Party like a rock star!
Or not.
Damned rock stars! Those useless black voids of overweening ego who spend their days wallowing in unfulfilling, sybaritic cycles of mass adoration, endless wealth, and meaningless sex with hard bodies—what do they add to the greater good, to the advancement of human understanding, to the furtherance of art? In most cases, the answer is: Nothing. Zip, zilch, zot.
Yet on a back street in Nashville, Tennessee, in a former warehouse and auto-repair garage, Jack White, of the White Stripes, has, with his Third Man Records complex, fostered a creative oasis that includes a film studio, a performance venue, a direct-to-disc recording facility, and a mail-order fulfillment center. Painted in bright splashes of gold, black, and royal blue, and filled with stuffed African animals,…