The White Stripes (Molson Ampitheatre, Toronto, September 16)

It was supposed to be U2's week. But as the ageing Irishmen were plowing through the third gig in a four-night stand down the road at the Air Canada Centre, it was everyone's favourite ex-husband and wife duo who were delivering the week's real burst of rock 'n' roll bliss at the Molson Amphitheatre on Friday night.

Unlike Bono and company, Jack and Meg White are anything but the prototypical stadium or arena act. To begin with, there are only two of them - a significant impediment when controlling a stage in front of 10,000-plus. Forget about light shows or other amenities; they don't even use the screens readily available to project their images to fans in the cheap seats. Set lists, apparently made up as they go along, find the duo going all over the map for an hour before bidding farewell, then returning for a 40-minute encore that's more like a second set. And banter with the audience is virtually non-existent, Jack coming off - by design or not - as nervous and awkward on the rare occasions he attempts it.

But the one thing the Whites Stripes will never be accused of is boringness - a tag frequently applied to U2 last week in decidedly lukewarm (at best) reviews of their Toronto gigs.

Working to their advantage, for starters, is that both Whites, Jack in particular, have managed to maintain an air of mystery about them. Decidedly eccentric characters both, we know only vague details of their personal lives (Renee Zellweger dalliances notwithstanding) and rarely see them marching down red carpets, spilling their guts to every camera they can find - or, God forbid, turning up at political conventions. Unlike virtually every other stadium-sized act, overexposure is not a factor, so for the faithful, there's a degree of excitement merely in seeing them on stage.

It helps, too, to be imperfect. Avoiding the ho-hum efficiency with which seasoned acts tend to pull off the same show night after night, the Stripes constantly seem on the brink of disaster, as Jack races around the stage juggling guitar, bass, piano, marimba and assorted other responsibilities. When he misses a few notes, as he did on several occasions when shifting from one instrument to another, it just reminds us how remarkable it is that he's pulling all this off in the first place.

That they trade in albums, rather than anthems, is another big plus. Granted, it's nice to be able to trot out the roaring Seven Nation Army toward the end of the night. But there's equal delight in hearing them storm through lesser-known corners of their catalogue, cranking out nearly 30 songs (often with no break between them) to showcase the remarkable range that radio play can't capture.

Most important, though, is that they've somehow defied the odds by maintaining their original identity, despite commercial success and unceasing critical adulation. The clothes have changed, their influences have broadened and the instrumentation has gotten more eclectic. But this is still the same curious pair that broke through with White Blood Cells four years ago, driven by the same half-sweet, half-creepy sexual chemistry between them, as well as the same shared no-nonsense commitment to letting their music speak for itself. By resolutely refusing the amenities and grand gestures supposedly needed to function as a stadium act, they've become one of the most compelling ones going.