Except that it's not--at least not entirely. I just barely bought that Son House album based on Jack White's recommendation, and I've realized that the recording Jack White plays for us in the film is actually the Colombia/Legacy release "The Original Delta Blues" (an ironic album-name, as you'll soon realize), that was recorded not in the '30s during House's hey-day, but in the mid-60s, and explicitly for young white blue's enthusiasts who wanted to hear the folks who influenced The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, etc.
These aging Blue's artists were dragged into the studio not to see where they were at, but specifically to reproduce the music they'd quit making long ago. In fact, the CD's very liner-notes confess that the purpose of these recordings was to "[persuade] them to lose the carefully acquired skills of several decades and play in the fashion of their youth."
That is, there is not a single "Original" thing about "The Original Delta Blues"; these are suits and marketers trying to carefully reconstruct for commercial purposes an era that had long passed.
Now, please don't misunderstand me--the Son House recordings are still fantastic, and I certainly don't begrudge Son House for finally finding adulation and record sales late in his career (better late than never), and besides, a man's gotta eat. Please don't mistake me for one of those who fetishize authenticity.
In fact, that's just the thing--what is authenticity? That's why I find Jack White's choice to play 60s-era Son House in the film so fascinating, for White is a man who himself play's fast and loose with (and thus calls attention to) the nebulous, vague, and imprecise concept of authenticity.
The White Stripes, for example, spent years teasing their fans as to what exactly was the relationship between Jack White and Meg White--were they brother and sister? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Husband and wife? The eventual reveal that they were a divorced-couple somehow still friends was one of those facts that was stranger than the wildest speculation--and the reveal that Jack had changed his last name to hers during the marriage, and then never changed it back after the divorce, made Jack's identity even more fluid.
Jack White is also notorious for telling fake and contradictory stories with a wink during interviews, never giving away too much, posturing multiple different identities, and muddying up any attempts to pin him down. He's like a retro David Bowie of sorts, looking backwards as playfully as Bowie looks forward. His music likewise matches his varied personality--he tries on many different identities, from garage-rock punk, to acoustic singer-songwriter, arena-anthem rock-star, mariachi-cantador, piano-balladeer, blues-guitar virtuoso, and more.
All of these are assumed identities; many of them are retro throwbacks and antiquated forms from a historical moment that has long passed (like Son House's music); half of them are ripped-off from Black-art-forms long-ago appropriated by Whites (maybe Jack's decision to so change his last name isn't so coincidental); none originate with him; and yet at the same time, when you listen to his albums, none of them feel inauthentic. Jack White seems to sincerely love, pay tribute, and feel a kinship with each of these genres. These are all assumed roles, but he's assumed them because they are him.
That is, Jack White seems hell-bent on demonstrating that just because an identity is assumed, doesn't mean it's not real.
What are we really, deep down, anyways? Are we not all a conglomeration of multiple appropriated identities ripped off from countless sources? What else can we be, besides assumed identities? Is it even possible to innovate a new identity? Can there be anything new under the sun?
Hence I find it so fascinating that Jack White's favorite song is not of Son House being himself, but of Son House playing "Son House." You get me? Son House the person was pretending to be "Son House" the 1930s blues artist, but what of that? Are we not all pretending to be ourselves? What else can we pretend to be? Jack White plays the character of "Jack White"--all of the Jack Whites possible--and thus reminding us all that we are all performing, playing ourselves, at any given moment--and that there is not just one self, but many selves.
That Son House song in question, "Grinnin' in your Face," is a reminder to not let yourself be brought down by those who hypocritically and condescendingly smile at you for selfish ends--that is, Son House is singing to not let the "in-authenticity" of others bring you down; but how do you do that? By not letting them pin you down to a single identity. They, the "grinnin," are trying to present their facades as authentic, which makes them liars; but Jack White and Son House don't hide behind the facade, no, they are the facade, and they know it, which makes them honest. House and White are many identities, and thus outnumber the false grinners.
"I am large...I contain multitudes," writes Whitman. "There are many lives to live," writes Thoreau. "Is insincerity such a terrible thing? I think not. It is merely a method by which we can multiply our personalities," writes Oscar Wilde.
Your personality is authentic because it's the one you enjoy playing the most, not because it originates (or even could originate) with you. You don't mind them grinnin' in your face because they don't enjoy their own grins, while you can still enjoy yours. Your own grin may always be assumed, but at least it's honest.
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