23

BLONDE REDHEAD23

I never cared for Blonde Redhead, and after hearing their latest album, 23, I really don’t care for Blonde Redhead. In fact, I care so little about Blonde Redhead that I’m tempted to make the remainder of this review about the regular occurrence of legendary athletes who’ve worn the number 23 (Michael Jordan, Ryne Sandberg, etc.). I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, you have to sell your soul to wear said special digits? Maybe Blonde Redhead thought that naming their album after a lucky number would finally help them amount to something great? Sure, it’s a far-fetched theory, but I’d imagine it’s a more interesting explanation than why the band actually chose the title of their latest album.

What am I getting at? I’m speaking volumes here, folks. Blonde Redhead are like that kid in high school that could draw really good pictures of Che Guevera. No, not original renderings, but, rather, the same ‘ol iconic outline you see on T-shirts while visiting college campuses. Still lost? What I’m saying here, dear reader, is that Blonde Redhead, like that kid with the nose ring in high school, are really good as seeming like they’re really good. They really, really are. But c’mon, let’s face it, it’s Halloween all year long when you’re strawberry blonde.

I couldn’t tell you how many albums Blonde Redhead has released and I don’t care to ever know. I can tell you that I’ve bought four of their albums through the years. I can also tell you that I’ve been nothing less than disappointed by all four. Why do I keep buying Blonde Redhead albums if I think they’re so dissmissable? Well, I’m a sucker. I’m a sucker for Velvet Underground and Yo La Tengo references; two things these city slickers rack each time out. I’m a sucker for a band that knows how to package their product. Frankly, I’m just a sucker. That, and I buy almost everything.

So why then is 23 so bad? Aside from being little more than the equivalent of photoshopped carbon copy of their influences, 23 is a mess of misunderstood ideas. Imagine the great mid 90s production f Alan Moulder mixed with early 90s shoe-gazer rock and a real keen knack for high art. Sounds good, right? Then imagine all the worst things about Alan Moulder, shoe-gazer rock and high art: the cut-and-past drum fills; the all-too-perfect filter of fuzzy ambiance; the no backbone art stance. It’s all there, especially the drum fills and pointless fuzz. It’s there, and it may as well have been recorded in the backroom of an Urban Outfitters store.

The thing that’s so bothersome about Blonde Redhead is that they seem to be capable. They’re competent musicians with all the resources any hipster band could dream of, yet they keep finding new ways to prove their lack of artistic vision. So maybe that’s their thing: finding new, deeper ways to prove that  they are perfectly comfortable being impressionists, void of any original thought. Happy being the indie rock equivalent of a satisfactory night at the ‘ol karaoke bar.

Maybe I haven’t made the real reason for my contempt for Blonde Redhead quite clear enough. Really, they aren’t that bad, but hearing them named alongside so many bands I love has my fangs fully mast. In summary, might I suggest that Blonde Redhead donate their instruments to whatever band has most recently had their tour bus robbed and then start a second career as liner note artists? Just a thought from a jaded know-it-all who’s probably just heard too many damn records.  5.5/10

Written by G. William Locke