An historic Friday the 13th yellow harvest moon shining a light on an outdoor Jack White show, his Raconteurs going off like Roman candles for the better part of two hours – could there be any summer's night of musical intensity more spectacularly supernatural?

Maybe a Def Leppard/Whitesnake/Blackstone Cherry return-of-the-wish-they-were-still-dead tour, for sure. Or maybe not.

Just kidding, kids. Thus it was at a heavily attended PromoWest amphitheater one warm and humid evening last month, the moon at its advertised farthest-away apogee in a dozen years (a minimoon they call it as opposed to a supermoon which is closest).

Nothing mini about the music that night, strictly super. But I think the infamous numeral of bad luck; the rare cosmic distance between earth and luna; and Jack White's personal nuclear energy made the night one very special bunch of loose ends coming together and sparking maniacally like the devil's lightning.

Exciting as hell!

They came out of the gate like famished wolves, the Raconteurs did, smashing through Consolers of the Lonely and eating the crowd alive, a crowd delighted to have its collective leg gnawed off by the possessed Jack White.

Relying heavily on Consolers, they knocked off a bunch more of the album – their second, from 2008, and last record until this year's Help Us Stranger, which kind of surprised me. I wouldn't've minded if they'd just played the entirety of Help Us, the record is that good. 

But Consolers and Broken Boy Soldiers material dominated the first two-thirds of the show. No matter. Jack's head was on fire with rock'n'roll, augmented by him frequently grabbing a big brush and brushing his semi-long greasy-looking black hair back behind his ears and then throwing the brush back to his amps. It was pretty funny to see. It was so Jack.

Don't Bother Me, You Don't Understand Me, Level and Only Child followed in jagged, frighteningly powerful order. Each song has got twists and turns, melody and power chords, passages of sensitivity and then cannon-booms of raw rock power with White taking over on exceedingly wicked lead guitar. 

They deserve my superlatives. They were that good. Jack being perhaps morestupendously Jack than I've ever seen him more quickly than I've ever seen him. I mean, from the git-go he and they were white hot. Crazy. Who does that, who can do that? I've been seeing him since OSU's dinky radio station hired the White Stripes to play behind the Ohio Student Union on High Street for three hundred bucks a long, long time ago and this guy is hotter than ever. 

The man has always been clearly touched and I do believe the timing of the cosmic elements of the beautiful, slightly misty harvest moon, the numeral 13 and the fact that passion is no ordinary word for him, we were witnessing an extraordinary cosmic event.

And I'm not even a Wiccan. Warlock – maybe. Thanks to Jack's streak of tyrant pagan. By that I mean he just commands a stage with the most unreasonably uncompromising energy of any rock performer going. Fire, fire and more fire. He immolated.

Well, metaphorically speaking. 

Tell you one thing, Jack ain't mellowing out as he ages, uh-huh.His slim co-writer next to him on guitar, Brendan Benson, sang some, his voice prettier than Jack's who did about 70% of the singing. It is a band, though, and they do co-write. But White's sheer crazy energy took over and the rest of the Raconteurs dutifully followed. Still, a great band with plenty of contribution by everybody.

There are many clever and fine arrangements and melodies and surprising little influences in his writing with Benson. But it is always Jack's attack that lights up the songs from within, a blazing fierceness virtually no rockers come close to rivaling except maybe the Black Keys and that less and less these days.

Many Shades of Black, Don't Bother Me, You Don't Understand Me, Level and Only Child meshed their stomps and riffs and sturdy power-garage-pop melodic sense into a multi-dimensional listening fest. There was texture galore which is not so easy to maintain when slamming out ingeniously constructed power-chord anthems with no small amount of emotional sensitivity.

I just couldn't believe how nearly every single song at some point would just so naturally erupt as if the songs, the band and Mister Jack Himself lit a match to everything at once. Talk about firing on all eight-cylinders (they were a quintet, actually), this band took off constantly. 

The halfway point of the show had Top Yourself merging with the absolutely brilliant thunder-drumming of Patrick Keeler on the '60s cover of Hey Gyp (Dig The Slowness) the new album. In my humble opinion, Hey Gyp is the most inspired pick of a cover tune in the history of mankind. Ecstatic and so tribal live. The adoring crowd went nuts. I was levitating. The moon shone a little brighter, like an owl's eyes in the night.

The encore was three of the best songs from Help Us Stranger—Bored and Razed, Someday (I Don't Feel Like Trying), Sunday Driver--and the Raconteurs early classic, Steady As She Goes.

The moon at this point had aged to a yellowish orange, above and to the left of the stage. I swear, like Howlin' Wolf I 'ain't superstitious'. But Jack White put that fire on the moon. I saw it with my own eyes. I'm sure of it.