Spin What does it mean to "mean it" these days? In the current clime of post-irony, Britney Spears, and Run DMC Gap commercials, how are we to take artists who claim to be keeping it real? Is such a thing possible any more? That question has even more heft when applied to Blur, of late the dear old Blighty's favorite laughing boys and, overall, quite possibly the most chameleon-like band to maintain a career this decade. On their latest 13 album, Blur seems to be taking their words with dead seriousness, something that one never would have expected from the blokes who brought you "Country House." From their beginnings as anachronistic teenage art-punks in Seymour over a decade ago, through their shoegazer debut, Leisure, straight past their biggest band in Britain/Gilbert and Sullivan satire of the brilliant Parklife and the less fantastic The Great Escape, to their self-titled Pavement tribute record two years ago, Blur have not only confounded expectations at all turns, they have also developed in reverse. While most bands start out sloppy and get careful, Blur have, willfully and deliberately, gone the other way. Tightly wound from the start, the looser they've gotten the stranger the music that has emerged. The road from the studio-shined, sheer pop gloss of the middle two records to the feedback rave-up of Blur's "Song 2" seemed like a long one. But, in hindsight, Damon Albarn's dilettante -esque distance was the key. Whether he was mocking red-necked British vacationers in Greece (as he did on the band's breakthrough "Girls & Boys") or shouting on about feeling "heavy metal," a mixture of his prep-school looks and barely concealed smirk (not to mention an affected cockney singing voice) kept listeners at a distance. Their transformation into the slightly skewed pop band that created their last record was an enjoyable, successful move--but did Damon mean it? In the midst of all the excellent craft, the best song on that record was guitarist Graham Coxon's cracked, tiny "You're So Great," a bleeding-heart wisp of a song. So what would Damon sound like if he really meant it? Well, now long-time girlfriend Justine Frischmann is gone, Coxon has fallen off the wagon, Tony Blair is betraying his socialist supporters, and all the missiles in the world are going to launch on New Year's Eve. For whatever reason, Blur now mean it. And man do they sound weird about it. "Tender," 13's first song and single, comes completely out of left field, and it's sublime. Beginning with what sounds like Shelby Foote learning how to play "Yankee Doodle" left-handed into an answering machine and ending with several minutes of gospel choir, "Tender" is the most direct, straight-to-the-gut song Blur has ever recorded. "Tender is the night/lying by your side/tender is the touch/of someone that you love too much," Damon sings--straight-out sings--at the beginning, his voice sounding odd and naked without affectation. Slow-building and anthemic, "Tender" works precisely for what some would call its faults: its exposed emotionalism, its cracked, inevitable melody, Graham's clumsy, tripping guitar. And the song's repeated apotheosis, "oh my baby/oh my baby/oh why/oh my," is perfect pop, more meaningful in its simplicity than a thousand overworked explanations ever could be. At almost eight minutes the song will have trouble ever getting played on the radio. But, with this album opener, Blur have put their hearts on their sleeves, rolled those sleeves up, and proceeded to knock one out of the park. But one song does not a masterpiece make. "The divorce album" is what the typically hyperbolic English press has already dubbed 13. In the sense that the album is all about splits and rifts, it is an appropriate title. You see, other than "Tender," there really aren't any songs on 13--not in the traditional sense, anyhow. Melodies pipe in and out, if they exist at all. Fragments of calm bubble up after some tracks, only to be silenced immediately without warning or explanation. Voices chat in the background, Dave Rowntree's drums appear to be submerged deep under the ocean, on Jupiter. Other than Graham's enjoyable "Coffee & TV," there are no recognizable Blur songs. "Swamp Song" is a typical example of the record: all minor chords, heavily distorted bass, and Damon throwing words into the mic, seemingly in spite of the chaos around him. What producer William Orbit (now suddenly hot thanks to his work with Madonna) has done with 13 suggests a haywire transistor radio broadcasting at the end of everything. The oftentimes harsh, metallic sound of the production on songs such as "Trailerpark," and "Caramel" fades in and out while the band alternates how they come off on top of it, portraying themselves as menacing robotic co-conspirators or flailing humanists. Of course, there are moments of calm in the midst of the storm, such as on "Mellow Song" or the truly affecting "No Distance Left to Run," where the robot jazz and Krautrock dub (or whatever it is) fades out, leaving Damon alone with his broken heart. Ultimately, 13 isn't a melody record and it certainly isn't a collection of singles. What becomes apparent after repeated listenings is that it is a rhythm record, a strung-together sampling of beats, feelings, and pieces aligned to suggest a mood or moods. "Trimm Trabb," a later song on the record, brings it all home. A hypnotic guitar line takes hold, while off-tempo keys clink in the background. And Damon? I don't know what he's on about, but I know he means it. Overall, he may have lost precision, but he has gained clarity. Undoubtedly one of the most cracked, skewed records to be put out by an established band on a major label, 13 is definitely flawed, but it is better because of it. Out of heartbreak, out of disguises, Blur might not have made the best music of their careers, but by giving into their most honest impulses, they may have just bought themselves another decade of trying.