Even in indie-rock, a little sexual ambiguity goes a long way.

Just ask Jack and Meg White, the members of Detroit garage-rock minimalists The White Stripes. For years, the music press has been trying to pin down their relationship. Are they brother and sister? Husband and wife? Ex-spouses? We've heard them all. Whichever it is, Jack and Meg are smart enough to keep their mouths shut and let everybody else do the talking -- undoubtedly knowing that all that hot air translates into plenty of free ink and airtime. Pretty savvy for Motown punks, eh?

Even more surprising is the fact that they could do just fine without the media manipulations. Unlike most bands who excel at hype, the Stripes -- Jack on guitar and vocals, Meg on drums -- have the tunes and talent to back up their PR campaign.

Their first two CDs, 1999's self-titled debut and 2000's De Stijl, introduced their stripped-down, ragged-ass fusion of rock, blues, punk, country and folk, earning them a place in critics' hearts and a spot on the indie-rock twosome roster next to Royal Trux, Flat Duo Jets and Local H. Their third album White Blood Cells -- released in the U.S. last summer but finally getting Canadian distribution this month -- separates them from the pack. Which is not to say it's a great departure from the rudimentary, uncluttered road they've been on. If anything, White Blood Cells offers more of the same -- only better. Jack's guitar is still fuzzed-out and feeding back, and he still flubs notes all over the place. His yelping vocals are still thin, high and weak, frequently breaking and wandering offkey. Meg's crash-and-bash drumming and broken-watch timekeeping still make The Velvet Underground's Mo Tucker seem like Neil Peart. And the whole affair sounds like it was recorded in their basement practice hall in an afternoon.

But none of it means a damn once you hear the songs. This is where they've made quantum leaps, both as writers and arrangers. And this is where they'll hook ya. These 16 tracks are cunningly constructed, raucously delivered and magnificently diverse. In the first five cuts, you get a trashy blues stomper (Dead Leaves and the Dirty Ground); a barnburning country two-stepper (Hotel Yorba); a soulful garage-punk lament (I'm Finding it Harder to be a Gentleman); some sugar-buzz go-go punk (Fell in Love With a Girl); and even some metallic riffage (Expecting). You could pick any other five cuts and it wouldn't matter; from the breezy acoustic folk of We're Going to be Friends to the slashing tango-ska of I Think I Smell a Rat, every tune here is a precious little nugget of indie-rock inspiration and individualism. Together, they link up into an album so richly textured and varied it's impossible to believe only two people are doing the work.

With that much going on between them, who cares what else might be going on?

Track Listing