Blur, 13 (Virgin) 9
On their 1997 self-titled album, Blur looked inside America and dug up a concise history of indie rock while still maintaining their distinctly British identity. This time around they are out to truly surprise. Damon Albarn's five year relationship with his sweetie is over, and he's an emotional mess. Who can blame him, when said sweetie is a righteous hottie like Elastica's Justine Frischmann. Gone are the disciplined, sardonic Kinksian vignettes of British life. This album is a Jackson Pollock splatter painting of pain, sorrow, relief, anger and the thousand other emotions that happen in a breakup. At first listen the mess of an album might seem too sloppy and unfocused. But Blur are too good to not hide some of their impeccable pop craft amidst the squalor. Nothing is immediately catchy like their old material, but repeated listenings reveal them to be more lasting. "Tender" starts as a heartfelt ballad and soon threatens to become over-the-top in a "We Are The World" kind of way with its gospel chorus. But like The Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" and Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance," the bombast actually works. "Bugman" is a fine sloppy rocker that includes a startling tribute to Sun Ra. "1992" is a hypnotic lament that transcends into an explosive gas cloud of guitar feedback. "Mellow Song" pays tribute to Beck, and unintentionally sounds like Kurt Cobain in a good way. Producer William Orbit (Beth Orton, Madonna) is most noticeable on the meandering space rockers that struggle to be more than filler. He gives them a nice Low-era Brian Eno/David Bowie future/retro glitter 'n' grit that keep them engaging enough, especially with "Coffee & TV," and the organ[ic] dub of "Trailerpark" with the perfect mantra, "I lost my girl to the Rolling Stones." This bugged out, drunken hypersonic album might be too obliquely disorientating to be definitive Blur for their old commercial audience, but for the braver new souls, it's essential Blur.
