Penny Sparkle

Remember back when Blonde Redhead were a Velvet Underground lover's dream band? Back before the Yeah Yeah Yeah's debut. Back before weird was normal. Remember how good Luv Machine was when it came out in 1998? It was almost as if someone threw Yo La Tengo, The Ex, Sonic Youth, The Pixies and Bjork in a blender. Twin brothers Simone and Amedeo Pace seemed so cool and wise, and when they stood on stage with Japanese singer Kazu Makino, there was nothing more New York. They were at once romantic and rocking - not an easy thing to do. They were the art stars back when we didn't call rockers art stars, making the scene as quietly as anyone of recent memory. Sexy, smart and creative, all three of 'em. 

I get it, bands change. That's cool, but how a band like Blonde Redhead goes from experimental to promising and polished pseudo-prog to the so-called left field pop of their new record is beyond me. How can the band that made the Can-friendly In an Expression of the Inexpressible with Fugazi's Guy Picciotto make Penny Sparkle, an indie-pop record for the Gaga Gag Generation? I just don't get it. I suppose many will call Penny some sort of Bjorkian hustle, but that just seems to obvious to me. Anyone who hears this record should be painfully aware of how hard the Redheads are trying to get some Pitchforkian-type love. You know, that sweet, fickle right now kind of love that the kids are so hot for in 2010.

The one promising thing about this, the band's eighth proper studio record in 15 years, is that it sees the trio again working to do something they've not done before. The last two Blonde Redhead albums, 2004's Misery Is a Butterfly and 2007's 23 felt phoned in, especially when you consider how inventive they'd been on their first five records. But, I suppose, with Penny Sparkle we don't get a bad record, but we don't really get a Blonde Redhead record. We get what feels like a Bjork-meets-Goldfrapp experimental version of chamber pop. It almost feels as if the Redheads made their album after watching Sophia Copolla's Lost In Translation twelve times in a row. The vibe is still sexy, but the rock is gone. There's atmosphere and mood, but it just doesn't work as well. The dreamy tunes, like "Love Or Prison," "My Plants Are Dead" and the uber-mellow - and Radiohead-friendly - title track are pretty great, but not quite good enough to make up for stinkers like "Spain," "Here Sometimes" and the very Yeasayer-like "Will There Be Stars."

All that said, the record almost has the feel of a debut; which I gather is the point. Let's hope this mellow, guitar-absent, young-ear-loving version of one of the best NYC rock bands of the 90s is just a quick misstep. Their NYC Ghosts & Flowers, if you will. Because if this is the Blonde Redhead we have to look forward to, we may as well stick a fork in 'em. I only wish Blonde Redhead were big enough that this stinker of a record could kill off this tedious Modern Retro phase. Cause, damn, it's getting old.    4/10

Written by G. William Locke