Pitchfork

Six albums into their envious career, Blur have finally found a sound to match their name. I'm sure the name initially came from the donut- stuffed mouth of Virgin A&R reps who feared selling a band called "Seymour" to the Teens UK. "Blur" fits the mold of the monosyllabic, schwa- voweled noun system of Brit-rock nomenclature-- Pulp, Bush, Lush, Suede. Now, after nearly a decade, Blur have grown comfortable with their image and talents. From now on, it's their mission to make ears and speakers uncomfortable. With producer William Orbit spreading gobs of digital fuzz, guitar wash, and deep- space bleeps in heavy strokes with William De Kooning- esque glee, the tracks on 13 bounce between studio walls, planets, and effects pedals until slowly unraveling and releasing with mercurian flashes and cherubic keyboard. It all... well... blurs.

The more Guitar God status fans and critics throw on Graham Coxon, the more Coxon attempts to vigorously destroy such notions with feedback, drilling, and controlled crust, which in turn just makes the fans and critics swoon even more. From the wandering melodies that twang and fall apart in "Tender" to the tongue- in- cheek metal- solo, vacuum theremin freakout, and surf- boogie ending in "Bugman," to the crescendoing strums of "1992," Coxon drops creative brain- blowers all over 13. Yet, the album sounds nothing like the band's last self- titled LP. These days, Coxon's guitars are manipulated to sound unlike guitars. Plus, layers of organs and loops balance out the intoxicating mix. But it's Orbit's UFO studio tricks make 13 a much more cohesive and consistant record than the eponymous LP.

Despite Graham Coxon's fingerprints, 13 is Damon Albarn's record from start to finish. From the opening epic, "Tender," in which Albarn delivers the line "Love's the greatest thing that we have" with a sarcastic croon after admiting that his heart screwed up his life, to the beautiful, stripped closer, "No Distance Left to Run," in which he sighs with resignation, "It's over/ You don't need to tell me/ I hope you're with someone who makes you feel safe in your sleep," Albarn opens his veins over 13's DAT tapes. Sort of. On "Swamp Song," though, he goes all Iggy Pop, grabbing the mic with sass and pose. And "B.L.U.R.E.M.I." could be a Brainiac song, the closest tune here to attaining the backlashed "Whoo-Hoo!"

Despite all the knob- twiddling and pedal- kicking, 13 contains several surprisingly subtle songs. "Trim Tramm" bobs along to quiet chords before kicking in the jets, and "Mellow Song" lets dainty moon- cocktail piano lines and hollow chimes swirl around lovely acoustic plucking. Each song is unique, yet fits perfectly into the overall hungover, psychedelic, 2001 mood. Once again, Blur has kept one step ahead of expectations (well, okay, they didn't with The Great Escape, but that was still a great record) and continued to impress. In a way, Blur is one of the last big old- school "album" bands, a band more concerned with their entire career than radio singles, more concerned with "album" than "song." The Beatles made a dozen albums in the '60s and continually progressed. The reason why is simple: when a band is really, really good, they consistintly make good records. Duh.