uhm, sure…" but kept looking down and tapping on that damned Blackberry.
The last straw came when we hit a place called the Arva Flour Mill in London, Ontario. Meg had gone off to find the bathroom before we got started and left her Blackberry sitting on her throne. I got sort of curious and picked it up. It was open to a review of Icky Thump. That's when I lost it.
I don't know how many of you out there might have stumbled onto this review but it was certainly an eye-opener. Apparently, our dear Meg had been shackin' up with some dude from Maine. Son…of…a…bitch! I couldn't believe it. Well, she was on her way back from the bathroom and we had to play our show so I had to put this horrendous revelation in my back pocket.
Later on that night, I asked to borrow her Blackberry so I could check for used record shops in Ottawa. A quick scan of her email revealed a whole trail of letter-writing that was just dripping with humping and oral sex and a whole bunch of other stuff that frankly I'd rather not think about. You know what might be worse? He's got her listening to all of this avant-garde jazz crap! Can you believe it? That stuff's lame.
What? You fell for that "used to be married" thing? Or the "big sister" ruse? Don't believe a word. I thought we were still together. Me and her. Forever.
Now it's all ruined. I'm sorry to say that you are holding the last White Stripes record in your hands. I'm sorry for you, but not for Meg. She can go to hell. Her and those pre-show freakouts and that anxiety medication and that slimy little bastard from Portland, Maine.