Sometimes bands come along that burn so hot and bright that words fail you. And sometimes all you can do at their shows is stand there with your hands at your side in utter shock at what you are seeing. If you were at Dead Weather on Saturday night, you perhaps still feel this even as you sit in a cubicle or in a car waiting for lunch this Monday morning. The Dead Weather show Saturday night at the House of Blues is the reason that rock and roll crosses sexual, aural and mental bounds. It's why people play air guitar in their bedrooms; it's why girls hike up their skirts a tad more when they hit the rock club, and why you would still miss a mortgage payment to see the Rolling Stones from two miles away. Saturday night also made us question what team we play for at least once (OK, thrice), and made us reaffirm that females make better frontmen than men do. Women are dangerous; men can be tamed and whipped. A woman with a microphone is deadly.