The title track offers an ominous thud, enlivened by frantic abuse of a primitive synthesizer. This time, the homily appears to be: gosh darn it, you wouldn't believe how a little thing like having it off with an impossibly gorgeous supermodel can cheer you up. White Stripes albums have always offered homespun wisdom you could imagine being embroidered into a sampler up on Walton's Mountain: truth doesn't make a noise, put your troubles in a little pile, problems in hand are lighter than at heart. Given the album's title - derived from an expression used by White's Oldham-born wife, Karen Elson - and the preponderance of red-headed women in the songs, it's pretty obvious where the leavening of mood has come from. Frequently, the lyrics are no less bitter and paranoid than those on its predecessor, but this time they are counteracted by the music's breezy diversity. Its opening four songs are a dazzling riposte to notions of creative juices running empty. Icky Thump positively swarms out of the speakers.

Perhaps the White Stripes had finally exhausted the possibilities of their 'purposely constrictive' blues-rock experiment. They have also survived 2005's Get Behind Me Satan: murky, joyless and unlovable in a way no White Stripes album had previously been, its dabblings with marimba insufficient to conceal that fact that you were listening to the bitter, paranoid navel-gazing of the multi-millionaire rock star. These include marrying a supermodel, three weeks after meeting her, in an Amazonian rainforest ceremony officiated by a traditional shaman. They have survived the revelation they were fibbing about being brother and sister, ostracism from the Detroit garage scene that bore them, and Jack White's fast-tracking to that rarefied strata of rock superstardom where one gets to pal around with Bob Dylan, act, write music for Coca-Cola commercials and indulge in activities that whiff of Spinal Tap. And yet, a decade into their career, the White Stripes are still thriving. Their music was self-consciously limited, their image so obviously contrived as to make your average Pop Idol look as grimily authentic as Wattie from the Exploited.

A ll bands have a sell-by date, but the White Stripes seemed destined for a shorter shelf life than most.

The white stripes icky thump